< Disclaimer> < Return To Issue Article Index >

It’s sarcastically referred to as a ‘milk run’, a throwback to the days when dairy products were delivered door to door, requiring the milkman to make uncountable stops. Only in our case it was on a somewhat grander scale, starting in LA with stopovers in Mexico - where the plane got a flat tire; Guatemala - where our first landing attempt was aborted a disconcerting fifty feet shy of touching down, and on to Honduras, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Panama, Columbia and at long last, Venezuela, by which time we had pretty much joined the ranks of the living dead and had probably logged more take offs and landings than the Blue Angels.  The indifferent Venezuelan customs officials couldn’t have cared if we were bringing weapons-grade plutonium in to the country, a casual wave through serving as an inspection. Ours was the last plane in and with it their shift was over. And given our extremely late arrival we were lucky the one taxi left bothered waiting. But this poor guy looked like he needed every fare he could get. This would be our first time in a hardtop without a windshield. Covering her face with her hands, Babe just had to laugh when I shouted over the turbulence how beautiful she looked with the breeze flowing through her hair like that. But the laughter stopped abruptly as we sped through a very red light at a very large intersection doing fifty, an act that had no less than four encores by the time we arrived at the hostel, where the driver found us huddling for dear life below seat level.

Spider

Inside Fernando’s cramped terminal unsmiling military police were perplexed and perturbed at what two gringos were doing in this part of the world with two army-issue backpacks full of survival gear, and suspicions intensified into hostility when they discovered the sealed baggy of white powdery beverage mix. Only its sweet fruity flavor saved us from what I am certain would have been indefinite involuntary internment with cellmates wanted by Interpol. 

Compounding our woes, the one rental agent had skipped town with the last jeep.

This whole thing began feeling more like a conspiracy the further into the country we got. Too bad, too - it seemed to hold so much promise during our research. When I first found a road map of Venezuela the whole bottom half was conspicuously absent. “There are no roads down there” I was told. “Nothing but swamps and rivers”. Excellent! we thought - exactly what we’re looking for. And the flight down is real cheap, too!

Heading out in a temperamental little clunker for a few days, we dared not venture any deeper into the Llanos wilderness than we thought we could walk back from, that possibility being all too likely. Notorious for quicksand, electric eels, Denge fever, anaconda’s and countless other forms of wholesome entertainment, the Llanos region was not to be trifled with. Any serious exploration without the most robust vehicle would only have invited even further setbacks, which we were already on track to set a record for. 

The wildlife encounters we did have were but a tantalizing distant tease that would require solid four-wheel traction or a boat to get anywhere close to. We couldn’t believe we had come all this way only to experience it all through binoculars. By then I was so pissed I kicked in the car’s door panel, which only enhanced its aesthetics. Nothing was working out. If we wanted to see the real Oronoco basin we’d have to bite the bullet and board yet another goddamn plane. 

The approach in to Puerto Ayacucho brought us in directly above a long series of major cataracts on the big river so treacherous they impeded any commerce beyond, explaining the town’s location. Once arrival formalities were completed, we were confronted by yet another stranger wondering what our business was in these parts - this time an aspiring guide. ‘Phil’ failed to impress us with a litany of local of points of interest, but his mentioning familiarity with an indigenous tribe got our immediate undivided attention. Challenging him for more details, we piled into his aging Land Cruiser to locate a cheap inn, and that afternoon over beer the three of us roughed-out plans and costs and itemized the necessary provisions.

Ayucucho had the look of a frontier town growing too fast for its own good. Phil had been there seven years, having been effectively forced out of his native Madrid by vindictive business partners looking for a scapegoat when some shaky scheme collapsed. He had tried to make a go of it in Caracas, but lacked the requisite connections, so he came south. His clients were mainly sport fishermen, though more intrepid foreigners and scientists with natural or anthropological interests had recently begun making exploratory incursions. He’d befriended some of the strange folk wandering into town from distant tribal areas, men mainly, who walked in single file even on Ayucuchos’ streets, having spent a lifetime doing so in thick jungles. He’d learned their language and customs when he wasn’t bouncing between the dock and the small airport to drum up business. Anyone arriving who wasn’t clutching a blowgun got his sales pitch. 
 
