The Amazon

Sergio Mamallacta is a short, powerfully built man. He bears a strong resemblance to an ex heavyweight boxing champ, so his fellow guides nicknamed him Tyson. He sports the permanent grin of someone who is pretty sure he can wop your ass.

But Tyson, like all the Kichwa people we met in the Ecuadorian Amazon, is a gentle person, keenly attuned to the subtle nuances of his surroundings – plants, animals, weather. After a hundred generations in this land the Kichwa have become indelibly connected to their environment.

Ecuador is a small but diverse country. The wet west coast harbours shrimp ponds and vast plantations of bananas. Inland, high in the Andes the capital Quito straddles the equator, snuggled in a valley shadowed by active volcanoes. And just a short flight east of Quito is the low lush Amazon rainforest, where we spent a week at Napo Lodge in Yasuni National Park.

Tyson met us at the airport in the small bustling town of Coca. From there we motored downstream two hours to the Kichwa village of Anangu, via the busy Napo River, a tributary of the mighty Amazon. En route we sipped lukewarm cervesas while Tyson commenced our Amazonian education, sharing tales of the forest and his people’s history.

The Kichwa are descendants of the mighty Inca. They avoided subjugation by the Spanish conquistadores in the 16thcentury and still remain proudly independent. Their language survives as one of Ecuador’s official languages – nearly half the country’s population speaks a Kichwa dialect.

In the last two decades the people of Anangu Village have given up their traditional hunting lifestyle in favour of eco-tourism. In this win-win scenario endangered animals are preserved and the people are productive and autonomous.

The Kichwa once used frog toxin and blowguns to kill monkeys. Today tiny poison dart frogs hop around happily and the cute capuchin monkeys and golden-mantled tamarins are captured on film instead of on a skewer.

Unfortunately, the Ecuadorian government has not emulated the progressive, long-term approach of the indigenous population. The vast reserves of oil that lay under this pristine tropical paradise are unabashedly exploited. Signs of drilling are everywhere. As we drifted down the Rio Napo barges loaded with tankers, pipe and equipment chugged incongruously beside us. Along the bank red gouges of bare earth radiated into Yasuni National Park.

At Anangu we left the power boat and scrambled into a dugout canoe. Napo Lodge is located on a quiet lagoon an hour from the mayhem of the Rio Napo. Tyson paddled quietly, describing the flora and fauna – occasionally pausing to point out a creature silently camouflaged in the dark understory.

The focus of our stay was Amazon’s animal life but the lodge also emphasizes exposure to local tradition.

“Chicha” is to the Kichwa people what Guinness is to the Irish: a cultural beverage – and a meal replacement. The meat of the yuca plant is pounded to a pulp then mixed with grated sweet potato and water. After three days of fermentation the mush becomes a nutritious drink consumed by young and old alike. But after seven days the broth becomes a potent intoxicant. Every family makes two batches of chicha a week: one for sustenance and one for party time.

Wildlife photography in the Amazon can be disappointing. Little of the blazing tropical sun penetrates the dense canopy. The rainforest floor lies in a perpetual shadow-world, a place of low light, flighty critters – and fuzzy photographs. Many animals wear natural camouflage making them difficult to capture, even on film.

We had arrived from the Galapagos Islands where the animals are unafraid – almost tame. The Amazon, in stark contrast, is populated by wary elusive frightened – and frightening – creatures.

There are more kinds of life in one acre of Ecuadorian rainforest than exist in all of Canada. Yasuni is the most biologically diverse locale on earth. A single kapok tree can harbour thousands of animals and plants: birds, mammals, insects, reptiles, amphibians – plus a myriad of flora: epiphytes, bromeliads and the choking strangler fig. All co-exist in one leafy domain.

Kapoks are the monsters of the Amazon, a paramount species. We climbed 35 meters above the mid-day dimness of the forest floor into the crown of a massive kapok. From our perch we had an unobstructed view – an endless ocean of verdant green.

Blue parakeets, green parrots and scarlet macaws squawked and squabbled. Squirrel monkeys and white-fronted capuchins swung cautiously in a nearby tree. A troop of howler monkeys did what they do best: howl. Even from a kilometer distant the noise is frighteningly loud – a mix between gale-force wind and a departing jet airliner.

Perched on a house-sized kapok limb I gazed about in amazement, content with the universe. Tyson looked over and said casually:

“Mr. Gerry you may want to sit still right now. That’s a bullet ant.”

I looked down. A three-centimeter long monster with pincers the size of a Buick was crawling over my leg. I froze in fear, avoiding a primeval urge to slap and jump. When the ant had departed I asked Tyson if it was dangerous.

“Somewhat,” he said. “We call it 48 hours of pain. Like being shot.” Thus the name bullet ant.

For the rest of the week I examined my derriere’s intended destination carefully before taking a seat.

The Amazon creates its own climate. Afternoon showers are created by the release of water vapour from the vast forest. Clouds form, rain falls, roots tap into the wet ground, leaves transpire and the process repeats daily, perpetually.

Never have I endured a more humid climate. Although tropically warm the Yasuni heat was not oppressive. (We survived comfortably without air-conditioning, sleeping under the purring of an overhead fan.) But humidity hangs in the air, ready to condense at sunset into a soppy mess. Everything turned soggy and inoperative: camera, computer, battery chargers. Rudely, even the portable nose-hair trimmer jammed in mid-­shear.

Perhaps the best place to view Amazon wildlife is from the water. Stealthy paddling led us up a remote waterway to where we watched a family of giant river otters cavort and squeal. An anaconda hung on a branch above, eying us malevolently, waiting for something just a little smaller to eat.

We were a content but blissfully unobservant crew. On our final afternoon, after another long day of wonder, Tyson pointed toward something napping in a tree nook. For the seventh time in as many days the conversation from one of us went something like this:

“What is everybody looking at? Where is it? Where? Oh… there it is. Look everybody! I see it. It’s a… it’s a… what is that Tyson?”

“Three-toed sloth,” he said patiently, then turned, grinned and dug his paddle into the soft water toward the lodge and the fading sun.

Gerry