Lapping rhythmically, but delicately against the side of the boat causing a perfect ripple to bounce back; an almost unnoticeable swell, causing us to bob gently. Low to the water, we had an animal’s perspective of the river, and though we silently patrolled the water’s edge, our view was regularly blocked by tall reeds and grasses, providing dense cover to anything that might need it. As I plunged my oar into the water, enjoying the smooth resistance it received, before satisfyingly propelling us along, this was perhaps the most sensory way of exploring the Pantanal. Only Ethan and I were in the canoe, with one another tourist somewhere along the same stretch of river, and our safety boat so far out of the way we barely ever saw him. As the sun gently fried my bare knees, and dazzled my eyes as it danced off the glistening ripples, I was utterly relaxed. In all honesty, despite our intimacy with the river, we had not seen an awful lot since we had been here. Unable to move quickly, anything that rustled squawked or barked had long gone by the time we reached it, and the foliage on the river bank was thick. However, this was an opportunity to marvel at the creatures that I may have otherwise overlooked. Dazzling kingfishers, three species of them, arrowed across the river. Some were large and clumsy, others were a dashing emerald green, others the more familiar royal blue. All were beautiful. Tall, graceful herons would strut into view, occasionally taking to the air, the modern day pterodactyls. Smaller, more bullish, tiger bitterns, aptly named for their striped camouflage would give us a mini heart attack as they would suddenly explode from the undergrowth when we unknowingly got too close. And of course, there were caiman.
I was completely relaxed, and for once, very content with seeing so little. In all honesty, I was still processing the morning.
Our departure was earlier than yesterday. With the mist still rising off the surface of the water, our speedboat roared into life, and we were off. I was hoping our vehicle today would be more reliable than yesterday as I didn’t fancy waiting an hour for recovery whilst floating down a river. We turned upstream, and whilst still within earshot of the lodge we chugged fairly slowly. The boat was approximately three to four metres long and a metre in width at it’s widest. We were sat in a row to space out the weight, an English couple at the front, the lovely Japanese couple that had joined us on the previous day, Ethan and I. Behind us, our guide for the morning, was Paulo. Let me tell you about Paulo:
We had met Paulo the previous evening at the bar. Dressed in jeans and an explorer’s waistcoat, topped with a classic cowboy hat, he looked every bit the South American Gaucho. He was small and stocky, with jet black hair, oozing oil and braided in a little rat-tail at the back, and a bandit’s beard. But it wasn’t his appearance that drew the eye, it was his swagger. He entered the room with all the confidence of a rockstar, greeting everybody he came across with gusto and warmth. He had polished off a few beers in minutes, and his laughter, slightly cruel and edgy but well-intentioned, was infectious. He quite literally absorbed the attention. He was clearly well-loved, but seeing the volume of alcohol that he consumed in such a short space of time, I was sort of expecting his form to have dipped come the morning. I needn’t have worried, clearly this man had an alcohol tolerance that would put any university rugby lad to shame.
He arrived with a wink and a mini salute, his swagger on full show. A handshake and a punch on the arm was joined with a grin and a giggle. Up close, it was clear that the man had lived! One eye was blind, and his face heavily scarred whilst his left hand was permanently contorted and was missing a finger. Considering this, he was miraculously dextrous with both hands and later we saw how good his eye sight was, so though these were “disabilities”, his abilities more than compensated for them. I didn’t feel like it was right to ask how he had acquired such life-changing injuries, but I like to think he fought a Jaguar. You will probably have worked out that this guy was the very definition of “manly”: strong, courageous and a heavy drinker, so it came as quite a shock to see a bright pink, child’s rucksack slung across his shoulder as he turned and led us up the gangplank. It now sat next to him as he steered us up river, apparently obsolete.
Paulo managed to catch spot Iguanas basking in the branches, their brilliant green scales barely distinguishable from the dripping leaves around them. The bird life was impressive to. Flocks of ibis sat chattering on over-hanging branches, whilst herons did their best impressions of a Madame Tussauds waxwork. There were tiny night herons and boat-billed herons, delicately able to perch on even the most spindly of twigs. There were the beautiful turquoise and purple Agami herons that sat serenely between the reeds and the larger Cocoi herons, similar to the ones you will see in the UK, who didn’t seem able to find camouflage no matter how hard they tried.
