Ñandú

This trip started to unfold almost a year ago, when we learnt through word of mouth about a retreat center in the middle of the Amazonian jungle that offered the kind of spiritual experience that we were looking for: with native healers and ages-old traditional use of sacred plant medicine. We signed up months in advance with the boldness that you get when you look at something scary from very far away, but as the time to board our flight to Peru approached and we learnt more and more about what we signed up for — which required among other things depriving oneself from alcohol, caffeine, and other earthly pleasures for weeks in advance — we got more and more anxious.

Regardless, we were heading to Iquitos, in the Peruvian Amazon. It seemed absolutely obvious to us that after the retreat we had to leave Iquitos the hard way: by public fluvial transportation downriver to Brasil.

The retreat

To get to the retreat center From Iquitos it’s a half-an-hour bus ride to the village of Santa Clara, plus a 25-minute boat ride up the Nanay River to a dock in the middle of nowhere, plus one hour of walking. Yup, it is remote.

The experience was ultimately profound, healing, empowering and all those new-agey words that you can overhear any random afternoon in Sebastopol’s¹ local cafés. Likely transfomative too, but you’d have to judge by yourself or ask us a year or two from now.

Iquitos, Peru

Iquitos is the world’s largest city (not on an island) that cannot be reached by road. Sitting less than 4 degrees of latitude south of the Equator, it’s a bustling town that will hyper-stimulate all your senses, especially if you’re sensitive to humid heat. It seems to exist in that dreamy boundary between fiction and reality, with its crazy but uncannily smooth traffic of mostly two- and three-wheeled vehicles and buses with glassless windows, and the vestiges of a wealthy and ruthless past that was the rubber boom, more than a century ago.

Before and after the retreat we took some time to explore a few of the many offerings around Iquitos, including a couple of nights in a floating lodge on the Momón River.

Iquitos to the Triple Border

The second half of the adventure started with figuring out how to do this down river thing. The research we carried out before the trip led us to conclude that we had two options: the pasteurized one, and the authentic one. The pasteurized one is to reserve a spot on an expensive cruise ship, which feels like looking at the world through a glass window. The authentic one is to do what locals do. Except for the few towns that have an airport, boat transport is the only option that natives have to travel to and from their communities, so there must be a way. The problem is that what we found on the web was mostly anecdotal and somewhat inconsistent, so we decided to do it the old way: ask the locals and improvise. Things were even more uncertain because the river was at its lowest level since records began in 1902, which made navigation difficult and prone to running aground. The only thing that was clear when we left home was that we had to take a boat to Santa Rosa, an island in the Peruvian side of the Peru-Colombia-Brazil border, cross the river to Leticia, Colombia, and from there cross a street to Tabatinga, Brazil where we could take another boat to Manaus.

Once in Iquitos we learned that we could either take the “fast” passenger boat to Santa Rosa for a mere 15-hour trip, or the slow cargo boat that would take about three days. We opted for the former and secured our space, which made us the proud owners of two old-fashioned paper tickets with the blanks filled with handwriting.

One afternoon a few days later we boarded the ferry, and the following morning we had a mini-adventure with the mandatory immigration dance that reminded us of the cruising life bureaucracy. In Santa Rosa, the ferry ties up to a floating dock in the middle of the river. From there it is: a water taxi that gets you most but not all the way to shore; a walk over a long, narrow, rickety walkway; a white-knuckled tuk-tuk ride over the muddy river bank and across town to the immigration post where you stand in line to get your exit stamp on your passport; another tuk-tuk ride back to the river and the rickety walkway; another water taxi to the north shore of the river; a walk up the steep river bank, underneath stilted houses, and across a bridge over a smaller river… and voilà, you are in Leticia. You are not done, though. You still have to go to the airport to get your passport stamped with your entry to Colombia, which was another mildly kafkaesque process: once there they told us that we had to prefill a form on the internet, but there was no internet.

Leticia, Colombia

Leticia, Colombia’s southernmost city, is a friendly town that relies heavily on tourism and acts as a hub for many attractions and activities centered around the river and the jungle. With its twin city Tabatinga they form a borderless unit where people and languages mix; when you go down Leticia’s main street the only indication that you are in another country is that the shop signs suddenly turn to Portuguese.

In Leticia and the tri-border area the river is the connective tissue that supports the economy of the region.

The Oliveira II

After a few days in Leticia it was time for an even more outlandish experience: four days on a cargo boat that would take us from Tabatinga to Manaus. Given that it amounted to less than $100 per day for the two of us, including food, we splurged on a cabin. The cheaper option requires sleeping in your own hammock that you hang from the middle deck’s roof. You also need to bring your own plate and silverware to get food.

