The night was glowing. The moon was bright in the sky, creating an ethereal glimmer as it reflected only partially off the trees concealed by the night. I’m sure if you ask Ethan, my teeth would also have beamed from the huge smile that traversed my stubble face. As we bounced through the night, now cool from the suns absence and a brisk wind that wreaked havoc with our hair, I felt alive! After a few years away, and after a frustrating day, I was back in the wilderness.
Getting Ethan out of bed in the morning is difficult enough. I have a degree in history and a diploma from the University of Life, but I still struggle. Without the use of a crane, I think I always will. And we were late. Late getting up, late getting breakfast and late for the grumpy taxi man waiting in the hotel foyer. If we missed this plane…
After seemed like an age checking out of the hotel, we flopped into the taxi and allowed ourselves to be whisked along the currently empty roads of Rio De Janeiro. That was the only thing we seemed to have planned well, at this time in the morning, the roads were practically empty. Nevertheless, I was clock watching. At every red light and every pedestrian crossing, I would count the seconds. Every time our driver began gently breaking I muttered silent threats. We had to catch this flight.
We arrived at the airport with little time to spare, thrusting way too much money into the drivers hands and racing into the departure lounge. We needn’t have worried.
“Cancelled.”
We were heading to the Pantanal, a vast area of wilderness that covered an area of land larger than the UK. In the wet season it is a swamp, in the dry season it is a savannah, patched with areas of forest and woven with rivers. It is a wildlife haven. It is also a nightmare to get to.
There are no direct flights to Camp Grande, the nearest city, from Rio De Janeiro, so we had booked a transit flight via Sao Paolo. To our horror, the next flight to Sao Paolo would cause us to miss our transit.
I want you to understand just a taste of the frustration that I felt.
Take a pinch of jet lag, and sprinkle it gently into a healthy dose of general lack of sleep.
When indistinguishable, throw in some rush and some panic.
Now throw the whole thing in the bin and start again with uncertainty and confusion, seasoned powerfully with a very obvious language barrier.
Let the smoky and salty aroma of other irritated passengers infuse into your own mood.
Now wait for just over an hour without sitting, allowing your mood to slowly blacken.
As your realise that the next available flight will cause you to miss your transit to the Pantanal, you have the option of moistening with a couple of tears, or venting with words you shouldn’t use.
Thankfully my angst-pie was not fully baked before we got the first bit of good news of the day. Ethan had had a brainwave and had texted the company that we had booked our Pantanal excursion through. We weren’t to worry about our transit, we would be picked up by a man called Martin. I already knew that I would like Martin.
Campo Grande was not how I expected. I had expected green, I got brown. I had expected humid, I got dry heat. I had expected quiet, it was anything but. As everyone else filed away, there was remaining a single silver-haired gentleman, tall and dapper in the heat.
“Martin?” We enquired?
“Welcome,” he beamed. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
I didn’t think I could politely say how frustrating the day had been up until this point so I kept quiet. It was already 4pm- we should have been in the Pantanal by this point. But travelling teaches you to be flexible. And this journey in particular, taught me to be grateful. I was almost grateful for the cancelled flight.
We walked past the hoards of tourists piling into stuffy minibuses with dusty windows until we came to a delicate little black Chevrolet.
“Here we are! Do you like her?”
It was absolutely tiny. A Mini would have dwarfed it, and a dwarf would have considered it mini.
Somehow, all of our lug was crammed in, as did we. At least it wouldn’t be a long journey.
“Ok does anyone need a toilet stop?” Martin asked casually.
Ethan and I exchanged glances.
“I think we’ll be ok, thanks.”
“Are you sure, the journey is about four and a half hours…?”
Ah. That was about three and a half hours longer than I had expected. I looked back at the little creature that would take us on a four and half journey into the wilderness and wondered if it would make it into it’s second hour.
I have already said that I was grateful for the cancelled flight. You may think I’m mad considering everything I have told you, however, it turned out to be a real blessing.
Firstly, Martin was a real gem. Born and raised in Switzerland, he was charming and friendly, and possibly the only person we encountered on the trip with fluent English. Though usually dealing with German clients, his English was immaculate and his knowledge of Brazil and the Pantanal was incredible. I felt like I was tapping into an underused mine, I learnt so much from spending the little time with him that I did.