On our way out the following morning we loaded up on canned goods, strange fruits and vegetables and sacks of flour and rice, then proceeded out of town for several hours to a ranch situated on the Cumana tributary of the Orinoco. Tied along its banks was the largest dugout I’d ever seen - thirty feet plus, four feet wide, and not a saw mark on it. Someone had labored long and hard whittling this thing out of some forest giant. Babe and I got distracted by the beautiful skin of an exquisite adult Margay being cured, trapped on the property when snatching chickens. Ever the opportunist, Phil whispered that for a price it could be ours, so to calibrate him to our priorities we declined vehemently but countered we’d make him an equal offer if we were to sight one alive in the wild, and double it if I were able to get a photograph. We soon had the dugout loaded and were heading upriver, up to the foot of distant mountains and, as we were to discover by the end of the day, well into what can only be described as a separate reality. 

The river meandered unceasingly with few straight stretches longer than a hundred yards or so as the banks drew ever narrower, thick with uninterrupted foliage contrasting steep basaltic cliffs in the distance. Our approach spooked sunbathing snapping turtles and herons from their nests, and on occasion the brush would rustle at the escape of some unseen ground dweller. We had definitely entered Sir Conan Doyle country, delving deeper and deeper hour after hour as the bow parted an infinite twisting mirror. It was all beginning to look just like the images we had conjured up months earlier pouring over maps at the library or from the comfort of home.

And just as we had become accustomed to the uninterrupted lushness of it all, primitive dwellings suddenly intruded on the landscape on a small bluff ahead. Carefully thatched from fronds and lianas, they resembled upturned nests looking almost as if they had grown there. Upon spotting us, naked children on the shore froze, then started following our slowing approach. As the bow dug into the bank the appearance of the first adult made it clear we had landed a world away and a century behind where we had  started that day. I was cautioned not to take any pictures. Within a few minutes the entire village had surrounded us, scantily-clad women breastfeeding infants, men right out of some B headhunter movie. The only thing missing was the huge ancient barrier in the background protecting them from the Eighth Wonder of the World or something. One of the elders broke through the throng and Phil greeted him with reverence, making his place in the hierarchy clear. Having no idea what proper conduct was under such circumstances, I didn’t want to risk becoming a eunuch for some silly breach of social etiquette, as any little thing could have profoundly misinterpreted significance. So when a small child clinging to his mothers’ leg urinated in my direction I was almost tempted to respond in kind, thinking perhaps it was some sort of welcoming ritual, then decided against it.

Our introduction to the medicine man affected a much-needed icebreaker. From the outset he couldn’t take his eyes off Babe. A small jovial fellow, his right leg, missing from just below the knee, had been replaced with a crude carving that only approximated a foot. Seems despite his mystical powers he was not impervious to a vipers potent venom, which had somewhat compromised his standing as the community healer. When he came close to death days later the chief relented to the pleading of visiting research biologists and allowed for his immediate transport to Ayucucho where the appendage was promptly amputated. Returning to the village semi-defrocked he had at least remained the unchallenged ancestral spirit invoker, as we were to find out. And now Babe’s jade green eyes were further compromising any of his remaining powers, just as they had with me years earlier.

Phil formally requested use of the tribes’ river, which was essentially everything beyond this point - a right fully recognized by the Venezuelan government. This was easily arranged, the chief assured us. We had the only outboard motor on the entire Paraguasa, and could venture wherever we wanted provided we brought their boatman, navigator, interpreter (for Phil’s limited Paoria) and, to our great delight, medicine man. The sacks of rice and flour were unloaded closing the deal. 

Large wooden pipes were almost the all the men brought on board before our departure, to what purpose I didn’t at first recognize, and my curiosity became evident to our hosts not long after we departed. Rounding one of the countless bends we’d been negotiating that day, a small Kingfisher streaked by and alit on a low perch as we passed. One of the pipes was handed forwarded, and with the boat still moving at a brisk clip medicine man fed a foot long dart inside it, raised it to his lips, aimed and blew. The projectile shot out and, unbelievably, clipped the distant bird on the tail, where upon it flew off. The rest of the tribesmen half teased him about his ‘poor’ aim. While we sat stunned at his accuracy, he shrugged it off with prideful sour grapes, mumbling something that translated “…they’re not very good eating anyway…”. Examining the intricate carving on one pipe I started wondering if the notches were purely decorative, hoping they didn’t each signify some hapless victim. There were lots of notches.
.

