“Small tours, all kinds of activities, and the groups will be around eight people. Group size is limited so we have to book you ahead of time…”
The words of the tour agent in Bonito surfaced in my mind as I plodded along on a packhorse behind a group of at least 14 horses with no other vision of wildlife than the horse’s ass in front of me. I considered myself lucky, however, as the group the day before had consisted of nearly 19 people. There were caimans, but then there had been an excess of caimans from the first moment we arrived in our camp in the Brazilian Pantanal.
“Do you think you’re crazy!?” chided the guide to an aspiring Uruguayan gaucho who broke out of the assembly line into a mild trot. The Uruguayan fell back into line just as the mosquitoes began to swarm around my legs in droves that made me cringe to think of what the wet season was like. Luckily a fellow tourist had arrived considerably more prepared and handed me some bug spray and a bottle of water to respite the heat of the setting sun.
As much as I hated horse tours, I had to admit the tangerine skyline was striking as the sun peeked through a tree copse. And I drew a cruel satisfaction for the horse’s sluggish pace as we followed the guide through a patch of murky river water infested with piranhas, though I doubted a nibble on the leg would inspire the animal into any enthusiasm. When the tour was over, however, I felt reluctant to part ways with my steed. Although I only had to put up with the beast for a couple hours, he had to put up with jerks like me everyday.
The next morning we went piranha fishing in the river beside our camp. As soon as we arrived, the caimans lined up on the banks of the river waiting for an easy meal. They piled on top of each other in anticipation – it was their equivalent of a fast food drive-through.
“It’s ok, touch him,” the guide said as he leaned down to caress the leathery scales of the beast. Eager to gain some reptile handling credential in light of filling the void left by the death of Steve Irwin, I thrust my hand toward the caiman.
“The other side,” he cautioned. I jumped back and he laughed. “He has no eye on this side – it makes him a little friendlier. We call him Pirata.”
I gave Pirata a healthy distance as I moved to his blind side to pet him. I thought an endearing friendship was sealed until the bastard ate the first piranha I flipped onto the shore. So much for loyalty.
There are 40 million caimans in the Pantanal,” the guide informed us. “The only predators that attack a full grown caiman are anacondas and the roving families of giant otters. For the last ten years there was a ban on hunting any animals in the Pantanal but caimans have been exempted due to their sheer number.”
As far as tours went, my friend Adrian and I had been a tough sell, but being cramped onto a crowded boat floating down a small, muddy river made it seem a little more worthwhile as we got to see hoards of caimans from an all new perspective.
“Now we are on a boat, and the caimans are on shore,” Adrian observed as we motored along.
“There are some baby caimans over there on that bank,” the guide pointed out. A few minutes later we even saw a massive caiman lizard sunning itself in the branches of a tree – an interesting variation on the theme of wildlife.
We returned to discover all the animals had come to raid our camp while we were out wasting fuel in our tourist-laden boat tour. There were swarms of green Amazonian parrots eating from a compost heap while the cook fed rice to a toucan. A large flock of southern screamers had been hovering around in hope of scoring a few more piranha entrails after the guide had shown us how to clean the fish we caught in the morning. We ate a large meal with multiple servings of meat, beans, rice and noodles – a mix of the latter three being the vegetarian option Adrian had opted for when we signed on for the tour.
Despite the fact that it was winter in Mato Grosso, the weather was so hot after lunch that Adrian and I decided to organise a raid on the pool of the neighbouring pousada. We walked through the savannah-like grass of an area that during the wet season would be entirely submerged, and when we finally arrived at the pousada the forbidden water of the blue swimming pool took on a heavenly hue.
“We jump the fence and sprint for the pool,” I advised. “That way we are refreshed before anyone can tell us we are not allowed to be refreshed.”
Nobody stopped us however – there was not even a need for a dramatic dive. We calmly slipped into the cool water and crawled out before any of the pousada staff were aware of the security breach. We increased our level of refreshment by ordering a couple of ice cold beers from the bar where our legitimacy was finally questioned.