But it wasn’t just his charm, it was his kindness. A former evangelical missionary, his love for the people of Brazil was evident. As christians ourselves, Ethan and I were able to enjoy fellowship together, with a man of a different generation, nationality and background, and yet a man who was very our brother in our faith. When he revealed as he dropped us off that he lived in Campo Grande, and that despite the fact it was 9pm, he was going to turn around and return home without even a drink, it didn’t surprise me. He had dropped everything to come and help us, it was service at it’s best.
Secondly, despite the long drive in the cramped conditions, I don’t think a journey has had me so enthralled. The journey was essentially one long straight road through wilderness, occasionally bisecting or bypassing a small settlement, but it was anything but boring. I don’t think I have seen so much wildlife on a drive than I did that evening, and I’m not sure I ever will again. The bird life was extraordinary: Toucans, with bright orange bills, watched us from roadside trees, blue and gold macaws honked at us from above. Myriads of smaller birds, parakeets and birds of prey flittered and flapped above us and across our path. Large rhea cantered in the distance and vultures eyed us up from the roadside, willing us to die like an impoverished funeral director.
There were mammals too. A large male howler monkey straddled a tree branch in the way that I probably wallow in front of the TV and capuchins could sometimes be seen scuttling in in the foliage.
And the great thing about Martin, was that despite his 30 years in the Pantanal and despite his 9 hour round trip, he was excited to see it all too. Our first few hours were spent happily pulling over to revel in the beauty of the land.
The terrain changed from flat and dry, to grassy and hilly. In the distance, we could see tree covered mountains, and the fields were often guarded by row upon row of termite mounds, standing tall and regimental above the long pampas grass.
“Ok, so there are three things you must see while you are here,” said Martin. “Giant Anteater, tapir and of course, the jaguar.”
I had about a thousand questions but didn’t want to push my luck. Instead I let him talk.
“You have to be very, very lucky.” Martin continued, “Most people see about one out of the the three.”
That was not what I wanted to hear.
“What are the chances of seeing a jaguar?” I asked, expecting the worst.
“It’s difficult to say,” Martin mused, “maybe 40?”
I assumed he meant forty percent rather than 40 jaguars.
“But if you are going to see jaguar anywhere in the world, It is here…”
Although I was relieved to finally reach our destination, I was sad that Martin had to go. I had only known him for five hours but he already felt like a friend. Some people have that skill. I hope that others will feel that of me some day.
So here we were, bouncing on the back of a large pick up truck, the wind whipping our faces, caking us with a thick red dust. Though we could barely see in the dark, we felt every pothole and groove in this dirt track. Flecks of light reflected back from the foliage, lining our way. And the sound of the night was gorgeous.
Our lodge was a few miles further into the wilderness from the main road. I am not one for completely roughing it. I mean I need a shower to be even a vaguely pleasant person. However, in the middle of the wild, it does not seem appropriate to build a lavish hotel complex. Our lodge was perfect, comfortable but rustic. Decked entirely of wood, it was made of long and low huts, where we stayed, next to a large, raised building that acted as a base. This was where we ate, and where we were to meet others. Despite our tiredness and our gurgling stomachs, we did our best to be polite to the longe’s manager. She was a nice lady. Probably. She spoke no English and we spoke no Brazilian, so we just looked at each other and made strange noises at each other, before pretending we had completely understood everything.
The lodge was delightful. But freezing. Martin had warned us that it would be a bit cold. We had assumed that this meant “cold for the tropics”, ie, 15 degrees, a mild day in the UK. But no. It was FREEZING. Decked out in shorts and a t-shirt, with only one jumper and three pairs of socks, my hands were so cold they felt like i’d stolen them from a dead man, and my nose ran faster than Usain Bolt on RedBull. My nipples were so hard that if I turned unexpectedly I posed anyone in the vicinity serious risk of laceration. But as I shivered myself to an elusive and fragmented sleep that night, the number three echoed through my mind. Anteater, tapir, Jaguar. And hopefully, a whole lot else.
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