Owl

Ostrich

By twilight we must have covered over forty convoluted kilometers. Coming to a section of high banks a lone hut came into view just beyond its eroded edge. The motor was cut leaving a vacuum of silence soon back-filled with the sounds of the surrounding forest. Phil and medicine man hopped out as I trailed close behind. Phil withdrew a small flashlight that he pointed into the hut’s small dark entrance with marginal effect, and was impressed when I produced the floodlight we never travel without. They scoured the huts’ floor for snakes, oblivious to the red tarantulas and virtual carpet of roaches. “They’ll keep the cucaracha population in check” he advised referring to the big arachnids. May be, but they hadn’t put a dent in it so far. When Babe came in to set up our hammocks I aimed the light up so as not to reveal our other ‘roommates’ and saved scanning the floor until after she had settled in. As usual she was a real trooper about it. Phil confidently advised that vampire bats “shouldn’t be much of a problem” either, as if this assurance somehow equated to a room upgrade. We spent the next twenty minutes checking every square inch of our mosquito netting for holes. 

A little before dinner I became intrigued if not a bit cavalier about the industrious wasps that had begun lapping up the drippings from the juice bottle I was swigging from, but when the men caught sight of this a panic ensued. Apparently enough stings from this particular species have been known to cause prolonged loss of consciousness that some victims never come out of. Trying not to choke on what was still in my throat, I gently sat the container down and backed away as if from a hair-trigger bomb.

Not long after Babe and I retired I decided I couldn’t sleep and got up to rejoin the guys around the fire. About then medicine man produced a small crude pipe and a bag of dark powder, initiating a tangible anticipation among the tribesmen. The herb was jopa, a local locoweed probably from some as-yet unclassified epiphyte, and used only for special occasions. As it was passed around Phil and I were initially excluded. Apparently the guys had to attain a higher state before they could determine if we were up to it, but eventually relented. The stuff lit me up like a firefly. I hazily recall leaving my body and doing a few figure eights over the campfire. 

About the time I landed medicine man began chanting to my absolute fascination. Semi-repetitious incantations peppered with subtle changes thrown in occasionally, it was not quite a song, but more melodious than mere words. Distinct, guttural, haunting calls, as if to attract the attention of someone or something just outside our periphery. The other men remained in a motionless trance and never joined in - ancestral spirit invocation was his domain exclusively, notwithstanding the stigma surrounding his amputated leg. I sat there taking in the solemn faces lit by the glowing fire making a momentary connection with some centuries-old ritual. Watching the proceedings I found myself hoping that the ruinous incursions of the modern world never work their way into this one.

His performance went on and on, hour after hour, almost until dawn with only brief lulls when he would stoke up again on the jopa pipe then resume where he had left off. I couldn’t tell if he ever did make contact with his forebears, and out of respect, dared not ask. Eventually I grew sleepy and, with one of the greatest days of my life behind me, made my way in to my hammock to the crunch of roaches under foot loud enough to wake up Babe. She wasn’t exactly in dreamland what with the inculcations emanating from just outside. In a rare show of concern she confessed the next morning she thought for sure that before the night was over I’d end up face down in the river while the men took unspeakable liberties with her. 

At sun up we continued further upstream. At one stretch our navigator pointed out where a fellow tribesmen had recently been chased into the river by a jaguar, so we beached the boat to investigate. Phil got all excited with the prospect of collecting on the photo bounty I’d promised back at the ranch and insisted my camera be at the ready. But after looking the scene over more rational minds prevailed. The animals’ unstoppable ferocity was so disturbingly evident by the deep, massive paw prints that the thought of exposing ourselves here suddenly seemed like the incredibly reckless notion it was. 
 
The river opened up in to a small lake, its upper end effectively blocked by a maze of rocky outcrops creating thrusting rapids. This was as far up this branch as we’d be able to traverse by boat, but it offered the ultimate base camp. There was even a lean-to the tribe had erected. Turns out this was a remote fishing site, usually only accessed on the rare occasion that someone stopped by their village with a motorized boat that could be commandeered, which had happened only once before in the past year. 

After arranging our gear we proceeded on a hike, but as it was already noon we had to settle for spectacular scenery, as most indigenous animal life had taken shelter from the unrelenting heat, including a species of tarantula the men were anxious to locate. Turns out to be the largest variety of spider known to science - able to stretch its legs over a dinner plate. Finding one wasn’t too difficult, and after coaxing the living special effect out of it’s burrow one of the men reached in and pulled out a sack of what appeared at first to be white caviar – its egg pouch - which we were then offered as lunch entrée, a Paoria delicacy. Trying not to offend, we thanked them profusely but advised we were still quite full from all those bugs in our breakfast. 

For a few blissful days the lake provided a swimming hole and fishing, the forest unending exploration. The men would return to camp not long after sunrise each morning slinging the birds they’d hunted with blowguns to be cut up for bait and a fishing marathon would ensue. Having witnessed the power of my floodlight the men asked to use it every night to enhance their hunting prospects. Problem was most of the large game was on the far side of the river, which hopefully meant the jaguars were also. 

