As our boat skates over the surface of the water and follows the arc of the Amazon into the lush canopy of the Mamiraua Reserve, there is an immediate transformation in the scenery.
Until now, on the long journey to this isolated western enclave of the Brazilian Amazon, the river has been wide and majestic and empty. Virtually the only signs of activity were the teeming riverboats and solitary young boys fishing by the banks.
Then suddenly, as we enter the reserve, nature seems infinitely closer, more alive and tumultuous. The first sign is a shoal of boto, pink river dolphin that slide their gleaming dorsal fins out of the water just long enough to emit a splutter of exhalation before disappearing. Then we witness acrobatic displays of scarlet macaws, looking like poster-paint explosions of red and flapping blue. The trees lining the banks crackle with fidgety squirrel monkeys, swinging and swan-diving between branches. Even the sloths, clinging lazily to treetops, seem that little bit more lively.
But the most extraordinary aspect of Mamiraua and the stunning Uakari Floating Lodge lying at its centre, is that, in the wet season, the river breaks its banks and floods the surrounding forest. The only way forward is to switch to a small wooden canoe and paddle through trees. In the semi-darkness, the water laps the buttress roots of the giant kapok trees, amplifying their grandeur and mystery. And somewhere deep in the canopy, a shaggy little monkey with a blazing crimson head — the rare and radiant white uakari — lights up the flooded jungle like a lick of flame.
It is idyllic: immensely biodiverse and sublimely beautiful, an ecotourist’s dream that makes it easy to forget all those statistics that mark this out as one of the most threatened regions on the planet — and suppress that niggling question of whether I should be here at all.
I earmarked four ventures to visit: Guanavenas Jungle Lodge, the first jungle lodge, set up in 1980, whose literature promises “an exquisite journey to the heart of the rainforest”; Aldeia dos Lagos, a community-run eco-establishment; Anavilhanas Jungle Lodge, one of the latest and swankiest operations; and Uakari Floating Lodge, three days up river from Manaus and universally regarded as the best and most ecologically sound.
As soon as I’d stepped off the plane in Manaus, the state capital of Amazonia and the region’s major city, my chirpy guide, Gilton, from Guanavenas, and I headed east along a lonely jungle highway to Canacari Lake, a pristine outflow of five Amazonian tributaries.
During four sweltering hours on the road I witnessed the ravages of slash-and-burn deforestation, brown scar tissue disfiguring the canopy. We also came across lodges that had literally tacked the word “eco” to their signs.
Then we finally hit Canacari, a huge shimmering pool in a clearing in the forest. The hour-long boat journey was magical, sometimes swerving through bottlenecks of submerged trees but mostly surging through a dazzling eternity of water.
Guanavenas itself is perched on the top of Silves island, a green slab of forest cut to measure and positioned ever so daintily in the centre of the lake. At the gates, they were waiting for us with glasses of mango juice — perhaps the coolest, sweetest first impression ever.
I was rather surprised by the opulence of it all: luxurious wood-panelled jungle-hut cabanas arranged around a delicious blue scoop of swimming pool. The overflowing buffet in the restaurant introduced me to the exhilarating tastes of the Amazon, including spicy pirarucu, one of the largest freshwater fish in the world, washed down with sticky sweet cashew-fruit juice and finished off with homemade ice cream made from cupuacu, an exotic-tasting Amazon fruit.
Gilton kept everyone busy with a roster of piranha fishing, jungle hikes and caiman-trapping, blinding them with torches before lassoing them.
Silves Island hosts another — absolutely unassailable, bona fide — ecotourism project: Aldeia dos Lagos, set up with the help of Unesco and run by the local inhabitants. It includes a spartan central lodge, as well as various initiatives to preserve the surrounding area. I met its manager, a local named Heldi Neves, who told me proudly that all profits are split with the community and also help to fund preservation projects in the area.
I headed back to Manaus and then continued north to the greatest fluvial archipelago system in the world, Anavilhanas Ecological Station, a spectacular, Unesco-listed, 100 000-ha mosaic of dense forest and interlocking waterways.
Perched on the edge of the reserve, smothered in forest, is Anavilhanas Jungle Lodge, one of the Amazon’s newest. It turns out to be comfy and welcoming, consisting of two rows of dinky little cabanas on stilts with designer fixtures. Best of all is the chilled-out atmosphere, buoyed by a bevy of young, friendly guides and a backpacking clientele who spend the evenings in the central pavilion, sipping caipirinhas and playing pool.
It’s owned by a young Brazilian named Augusto Costa Filho who admits there is no such thing as a 100% sustainable lodge in Brazil. “For a start, we don’t actually have the recycling facilities,” he says. And contrary to statements on the lodge’s website about abiding by conservation rules, they were breaking — or at least bending — the regulations, which state that the station should be only for scientific purposes.
I came away from Anavilhanas impressed by the energy of its young proprietors, but wondering if Amazon ecotourism is destined to be blighted by compromise.
I was still only halfway through my epic journey, and the next leg promised to be the most enthralling: two days spent chugging upriver on the Rei Davi, a romantic little three-tiered wooden junk, to the tiny isolated town of Tefe and the glory of the Mamiraua Reserve. We hugged the bank, at times almost able to reach out and touch the trees. Most of the areas of “deforestation” I saw were clearings for football pitches, where future Ronaldinhos waved us on. I slung up a hammock on deck with the rest of the passengers and swayed gently as a blazing sunset engulfed the river in a luminous halo of gold and vermilion.
From Tefe, I took a longboat upriver to Mamiraua. The reserve was founded by Brazilian primatologist Jose Marcio Ayres, who came here in the 1980s to study the uakari monkey. One of the reserve’s responsibilities was to set up an ecotourism venture: the Uakari Lodge, which floats magnificently in a bow in the river.
That evening I made my first night-time expedition into the varzea or flooded forest. As my guide, Elmir, paddled us deeper into the darkness, it was genuinely terrifying. Every so often Elmir would whisper: “John, John, tarantula”, or “John, a sleeping kingfisher”, and sure enough, in the folds of a kapok tree I’d see a speckled ball of venomous spider as big as a fist or a fluffy, bright orange breast.
By the last day, we still hadn’t seen the elusive uakari. But as we were about to head back to the lodge, I heard “John, John …” On a branch, I could just make out the shaggy outline, like an Afghan coat, and a crimson head. An uakari. For a moment we stared at each other, almost face to face, before it started and disappeared. The encounter had been fleeting, but I had been rewarded with a glimpse of one of the most reclusive creatures in the jungle.
Uakari Lodge’s eco-credentials are also pretty impressive. Power is provided by solar panels. Only managed trees were used in its construction. Local communities have a say in the way it is run and get a share of the profits. It also gives opportunities to showcase the biodiversity of the varzea and increase its value in the eyes of the world. —