I came to see a jaguar, but was disappointed in this regard. They were out
there, I was told, but notoriously reticent about meeting visitors. I saw
lots of birds instead. I didn't think I was interested in birds. But I was
mistaken. This realisation struck me early, on arrival at the Refugio
Ecologico Caiman. Our minibus turned off the highway onto a dirt track that
took us through the fenced fields of cattle ranches. After a few chubby
cows, I saw my first rhea, a flightless bird that resembles a stunted
ostrich. It was strutting round a field, quite oblivious to our passing.
A little further on was a small wooden bridge. It crossed a stream gushing
into a pond full of caymans. Most of the caymans just lay there haphazardly,
but one or two were stretched out in the direction of the surging stream,
with their jaws open to enjoy the flow. All around the pond were vultures.
They were grey-brown in colour and standing in groups, just taking the air.
They looked as if they were at a lawyers' convention.
These initial sightings were good, but what really blew me away were the
hyacinth macaws. Two of them appeared out of nowhere and followed the
minibus for several minutes. They had a bright yellow base to their beaks
and plumage that was a rich powder-blue, an impossible colour, the colour of
magic spells. The macaws flew with a curious action. Their wings were
flapping frantically, as if the birds weren't convinced they would keep them
airborne. Their bodies seemed to move independently, perhaps drawn on an
aerial pulley.
The unreal flight pattern, when combined with their extraordinary colouring,
made them look not like real birds at all. Walt Disney couldn't have done
any better - the macaws reminded me of that scene in Snow White where the
bluebirds fly round her head. It was an appropriate welcome to the enchanted
Pantanal.
A swamp probably doesn't rank highly on most people's lists of possible
holiday desti-nations. They have a reputation for being dangerous and
disease-ridden, and not without reason. Standing water makes an ideal
breeding ground for mosquitoes, bearers of disagreeable and life-threatening
disorders such as malaria.
Then come the murky images of monsters lurking in the quagmire. Monsters may
be stretching it, but not by much, if you consider that many tro- pical
swamps are inhabited by crocodiles.
Or caymans, as they are in South America. There were caymans all over the
place in the Pantanal. They were loafing around in the shallows not 50 yards
from my bedroom door. Their presence didn't come as a total surprise, given
that my lodgings were named after them, but I hadn't expected them in quite
such close proximity. Further investigation - from a safe distance, I might
add - calmed my nerves. Cayman don't actually do much. They're the layabouts
of the animal world, quite happy lazing their lives away. If you don't upset
them, they're certainly not going to trouble you.
But really, I hear you thinking, why bother? Well, it's not just the caymans.
Swamps provide habitats for a wide variety of plants and animals. In the
Pantanal, the trick is to go in the dry season, between July and October,
when it's not too hot and there aren't many mosquitoes. The flood waters are
also at their lowest, leaving a patchwork of ponds and bays that act like
refrigerators of food for the wildlife. This means that the animals are
easier to see - though nobody had told the jaguars this.
The Pantanal is vast. Most of it is in Brazil, but the waters seep across the
borders with Bolivia and Paraguay, covering an area that's larger than
Portugal. Parts of the region have been used for cattle ranching for more
than 200 years, and my ecolodge was attached to a working estancia. Small
boys practised their lassoing technique on chairs in the schoolyard while
their dads did the real thing out on the range. The cattlemen have grown
accustomed to losing a few cows to the jaguars.
And it's not only the birds and cayman. The Pantanal is full of creatures that
symbolise the otherworldliness of South America. I saw oversized guinea pigs
- capybaras - grazing the water meadows like sheep, while giant anteaters
rooted around in the undergrowth and an armadillo emerged from its burrow.
As far as I was concerned, though, the bird life was best. I soon realised
that the great thing about bird-watching is that it can be practised without
any skill or knowledge. It doesn't have to be like trainspotting for people
who prefer feathers.