Sitting on the rock slab shore after dark the men were thoroughly entertained by my attempts to photograph bats swooping in low to catch insects attracted by the campfire and the blinding pulse of my double-flash macro equipment used for small nocturnal subjects. A trail that paralleled the rapids made for a magical nighttime hiking experience, the roaring background further intensifying the jungles hidden mysteries. 

Upon our return to the village the chief gifted us a hand-made flute and fire starter tools as a token of thanks for the rice and flour and for bringing his men upriver, even though the fishing and hunting were less than hoped for. Though these were cherished, authentic mementos, if not museum pieces, I was still selfishly compelled to pilfer one of the curare-tipped blowgun darts when no one was looking, all the time realizing that hours of labor went into making each one as well as its efficient poison. I was punished for this indiscretion soon enough though; the following morning after forgetting its lethal contents I began rummaging recklessly through my pack for some film only to have my palm pierced deep. Suddenly realizing the potential magnitude of this error I prayed to the river gods the wound hadn’t been inflicted by the deadly, hastily stashed dart, not that I wouldn’t have had it coming. In a classic twist of irony the source of the painful puncture turned out to be the scissors in our first-aid kit. Profoundly grateful for this reprieve I immediately emptied out the entire pack, located the damned dart and strategically stashed it inside the flute for safekeeping. Later that day I had a second coronary when Babe decided to serenade me with the flute, which I had neglected to tell her about. She had just brought it up to her lips when her slyest little smile exploded into convulsive laughter. “Afraid I was going to inhale this?” she asked, producing the dart from behind her. At least I got a big wet kiss out it after she began to regain her composure. “You must really love me!” she exclaimed laughing. “You should have seen your face!” More kisses followed.

Once back in Ayuchuco we felt we had somehow completed an initiation of sorts, a bridging of two cultures fated to meet only after the most intrepid of attempts. And so it should remain. Aside from the rare need for emergency medical care, I couldn’t think of anything the modern world had to offer the Paoria. Quite the contrary. We departed sated with an experience that did nothing short of altering our world perspective.
.

Just the opposite was awaiting us in the accursed eastern town of Tucapita, far on the other side of the country, two more plane rides and difficult drive away. The plan was simple enough; charter a decent sized boat to explore the Orinoco delta with, a scheme we had high hopes for, a scheme destined for failure from the outset following frustrating leads, rebuffing extortionate cost proposals and dealing with the most uncouth and unaccommodating locals we had ever met anywhere. Three days of this abuse wore us down to the point where we just wanted the hell out of Venezuela. This place was just too hit-or-miss for what little time we had left. Finally, on the dismal towns outskirts as we pushed our stuck car out of the mud for the third time, I promised Babe that if we ever did get back to Maquieta I’d book us on the first plane out to whatever near by Caribbean island it happened to be going to. As a result of that impulsive gesture, we wasted what could only be called four laughable days on Aruba, a textbook example of mindless tourism, a place where they had no qualms admitting to the fact that every palm tree on the island had been imported. Only its rugged, undeveloped windward coast provided a tolerable escape from the clueless twits who somehow had the impression this aseptic sandbar represented the exotic, the alluring. I bet none of ‘em had ever run naked on a beach in their entire lives. And after seeing some of them in spandex, I hoped to God they weren’t planning to soon.

Kingfishers

.
Costa Rica now beckoned. But getting there wasn’t going to be straight forward either - the gods were having far too many laughs at our expense for it to be that easy. Attempting to get airborne from the first stopover in Columbia put us to another test. When the first take-off attempt was aborted half-way down the runway I assumed a herd of goats had run out in front of the plane or something. We got a little uneasy when the second attempt also failed, and outright alarmed after the third. The plane was then pulled back in to the gate, where we were served free mixed drinks – certainly not standard practice for cut-rate carriers. We got the distinct impression someone was trying to dull our senses. When the fourth attempt proved futile we were brought back and let off inside the terminal, there to wander listlessly waiting for some announcement. I made the mistake of peering out at the plane only to find some kid far too young to have graduated from any airplane mechanics correspondence school working on one of the engines fetching implements from a tool kit smaller than the one I use for my cameras. How we finally got airborne on the fifth try we’ll never know, but while the rest of the passengers offered up a resounding ovation, Babe and I held each other in silent terror waiting for some paper clip repair to work itself loose sealing our fate. 