Wood storks, and their close relatives, the Jabiru would sometimes be seen laboriously attempting to fly, barely more successful than I would have been, unlike the myriad of kingfishers who would arrow across the river at ease.
Nevertheless, Paulo had one thing in mind, he wanted to find us a Jaguar. Now Jaguar have a huge range, theoretically extending right the way down the America’s. Unfortunately, in practice, their populations are now isolated after years of urbanisation and poaching. Though one or two may occasionally cross the border, they are now functionally extinct is the USA, with small populations in Central America. Thankfully, there are populations of Jaguar still living in most South American countries but none more so than in Brazil and in particular, the Pantanal. With the abundance of life that I have described, I am not surprised. Whilst in some countries, one Jaguar may have a territory of up to forty square kilometres, in the Pantanal it is much smaller due to the lack of competition for food. Smaller territories=more room=more jaguars. That sounds good, but the reality was that seeing jaguar was still unlikely. In fact, nobody that we had encountered at the lodge had seen one since their arrival. Our chances were as slim as… well slimmer than Paulo at any rate.
Nevertheless, despite an absence of Jagaur, the banquet was ready and waiting. We had seen some from a distance the previous day, but on the river bank, it was possible to sidle right up to the small herds of Capybara that basked on the banks. You may have never heard of a capybara, in which case, imagine an enormous guinea pig. Then treble it in size until it is the size of a medium sized labrador.. They really do look ridiculous, with their square noses and serious expression. The noses of the larger males had a swollen, leaky gland on the top, secreting an unpleasant looking liquid over their faces. But it was also strange to watch them graze, as if for a while they had forgotten that they were rodents, and had been cruelly tricked into thinking they were sheep.
Paulo cut the engine and we quietly drifted towards a large male feeding on the bank. He was a noisy eater (my worst nightmare) and in his gluttonous lust for the choicest grass, had managed to get a tuft of hay wedged onto his face, to the point that he now looked like a slimmer version of Lewis Capaldi. And here he sat watching us, contentedly chewing.
“Hruff, huff, huff," Paulo had stood up, and had started making noises at the Capybara, which sat up immediately. The chewing stopped, the frown deepened. The huffing continued, it was a little bit like a dogs bark but more gutteral, like an old man clearing his throat or a welsh person trying to speak. The capybara was now slightly catatonic, turning around on the spot like he was in a really bad barn dance. So a regular barn dance. He kept staring at Paulo, who was obviously making the noise, but paranoid about what was hiding in the dense foliage behind him.
Paulo stopped and gave his gremlin like giggle.
“I’m making jaguar noises,” he beamed. “I’m messing with his head.”
In his confusion, the tuft of hay had moved and was now hanging by the side of his snout, like one really long sideburn. Poor thing. It’s quite likely he will end up a jaguar’s dinner one day; it was probably quite a cruel move to remind him.
This wasn’t the only animal that Paulo attempted to confuse that morning. We had turned onto a tributary of the main river, where the water was slower and murkier. We had to be careful here. Every now and then our spines would be given the full demotion-derby experience as our propeller hit a hidden tree branch under the water, the echo of the impact and the bellow of Paulo’s cursing successfully clearing all the wildlife out of the way for the next kilometre of river. As we arrived in a pool that acted as a collection point for several other tributaries, Paulo cut the engine and started squeaking. This time I knew exactly what he was calling for, because I have heard an animal make a similar noise in the UK: we were looking for otters.
Yes, the UK and Brazil are both home to otters. But this is where the similarities end. Whereas the biggest British otters are just under a metre long, including their tail, the otters in the Pantanal, and indeed in other patches across South America, often exceed 2 metres. Unlike the sleek otters that we may catch a glimpse of in the UK, these Giant Otters are stocky brutes. It’s the protein shakes. That’s a poor attempt of a joke, they need no protein shakes, for despite enjoying a tasty fish much like their European cousins, these giant otters will quite frequently take on a caiman.