We had heard (and, actually, seen) that some of the boats that do that route have decent cabins with sliding doors that open up to a small private balcony. We had also heard that meals are buffet style. Our luck had us boarding the Oliveira II (only because that was the one ship departing on the day we wanted to leave), which had… none of that. In fact, when we saw our abysmally dark and spartan windowless cabin we thought we would have been better off on a hammock, but after the first night we reconciled with our space and learnt to love it. Okay, maybe “love” is an exaggeration, but we did get quite fond of the AC.

The food experience deserves a whole paragraph. Breakfast was at 6:30 (reasonable, especially if you overlook the fact that the coffee was utterly undrinkable); lunch at 10:30 (weird, but manageable); dinner at 4 (outrageous, because it means more than 14 hours until the next meal!). The very first meal was an unpalatable soup with bits of meat of unconfirmed origin (likely from more than one species) that had me almost panicking on the prospect of three more days of similarly objectionable fare. However, the next six meals were chicken, rice and beans, which I’d happily have for the rest of my life if that keeps me away from the abomination we had the first day.

I didn’t have a chance to take a picture of our ship. Actually, I did have a chance when we disembarked in Manaus that I missed because I forgot, but since that’s a much a larger explanation I hope you excuse me if I choose a simple lie to a complicated truth. Fortunately, there was a calendar on the boat that I had the foresight of photographing, so here it is, The Oliveira II (and the phases of the moon) in all her glory. Two things I’m realizing just today: either Ñandú had an oversize anchor, or the Oliveira II has an undersized one, by a huge factor, because the anchor in the picture looks about the same size as the one we had. And, speaking of lies, April fool’s day is called the “day of the lie” in Brazil.

The ship stops at several villages along the way, but it’s not recommended to get off, as the stopovers are as short as needed to load and unload passengers and cargo, so we just enjoyed the scenery and the action from the deck.

Every stop provided an intriguing snapshot of life on, around, about, for and by the river. You see people waiting for the ship, their dreams and struggles packed into cardboard boxes and suitcases, and wonder what their stories are. A woman taking one last picture of a loved one — is that her son heading to Manaus for a year of higher education? A huge pile of about 300 empty five-gallon water bottles waiting to be loaded into the boat — do they need to import all their potable water? Two big bunches of plantains — are those for our next meal? Three cars parked nearby — what makes you get a car when the roads don’t go farther than five km in each direction? The river bank is so steep that I wonder how did the cars even get there — perhaps you have to wait for the river to be much higher? A terrified pig is pulled and pushed uphill while he squeals as anyone would do if there was no tomorrow — does he know that’s likely the case for him? A traveling salesman getting off the boat to sell sandals — does he have a lover in this town?

This is the real deal. The human landscape that’s as rich as the natural one. This is José, who grew up in the jungle where political borders don’t exist — when the time came to move to the city to go to school his father told him: “son, you are going to go to school; they will assign you a country, they will assign you a flag, but don’t forget to be human”. This is Bryan, who’s white grandmother didn’t want him to grow up in the jungle with his Jivaro mother, so she brought him to the city — and his mother moved too just to be close to him. This is Jhon, who lost his transportation business in Armenia, Colombia, to the pandemic, and moved to Leticia — he’s thriving again but unhappy with the isolation. This is Jorge, our water taxi driver, a Peruvian man married to a Colombian woman with Brazilian children — so proud of them that he stopped the boat several times during our ride just to come forward to show us pictures of them.

Manaus

Manaus is a large city half way on the Amazon’s run to the Atlantic Ocean. It was called The Paris of the tropics back in the 1800s, when it was the richest city in South America, thanks to the rubber exploitation. Many wealthy Europeans settled here and brought their ostentatious extravagance with them, including the habit of sending their laundry to Europe because they didn’t like their clothes washed with water from the river. The epitome of such flamboyance is the iconic Teatro Amazonas or opera house. It was built with public funds and using materials imported from Europe: marble, crystal, and even wood, which was obviously abundant in the rain forest. At the end of our tour of the Teatro, Kathy told the tour guide that she missed a mention of the fact that the wealth that made all this possible came at a huge human cost to indigenous people, who were enslaved to harvest the rubber. She was understandably pissed that the guide — a young white man — dismissed her suggestion.

Being surrounded by rain forest, in the center of the Earth’s lungs, Manaus usually boasts beautiful, blue skies. Not this time though. The historically dry season fueled forest fires all around the city, making Manaus temporarily the city with the second worst air quality in the world.

Parting words

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1. Bohemian capital of California. ↩︎

I had a problem. Life gave me a solution. It was a somewhat distressing one, though. You see, I collected all these blog-worthy pictures, but I had no story behind them. Go to some local state park, get back home with a bunch of pictures, repeat. How do I write a post about that without making it appallingly boring and losing half my already thin audience? Internet loyalty goes only so far, after all.