The delay somehow still allowed us to pick up a 4WD in San Jose in time to hit the road following a slowly descending sun over the mountains of western Costa Rica all the way to its northern border. At last we had a semblance of control over our destiny, and the horizons were looking profoundly promising. We found a spectacular bay we had all to ourselves, and set up the hammocks with time left to begin dinner with an hour of daylight to spare. This was more like it: rebel-infested mountains of Nicaragua to the north, shark-infested waters to the west, and a mosquito-infested campsite to call home. If solitude is your destination it just doesn’t get any better than that. The one unfortunate experience was my netting coming undone in the middle of the night. When I woke up the next morning my forehead looked like a relief map of Nepal. 

Following a tortuous stream bed the next morning, bottoming out the suspension along the way, Babe sighted a large, sinister slow moving shape contrasting with the verdant background. We stopped and peered carefully into the shaded brush to find a ten foot reticulated python staring right back at us, his probing tongue probably sensing our fear and fascination. The magnificent creature was the first in a long series of wondrous encounters we were to have that made up for all our previous frustrations that included coati mundis, immense iguana’s, alligators, tropical porcupines, countless exotic birds and small reptiles, and spectacular butterflies and insects. It was just the first day and already I had to begin rationing my film stock. At this rate there was no telling how much better the show was going to get.

Waiting in line to catch the car ferry crossing the Gulf of Nicoya to head up into the peninsular mountains, we encountered a fellow who having discerned our desire to experience the country’s more obscure natural splendors offered his services guiding us to a cavern at the top of a nearby peak. The steep incline was arduous, but visions of Journey to The Center of the Earth provided inspiration enough to endure the weight of my camera gear and all that heat in anticipation of an unforgettable lost world discovery. 

We stopped occasionally to re-hydrate and take in the widening panorama as the elevation increased and I hardly even bothered with the wildlife we saw on the way up for fear of running my film supply low before attaining our goal. Finally we reached that magic moment during peak ascents where there was nothing more above us, which I couldn’t understand, thinking the mouth of a cavern should have been visible long before we got anywhere near it. After catching our breath our guide walked us toward some trees, and there at their base he proudly pointed to an opening in the ground, barely wide enough for me to squeeze into. “!No es  possible!’’” I scowled while removing my pack and extracting my floodlight. Gaping in, the hole broadened to a couple of meters, but dropped almost vertically making entry impossible. Whip scorpions clung to the ‘ceiling’ not far from three tiny bats, each probably wondering who the idiot was blinding them with that damn light. Withdrawing in disgust, Babe had her ‘peek’ experience, and we departed, shaking unbelieving heads. On the way down I offered my definition of a cavern to our guide for future reference, and it didn’t include holes smaller than my neighbor’s dog digs under my backyard fence.

But there were to be many compensating experiences, each exceeding our expectations. Hikes along the southern coast found us deep in some real caverns containing unfathomable bat populations; tracking Scarlet Macaws first audible from over a kilometer away; startling herds of peccaries into small scale stampedes; happening upon a bespectacled owl who sat as still as a Buddha as I flashed away at close range; and Cappucine monkeys shaking their little fists at us while hurling threats and insults in Cappucine. 

In the central highlands one national park allowed no over-nighting but we were advised that adjacent farmers might let us camp on their land. The first family we inquired with was most accommodating and not a little amused at the hammock/net cocoons that we slung in a grove of towering mahoganies. The earth-shattering roar of howler monkeys blasted us out of a peaceful sleep at first light the next morning. A large troop of them had settled in directly above during the night, miraculously missing us with their prodigious effluvia. It was walking through a minefield getting back to the redecorated truck. 

We left this small country so impressed we even began talking about returning some day, but with a much, much longer visit planned - as in permanently. There was no end to our little schemes. Our friends thought we were crazy – all this nonsense of wanting to leave the bland security of the States behind to carve out a new life in the hills of some banana republic. I’ve long suspected we must have been wandering nomads in some previous lifetime, little interested in cultural conventions. It had become painfully obvious, a truism if not a mantra, that to us life is these submersions into exotica.

Everything else is just waiting. 

The following are John's previous articles for the magazine:

Indonesia ~ Adventure
Late Autumn In Laos ~ In The Laotian Jungle
Explorations In Nepal ~ Deep In The Hinderlands
Explorations In The Amazon Basin ~ Into The Unknown
Adventures In Surinam ~ Into The Jungle
More Adventures In Surinam ~ Explorations

To contact John Click Here
.

< Send a Letter to the Editor > < Subscribe> < Submit An Article >< Disclaimer>