I actually feel sorry for Caiman. All of their crocodilian relatives are feared. In the USA, Alligators are well able to drag an unsuspected cow into the murky depths of it’s swamp. In Africa, the Nile Crocodiles are frequently filmed picking off wildebeest and zebra on their migratory routes. The Saltwater crocodiles of Asia and Australia are feared by all, even sharks are not safe from these leviathans. But it turns out, the poor little caiman, is the butt of all crocodilian jokes. In the crocodile Christmas letter, it’s the Caiman that the family lie about. I’ve heard it said that fathers will often not let their daughters date a caiman because they have no prospects. They are the prey of land-dwelling jaguar, and river-going otters, with even the biggest caimans at risk of being somebody’s dinner. The smaller ones have even more to worry about: herons and jabiru will happily pick off a baby caiman, whilst even some of the larger fish will enjoy a tasty hatchling snack. Knowing how many creatures enjoyed a coronation caiman baguette I was surprised to see so many.
But I wasn’t surprised that they fall prey to otters once an otter came into view. They had heard Paulo’s call and were coming to investigate. I had expected big but I hadn’t quite pictured what two metre of otter might actually look like. Well now I knew, and, not for the first time in my life, I was glad I wasn’t a caiman. Their eyes were the first thing I noticed, big and bulbous, adept at spotting prey even in the siltiest water. As they opened their mouths to reply to Paulo, we were given insight into the last thing an unfortunate caiman might witness: rows of long, razor-sharp teeth. And the way they effortlessly carved through the water, breaching the surface like a dolphin, but resembling a long but thick snake, you could see what a fearsome predator they must be. I have to admit that I think I would not have felt comfortable in the water with them.
They were not easily deceived by Paulo. After a quick reconnaissance, they were convinced that we were not, in fact, otters, and they carried on their way. Every so often they would dive, and we were able to follow them by the stream of bubbles that rushed to the surface. As they would resurface, they would give us such a look of disdain that I began to almost feel embarrassed to be there. We had clearly outstayed our welcome.
We had seen so much, but the sun was almost up. It was no longer dawn, put it that way, and our best chance to spot wildlife had passed. Despite the abundance of wildlife that we had seen, Paulo was visibly frustrated. He was scouring every bank and investigating every uncertainty, for the small chance that he may spot the elusive jaguar. But unfortunately, petrol levels are finite things: we couldn’t go on forever. Paulo decided to beach our boat on a small sandy bank and it was obvious he was feeling two things very strongly: frustration and the desperate need to relieve himself. He helped us all out of the boat with all the patience and gentility of a commuter who’s just been told that the last train home is about to leave, before hurrying on ahead of us. After a short, but clearly marked path, we found ourselves in some sort of a settlement, a very basic small holding. In the centre was a traditional wooden hut, whilst a couple of smaller sheds or animal lean-to shelters surrounded it. There were small patches of crops out the back while fruit trees grew all around. It was quite a delightful place, secluded and peaceful. Looking round, whoever lived here must have been fairly self-sufficient, I could see several small boats and fishing equipment stacked under a basic wooden shelter.
“Where are we?” Somebody had plucked up the courage to ask.
“An Indian lives here.” Explained Paulo. Before you start wondering whether this was a curry house, I must explain that Paulo meant an Amerindian, somebody who descended from the native South Americans, who had lived here before the Europeans invaded. Though many have chosen to adopt a western lifestyle, this one appeared to have held on to a more traditional way of life.
Paulo called out, not a name but a Brazilian version of “Oi!” I blushed. Every British sinew in my body shuddered at the thought of wandering onto somebody’s property and yelling “oi!” at them. However there didn’t seem to be an alternative. I’m not sure saying, “Ding-dong” in a high pitch, melodic tone would have made much sense here.
“Good,” Paulo asserted after concluding that there was nobody home. “We can piss!”
Apparently, if people aren’t at home you can urinate on their land. The rest of us stood around awkwardly, very aware that we were standing, uninvited, on somebody’s property, while our invitee was passing water. It felt wrong to explore. This was not a museum, this was somebody’s home. But at the same time, after hours on a boat, drinking to keep hydrated, all of us realised that our bladders were fuller than we had thought. One by one, we picked a bush to retire behind.
It was the longest wee of my life. My mind was filled with horror at the thought of a quiet, peaceful man, quite content with his traditional way of life, returning from a successful fishing trip to find six tourists urinating in his bushes. I then wondered if he had a blow pipe…
When I emerged from my bush, I was even more surprised to discover the use of Paulo’s pink bag. Seemingly in a frenzy, Paulo was plucking limes off the poor man’s trees and stuffing them into his bag. He turned as he sensed us watching him, a wicked smile on his face.
“Ssshhh!” He grinned.
“Paulo, why do you want so many limes?”