Well, now I’ve got a story to tell. It has absolutely nothing to do with photography or state parks, but so what? My blog, my rules.

The story was provided by the internet itself in the form of a game: wordle. If you know the game please go get a coffee while I explain it to the few who don’t (hi, mom). You have six tries to guess a 5-letter word. In each try you are told which letters from your guess are in the target word, shown green if they are on the correct position, yellow otherwise. And that’s it. It’s become hugely popular because it’s seductive, and because you can play it only once a day, and the target word is the same for everyone each day. Of course, the fewer tries you need to guess the word, the better the feeling, and the holy grail is to guess it on the first try.

I’ve been playing it for more than a year (483 times as of this morning, to be precise), and very early on I stuck to the same starting word, IRATE, because it has five of the six most used letters in English. Until one fateful day, when I decided to free myself from my own chains. Strangely (and ominously) enough I chose STEAL as my break-from-routine starting word. I was feeling proud of myself. Even brave, oh so brave! I got the T, the E and the A yellow. Hmm. Interesting. Feeling that the coolest thing in the world to do next was to try IRATE, because it has those three letters and it doesn’t have an S or an L, I went ahead.

After you hit ENTER, wordle reveals the color of each letter slowly, one by one. The I turned green. The R turned green. When the A turned green my smugness turned into panic. Time slowed down. I knew it at that moment. I had the glory at the tips of my fingers and it slipped, just because I wanted to be cool for one day.

I threw my phone away and began cursing and writhing. I didn’t say anything intelligible, but Kathy, who was sharing breakfast with me, only needed to know two things: that I was playing wordle, which was easy to guess since it’s part of my morning routine, and my starting word, which she knew. With the most diabolical gaze I’ve ever seen in her, she grabbed her phone, opened wordle, and stole the holy grail from me. 

Salt Point State Park

Mendocino

Los Padres National Forest

Robert Louis Stevenson State Park

Home

For those of you in other parts of the world, here’s a summary of the California’s winter that has thankfully just ended: wet. State-of-emergency, record-breaking, get-the-canoe-ready kind of wet. I personally noticed that things were getting extreme when I started hearing the terms “atmospheric river” and “bomb cyclone” more often than “traffic jam” and “vegan burrito”. But, other than destruction and toenail fungus, one thing that massive amounts of rain bring, is the potential for an epic superbloom.

A superbloom is a rare desert botanical phenomenon in California in which an unusually high proportion of wildflowers whose seeds have lain dormant in desert soil germinate and blossom at roughly the same time. There. Thank you, wikipedia. (Hey, at least I’m not using ChatGPT to generate this entire post! It’s tempting, though.)

So, when the time seemed right, we loaded our red wildebeest, weighed anchor, and tacked downwind to visit a handful of deserts in Southern California. And it did pay off! The only problem is that things went so smoothly that I’m afraid this is going to be a dull post. I mean, yeah, we were once surrounded by a sea of sheep, and we were on three wheels a couple of times, one of them through a section of road that looked so bad that a 4×4 Ford F-150 chose to turn around (I know, it was the driver, not the truck who made the decision). But the thing is, we didn’t get stranded, nothing broke, and we were not chased by sea snakes. Even more extraordinary was that the first lady and I didn’t even quarrel. Sorry about that, folks — I’ll try to do better next time.

Anza-Borrego Desert State Park

Anza-Borrego is California’s largest state park. It is big, and it feels big. During what was a high-season weekend we found ourselves in complete solitude every night thanks to its vastness, 500 miles of dirt roads, lenient camping regulations, and those wimpy F-150 trucks.

Borrego Springs Sculptures

Anza-Borrego State Park surrounds the little town of Borrego Springs, outside of which you’ll find more than a hundred of these huge sheet metal sculptures of creatures that appear to have reclaimed the desert. They represent the past and present fauna of the Anza-Borrego habitat, with some artistic license to include a dragon, all by the same artist, Ricardo Breceda.

As the story goes, Breceda’s daughter wanted a dinosaur for her birthday, and Breceda, a Mexican-born with no artistic background, grabbed some sheets of metal and made one for her, just like that, while most of us are incapable of even drawing one in two dimensions. Breceda later met an affluent land owner who commissioned all of the sculptures and provided the land to serve as a gigantic outdoor gallery.

Salton Sea

The Salton Sea, a land-locked saline lake that sits below sea level, is the result of an engineering accident. In 1906 silt blocked a canal that diverted water from the Colorado River to irrigate the Imperial Valley. Engineers built a temporary bypass, but it wasn’t too long until it breached. Floodwaters flowed for two years until the breach was stopped, creating a lake about 15 times the size of Manhattan. In the 1950s the area thrived as a vacation destination, but now the lake is drying and exposing a layer of toxic dust from agricultural runoff. It’s hard to shake a post-apocalyptic feeling while going around the lake.