“Are you two staying here?”
“No.”
“Were you in the pool?”
“No, we just came over for a couple of beers. It rained all the way here,” I declared, running a hand through my wet hair.
“The guests pay extra money for the privilege of using the pool,” the bartender declared in a reprimanding tone.
“Well it’s not our fault they chose to pay more,” I laughed to Adrian as we exited the gate and walked back to our sweaty campsite.
At night we decided to join a group that was leaving for a night boat tour in which we would be able to see even less than the day boat tour.
“You can see the glint of the caimans’ eyes with a spotlight,” the guide explained in an enticing voice.
After 20 minutes we had seen enough caiman eyes to be satisfied and everyone in the boat was ready to head back. Around the campfire one of the guides explained how tourism had changed over the past ten years.
“Tourists would feel ripped off when I didn’t catch a caiman or an armadillo for them but now things have changed. The tourists are a little more eco-conscious.” He paused for a moment to show us the bite scars that covered his arms from catching caimans. “In any case a piranha bite hurts a lot more than a caiman bite.”
We drank a few more beers while faking knowledge of the southern constellations before we were interrupted by a pack of raccoon intent on marauding the compost heap and anything else they could get their claws into. We chased them around a little before turning in to the barrack-style hammocks of our campsite.
We were up again in a matter of a few hours for the coup de grace – the early morning jeep safari. We piled into the back of a bumpy truck under the light of the moon and held on to the bars as the vehicle began to bounce off down the road.
“I hope we see some caimans,” Adrian whispered in anticipation.
“Be quiet,” I mumbled, annoyed that the roving spotlight and bumpy ride was interrupting my best efforts at slumber. As the sun began lighting the sky in reddish hues I finally mustered the will to abandon my hopes of sleep. I looked out from the side of the truck to get a spectacular early dawn view of caimans.
“I wish that tapir would stop blocking my view of all those caimans,” Adrian observed as he looked out upon a reptile-infested island sporting a single tapir.
We stopped for a roadside breakfast of coffee, milk and pastries then walked a little down the road past a huge flock of jabirus, the tall black-headed birds that officially symbolize the Pantanal.
The sun had come just overtop another caiman infested lake as we got back into the truck and began ploughing along the road that was often partly submerged during the wet season.
“Farmers burn away swaths of vegetation like those in order to give their cattle space to graze,” the guide told us. “They only exist here in the dry season, and then they truck them away to other areas when this ground becomes submerged. One of the main environmental problems facing the Pantanal is the chemical residue left from the ashes – it gets into the water supply during the rainy season and poisons certain fish species.”
The driver stopped for a moment and we spotted a yellow snake curled up into a tree.
“A baby anaconda,” the guide told us as we piled out of the car. “Pick him up,” he taunted as everyone snapped photos of the sleeping serpent, perhaps not thinking that anyone would accept the invitation.
As I pulled the toddler gently out of the tree hollow, the question of whether I was being ecologically conscious was quickly overridden by the question of whether I was making a wise choice. The yellow snake woke from its slumber and slowly began slithering up my arm, which it must have mistaken for some sort of weak branch. It came up around my neck for a few more photos then became a little annoyed as I tried to pass it to the guide.
“Ahh!” We heard as the 1.5m snake clamped fast onto the guide’s hand. I had to pry its mouth off as nobody else was willing to do it. The guide learned a lesson, though I was merely encouraged of having a delicate reptilian touch.
I put the snake back in the tree and we were off. Over the course of the next few kilometres we saw tapirs, marsh deer, rheas and families of giant otters.
“Ten years ago the seasons weren’t so unpredictable but today there has been much more variation in precipitation levels,” the guide explained to us. “It affects the entire balance of the food chain – too much drought can diminish animal quantities.”
Most Pantanal tours can be arranged through operators in Camp Grande or Bonito. Especially in Campo Grande it is important to do your research before paying for a tour as not all of them offer the same experiences. Campo Grande is rife with scam artists posing as tour agents.