Admittedly, it's better if you have a pair of binoculars around your neck -
the ecolodge hires them out by the day - but if you know what it is you're
looking at, that's a bonus. There was always a guide on hand to tell me, but
I didn't need to be familiar with the names to appreciate a tiny
yellow-billed cardinal standing on a water lily, or a whistling heron
stalking its prey.
Flapping and gliding, swooping and hovering, even perched motionless on a
nearby branch, the birds of the Pantanal went about their business with
little regard for their human observers. A ringed kingfisher would dart
through the rushes as a great egret was soaring like a white paper dart
across the open water. Nearby, a large toucan grappled with a papaya hanging
from a tree. All the birds behaved as if as if they owned the place, which,
of course, they do. At the start of each day, as I strolled up the red clay
path to the main lodge for my breakfast, I passed a jabiru stork, which
looked as if it had a pair of hedge clippers tied to its head. It was
rummaging through the pondweed, looking for the first meal of the day in the
early-morning mist.
Yet out in the watery wilderness, among the ipe trees, which blossom in
brilliant pinks and yellows, it was the hyacinth macaws that always caught
my attention. The Pantanal has Brazil's largest population, and the Refugio
Ecologico Caiman has been instrumental in pro-tecting them from capture for
the illegal pet trade. Measuring up to a yard from head to tail feathers,
they are sociable birds, the adults mating for life, so they're often seen
flying in pairs or small flocks.
I was told that the best place to see them was by the towering acuri palms.
The macaws like the acuri nut, their large cartoon beaks being adapted to
break open the fruit to get at the kernel. I could have spied on them all
day, and sometimes did. One evening, sitting in a canoe out on the water, I
watched as a dozen or so hyacinth macaws congregated on the grass beneath a
clutch of acuris to feast on the nuts. It looked for all the world as if
they were having a barbecue.
The eco-lodgings were decked out like a Brazilian version of the Arabian
Nights: all muslin drapes and wide, sun-dappled verandas. It was a relaxing
spot in which to be awoken by the cacophony of birdsong in the mornings. If
there was a downside to the place, for me it was the fact that all the acti-
vities are conducted in groups. You're advised not to wander far from your
room alone because of the caymans. On my final evening, I joined a group
that clambered into the back of a truck. We set off in search of more
wildlife with the aid of a powerful searchlight mounted on the lorry's
cabin.
After spotting a couple of deer and a little fox, Cila, our guide, drew our
attention to a more surprising spectacle.
"Look," she said quietly, "a tree full of idiots."
The announcement puzzled me. Cila's Hispanic accent had acquired a touch of
the Blarney. She pronounced the word "eejuts". Still perplexed, I
turned my head to gaze into the darkness in the direction Cila was pointing.
I couldn't see anything. Neither could anyone else. "Shine the light,"
someone called, but Cila wouldn't do that. She didn't want to disturb them,
she told us in a hushed voice. She played the beam on the ground, the
residual light seeping through the darkness to reveal a fantastical sight.
The outline of a bulbous tree had been engraved on the skyline with a fine
etching tool. It didn't look like a proper tree, just the silhouette of one.
It seemed to be made of delicate sandalwood and was inlaid with hundreds of
mother-of-pearl teardrops glimmering in the glow from our spotlight.
It was a real tree, of course, and the glimmering teardrops turned out to be
brilliant white birds. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the faint
illumination, I realised that I was looking at a rookery full of egrets.
They were all sound asleep.
Nick Middleton was a guest of Cox & Kings.
Travel brief
A 17-day tailor-made trip with Cox & Kings (020 7873 5000, www.coxandkings.co.uk)
starts at £2,295pp, including flights from Heathrow with Varig, three nights
at Posada Caiman (www.caiman.com.br)
and stays in Rio, Iguaçu Falls, Salvador and Chapada Diamantina. UK regional
connections start at £105. Or try Naturetrek (01962 733051, www.naturetrek.co.uk)
or Wildlife Worldwide (020 8667 9158, www.wildlifeworldwide.com).