He didn’t answer with words, only with a smile as he mimed staggering and going cross-eyed. He collapsed into wheezy mirth.
“Ah”. Caipirinhas is the Brazilian national drink. It is completely and utterly potent and I’m fairly sure could poison a hippopotamus. And it’s made of limes. I now realised how well planned Paulo’s route was, and he’d clearly timed it to perfection. The guy had tenacity, that’s for sure.
With his little pink bag now stuffed with contraband, we made our way back to the boat. We were fairly resigned to the fact that we would not be graced with a jaguar sighting, but we were not downcast. The bird life was still glorious, the landscape was still magical and we all chatted happily in the dazzling heat.
“Aaiieeee!”, Paulo almost convulsed as he let out a cry of surprise and brought the boat to a coccyx-pounding halt.
“A Jaguar,” he whispered as he composed himself and swung the boat around. To a man, our eyes widened and our mouths shut. My heart was pounding like a bass drum and I subconsciously started holding my breath. As the boat slowly turned and slowly, ever so slowly, crept towards the river bank. As if we weren’t going slow enough, Paulo cut the engine, and silence reigned supreme. Seconds felt like minutes. You know how when you are driving in a hurry and you see an elderly person step onto a zebra crossing, and it feels as if they not only take hours, but generations and historical eras pass by as they totter by without a care in the world, sometimes dropping something or stopping and having a conversation with a pigeon half way across. In reality, it takes about twenty seconds, but it feels like you have celebrated several birthdays while waiting, and every seconds tightens that knot of tension in your shoulders. This felt similar: I felt like the jaguar, if there was one in the first place, would be somewhere in Bolivia by now.
But she wasn’t. For on the bank, disguised well in the dappled light provided by the tree cover, sat a magnificent Jaguar. I can’t quite describe the feeling. It seems ridiculous, because I have seen jaguars in a zoo, and in fact I have driven one for the last year, but my breath was taken away. Perhaps it was the surprise at seeing one, when I had practically given up. Perhaps it was her beauty, her delicate rosette pattern oozing a debonair aura. It was probably both of these, but my first and most memorable reaction, was to her size. She was huge. Her head was bulky and set, her body supremely muscular. Her paws were so big that you could confuse them for helipads. I have been fortunate enough to watch Leopards in Kenya’s Aberdare national park, and I thought they would be similar. Let me tell you now that a leopard would be quaking in it’s sought after Gucci boots in the presence of this girl.
“She is a small one,” whispered Paulo. I almost fell out the boat. Small? What would a big one look like?
It was at this point that the lovely Japanese lady who was accompanying us decided to do her best impression of a banshee discovering that it had won the lottery. I won’t try and write down what she said, because I don’t speak Japanese and may therefore come across as insensitive. However, I’m fairly sure the poor Jaguar thought she was being fired at by a machine gun. Understandably miffed at such impertinence, she retreated back into the undergrowth.
Paulo was evidently annoyed. Having found a jaguar at last, I think he was disappointed that we didn’t have longer to enjoy observing her. It is amazing that somebody who spends his whole life watching jaguars should still have the awe and pleasure at seeing one as he had displayed in the moment he processed his first glimpse of her. I couldn’t be annoyed at the lady though. She shared my feelings: she was excited! If I had not had years of practice surpassing my excitement, aided by the fact I’m British and so learn from an early age to suppress every emotion, I would have done the same.
As it turned out, we were the only people to catch a glimpse of a Jaguar in our entire stay in the Pantanal. Despite the fact they are numerous here, despite the fact that the guides are expert jaguar-spotters, and despite the fact they they are without a doubt the supreme rulers of this land, they have the remarkable ability to remain elusive. There is a myth about the “Spirit of the Jaguar,” and Jaguars were understandably heavily linked with traditional folk-lore. I don’t believe it for a minute, but I totally understand what they must have been trying to convey. How such a large, and potentially ferocious animal could secretly and silently rule their domain, here one minute, gone the next, turning up and disappearing without a sound, adds to their incredible, almost sinister aura.
I had visited the kingdom of the Jaguar and I had been graced with a glimpse. And so, as I leaned back in our canoe later that afternoon, with the sun beginning to fade over the trees, you may understand why I was content to see nothing. And even if something had turned up, I may not have noticed. For though my eyes were scanning the river banks, my mind was very much elsewhere.
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