Bombay Beach, on the eastern shore of Salton Lake, flourished as a resort town counting celebrities such as Frank Sinatra as regulars. The exodus due to health concerns and the stench of massive fish die-offs transformed Bombay Beach into a “living ghost town”, but nowadays the town is experiencing a comeback as a quirky hub for artistic expression.

Joshua Tree National Park

There wasn’t a lot of flowers in Joshua Tree, but the park is a jewel always worth visiting. We were rewarded with a rare day of heavy rainfall.

Granite Mountains at Mojave Desert

Ah, the Mojave! It’s a magical place that brings light to the dark corners of your soul. Just come here to spend a couple of nights, get immersed in its healing power, get lost in a granite alley to absorb its wisdom, listen to its subtle silence, feel the place breathe, admire the resilience of its inhabitants, inhale the beauty of its vastness, swallow its dreamlike alchemy… and you’ll come out a different person.

The sweet dessert: Carrizo Plain National Monument

For all your flowery needs, look no further.

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Mount Diablo, at 3849 feet, might not be the tallest mount in the San Francisco Bay Area, but it is the tallest one you can drive to the summit of, and, more importantly, it has the highest prominence, meaning there aren’t any other tall features around, and thus the view from the top is unobstructed. It is said that you can see parts of 40 of California’s 58 counties.

For a dozen years I had the idea of going to Mount Diablo’s summit on a clear day right after a storm to experience the expansive views with the best visibility, but never came with a concrete plan until now, when everything seemed to line up perfectly: lots of rain in the forecast until Tuesday night, clearing winds the following day, and a blank calendar ahead (the latter, admittedly, not a rare occurrence). So I made a reservation for a site in the campground that’s just two miles before the summit, and, come Wednesday afternoon, off we went.

Finding the park’s gate closed when we arrived to the entrance around 5pm caused an initial shock of severe disappointment. I got off to talk to the ranger who was letting some cars out, and before I could say anything he fired “you are the guy who has the reservation?”. I answered with a hesitant “y-yes”, not wanting the spotlight on me, but it was shining bright as the sun and focused as a laser straight to the only person who thought it was such a good idea to come to the park during a heavy storm that he rushed to make a reservation to secure a spot.

 “Do you like to camp in the snow?”

 “Yes!” I tried to be emphatic because I really wanted that gate open for us, but I’m not sure I succeeded as I answered while still processing the unexpected question and containing myself not to ask how much snow we were talking about. 

“You have 4WD?”. That was a much easier “yes”, as it was based on pure, objective facts.

“Well, I guess you know what you’re doing”, he said and let us in. “You can camp anywhere you want”.

We drove to the campground only to find the access closed with traffic cones, but with the entitlement of the freedom just bestowed upon us by the authority, we temporarily removed one cone and drove in. Relieved to see just inches and not feet of snow, we picked what looked like the best site, only to realize that it was exactly the one we had reserved.

We slept cozy and warm, and woke up at dawn to a bit of fresh snow and a wonderful, clear but very cold morning. We intended to drive the remaining two miles to the summit to prepare breakfast at the top, but the road was closed (in a much more unassailable manner than with mere cones), so we parked at a vista point and enjoyed breakfast in the van with the expectedly amazing view. We could see ourselves almost surrounded by a semi-circle of water, from the South San Francisco Bay to the Sacramento Delta. We could see the Golden Gate Bridge, the Pacific Ocean, and even the Farallon Islands.

At around 8am a ranger approached us to ask what the heck we were doing there, but his tone softened when we told him another ranger allowed us to stay overnight. He then informed us we were trapped because the road down was closed due to ice, but we had no hurry and would happily wait for the ice to thaw.

A couple hours later the road clearly reopened because cars started coming in hordes. Until then we had had the entirety of Mount Diablo State Park to ourselves. We hiked to the summit and when we came back it was pure chaos, with a long line of cars waiting on the road for a parking space, and other cars parked wherever they could. It was the middle of the week but it was a splendid sunny day after a long week of bad weather, and Mount Diablo offered the closest snow to several million people who very rarely have it in their backyard.

The only missing thing from this post about the spectacular views from Mount Diablo’s summit is, well, views from Mount Diablo’s summit. You see, the ranger wasn’t entirely correct when he assumed we knew what we were doing, because I slipped on the icy asphalt. My elbow and my camera got the worst part against the pavement, and remained non-functional for a little while. Both have recovered by themselves, of which I’m grateful, but puzzled — I had never heard of a self-healing camera.