A friend of ours told us that she had the time of her life in Rurrenabaque, Beni, and on the Jungle tour, so we decided to spend one of our last weekends in a more pleasant climate.
We boarded a tiny plane and set off to Rurrenabaque, a jungle town in the district of Beni. During the flight we passed so close to the Illimani that the right wing almost grazed the tip. After a short flight, we landed in a grassy field next to what looked like a house. Nope, it was the airport.
The airport was the size of a standard apartment, one giant bedroom, no bath. It was placed on a grassy field that was used as the runway, surrounded by the forest and connected to the town by a single road that was only tread by motorcycles.
Yes, motorcycles. I reacted with shock when I passed through the airport in a couple swift steps and the first word I heard was “moto?”
Oh, absolutely. This trip had gotten off to a good start.
The drivers must have found it strange that I was yelling like I was on a roller coaster as we rumbled down the dirt road as the sun gradually warmed the leaves, the air practically dripping compared to the dry freezer that is La Paz. 
Reggae played from a radio dangling from the rafter on the bungalow-like building in front of which we were dropped. The moto driver vowed to see me again once I returned from the Pampas. To our pleasure, and later disgrace, we were dropped in front of a French Bakery, which made the most incredible breakfast pastries we’d ever tried. After binging on a couple too many chocolate croissants, we cruised around the city until it was time to meet with our tour.
We were hoping for some spontaneity, as the tour didn’t look as exciting as my friend back in the city made it sound. On the half-page of type was a schedule that included swamp-walking in search of anacondas, caiman hunting in the dark, piranha fishing and swimming with pink dolphins. While all of these things sound adrenaline-filled, we were somewhat experienced in dealing with Bolivian tourism and anticipated that the dully translated English was a reflection of the hilarious mediocracy of the tour we were about to experience.
While waiting for our Jeep we met a group of handsome British men that we were sure would be on the tour with us. When the Jeeps came, my group was directed to a different one. Instead, we joined a couple that didn’t really speak to us or each other, and a two crude spanish guys. The skepticism grew when we got in a jeep and drove a perfectly straight line as the crow flies further into Beni, to the Yakuma river. It took half of the journey for us to realize that the doors were partially open, and that’s why we were covered in dust. I also got a good enough jiggling to keep me supple for awhile.
We stopped for our first meal, a home-owned restaurant across from a park with a fountain. Naturally, marking “vegetarian” means nothing to the tour agency, and my friend and I had to painfully tell the woman that we couldn’t eat the chicken-based dishes she was serving. It was a lot easier to have a vegetarian friend with me, so that I had someone with whom I could exchange both embarrassed and annoyed expressions.
We arrived hung out in a grassy area waiting for something to happen, but we didn’t really care. The lovely thing about Bolivian tours is that they always keep you on your toes. Besides the extremely unexciting itinerary, we had no idea what we were doing until the equally unexciting guide showed up. His name was Yasmani, and as far as he was concerned, I was the only person on the tour that existed. Maybe it was because I was the most bilingual person on the boat so I served as a translator for the non-Spanish speakers, or maybe it was because my name was the easiest for him to remember. Either way, I was the only person he ever addressed.
The boats were long wooden vessels which accommodated eight people with of retired lawn chairs. We loaded up with the wooden crates and bags of produce and meat that would be prepared for us for the next three days, and set off on the long cruise.
The Yakuma river, Beni
The sun beat down on us as we skimmed along the river. The region was not as much jungle as I had anticipated, but the natural greenery and humidity was a lovely escape from La Paz’s cold, hard concrete jungle.
Alligators sit on the sunny side of the shore during the day to soak up warmth for the clammy nights. When they get too warm, they sit menacingly with their mouths open to release heat.
Wading clumsily into the water were Capybaras, animals that look exactly like giant guinea pigs.
Herrings skimmed across the glassy water and birds of paradise sat regally in the trees. Turtles piled on top of one another like the Dr. Seuss tale. We drifted against a tree to which the tour guide was magnetically drawn and spider monkeys climbed down the branches, one walking down onto my arm. I was told that they bite, so I stayed still despite the pinch of its claws.
The sun was hot and the boat rocked us to sleep after the first hour of stopping for every Caiman resting on the shore. We blinked awake as we buzzed down the river, passing thatched houses with hammocks and river-side stores. After passing well-built bungalows with glass windows, we finally came to a stop in front of the most rickety one.
The first evening consisted of boating to a bar where we watched the sunset from the top floor, and sundown was followed by a search for caimans in the dark. For almost an hour we jiggled flashlights until the light caught the glowing red eyes of caimans floating still behind trees along the river bank.
On the way back we shut off the lights and no one spoke as our necks were craned back to drink in the purity of the moments, sometimes punctuated by the sound of a bird cackling or a bats swooping nearby overhead. Fireflies spangled the illuminated dome that was the sky, in one of the hard-to-find places on earth uncorrupted by light pollution.
When we got back to the bungalow we dined on pasta by candle light. Our guide said that electricity was only available from 7 to 10 p.m., but on our first night, the generator wasn’t working. Therefore, we had to walk slowly and deliberately as we followed the winding catwalks, elevated five feet off the ground, that led to our shared dormitories and the bathrooms.
We spent time in a shared common room with hammocks, guitars and playing cards. We fell asleep in the hammocks and were awoken by our guide, Yasmani—who for some reason only cared to learn my name— telling us that we needed to go to our dormitories with mosquito-netted beds, or we would be eaten alive by the mosquitoes. I retired to my bed, the stickiest i’ve ever been.
The next day I awoke early to the sound of creatures jumping on the tin roof. Through the thick screen I saw a tail, then heard scurrying above my head. Dozens of spider monkeys were climbing in the kitchen and stealing food and toilet paper. I stood and watched the monkeys, then went to take a shower, of which Yasmani said was “all natural,” whatever that was supposed to mean.
After breakfast we put on tall rubber boots to go heatstroke out in a putrid swamp while hunting for invisible anacondas. The guide of the second group, who could be described as a perverted Bolivian Indiana Jones with a snakeskin hat, led the tour while an obviously doubtful Yasmani walked in the back. Upon beginning our trek, I asked the guide what the chance of finding anaconda was. Instead of giving me a percentage, he said “suerte.”
Two hours later, we had run out of water and had resorted to sitting in the tall grass, our backsides wet with smelly water, using giant leaves for shade.
After two hours of stroking out, upon return to our bungalow we almost immediately laid down in the hammocks for the best naps of our lives.
In the late afternoon we went piranha fishing with pieces of red meat. The majority of us caught only sardines, but Yasmani’s catches were red-bellied and had razor-sharp teeth lining their throats.
We watched the sunset from a huge field with chickens scurrying around and cows grazing in the horizon. We held on to the last moments of the blazing sun, as it was the only thing keeping the mosquitoes away. We were able to see time itself across the unobstructed horizon, as the red sun dipped below the horizon and everything went dim within five minutes. On our way home, I marveled at how the light was able to transform the river. We returned home for dinner, and this time, piranha was the main course.
The remainder of our time in the jungle was spent swimming in the river, which made me feel infinitely more badass since the river was full of caiman, piranhas and pink dolphins that I believe were trying to impale us while we fought the current. After gathering our things, we sat on the boat for the long ride back to the park and waited for the jeeps to bring us back to Rurrenebaque, where we made sure to appreciate the warm people and their pleasant climate.
The Stoked Daily. 
