In 2014, I made the trip to South America with a group of friends. Part of it took me to Bolivia with Matt, a friend from high school, and Julia, my oldest and closest friend. After winding our way through the country, we found ourselves in Trinidad, a small town perched at the edge of the Bolivian Amazon.
Trinidad felt quiet and humid, the kind of place where the streets are dusty but life hums just beneath the surface. We spent a day wandering its colonial grid, buying supplies, and eventually ducking into a local tour shop where we were promised a two-day, one-night boat trip into the jungle. It sounded half-organized, half-improvised, which was exactly the kind of adventure we were looking for.
Into the Jungle
The next morning, the air was already heavy and wet by the time we walked down to the dock. Our hosts—a man, his wife, and their daughter who couldn’t have been more than eleven—welcomed us onto their narrow motorized canoe.
We drifted away from town and deeper into the Amazon on our overnight boat tour. Fishing huts appeared on the banks, children waved from the water, and the jungle pressed closer, thicker, darker with each bend of the river. Spray hit our faces as the boat skipped along the surface. For me, it was surreal: I had dreamed of the Amazon since I was a little boy, devouring books about its mysteries, then later studying Mesoamerican archaeology at university. Now here I was, camera in hand, wide-eyed, unable to stop grinning.
Wildlife appeared like a gift. Monkeys swinging in the canopy. Capybaras slipping from the shore into the river—my personal obsession, giant guinea pigs that looked more noble than silly in their element. Pink river dolphins arched up beside the boat, impossibly elegant. Every sighting felt magical, as if the jungle was revealing itself piece by piece.
Cocoa, Oranges, and the High Water
After a few hours, we reached a site where a simple shelter had been built for travelers. But the water was too high—the floor of the hut was nearly level with the river—so we would be sleeping in the boat itself. Adventure, after all, doesn’t come with guarantees.
Our guide led us onto a patch of higher ground. He plucked wild oranges from the trees and split them open for us to taste. Later, he hacked open a cocoa pod, revealing the sticky white pulp around the beans. Sweet, tangy, strange, and utterly satisfying. Even in translation—we spoke only broken Spanish, he no English—it felt like communion with the land.
Piranha Fishing
As the light softened in the late afternoon, it was time to think about dinner. Out came fishing rods that were barely rods at all: just sticks with lines and hooks. I clambered into a dugout canoe, balanced precariously, and tossed my line into the reeds.
Within minutes, I felt a bite. I yanked hard and pulled up a fish—not a piranha, but a tiny wriggling catch that made me laugh with satisfaction. Another followed. The thrill was in the simplicity, in the immediacy of fishing with nothing but a stick and patience.
Then our host reeled in a piranha. And another. Their jaws snapped in the bucket, water swirling red and brown. Unsettling, yes, but also exhilarating. When everyone had taken their turn, we had gathered a respectable catch for the night.
Back on the boat, the father fried the fish in a wok-like pan over a gas stove. His wife boiled plantains, mashed them with cheese, and formed them into dense, rich patties. Julia’s phone captivated the daughter, who sat quietly scrolling through photos while the jungle buzzed around us.
Dinner was incredible. The piranha crisp and savoury, the plantains unforgettable. I still think about them—gooey, salty, comforting. I’m not entirely convinced I didn’t pick up a parasite that night, but even so, it was worth it.
A Night on the River
When the sun fell, the jungle seemed to close in. The heat didn’t break. It grew heavier, more suffocating. Julia and I set up our mosquito net in the boat and tried to sleep. Within minutes we were slick with sweat, pressed back-to-back, peeling apart only to stick together again. It was the hottest night of my life, miserable and hilarious at the same time.
Sometime past midnight, I woke with a desperate urge to pee. The thought of climbing into the black water—alive with caimans and piranhas—was unthinkable. So I leaned over the edge of the boat. The sounds were immediate: snapping jaws, rustling reeds, the buzz of insects attacking every inch of exposed skin. I froze. Pee-shy. I gave up and crawled back under the net, willing my bladder into submission. By morning, miraculously, I no longer had to go. Maybe I had sweated it all out.
The Morning After
When the sun returned, we were groggy, sticky, but alive. We motored back toward Trinidad, waving at the same huts, passing the same bends of the river, the jungle now familiar.
That evening, we celebrated with rum and Cokes from a tiny bar, riding on the backs of motorbikes with locals who whisked us to a concrete house where karaoke rang out. We sang Celine Dion until our voices cracked, laughed until we couldn’t anymore, and stumbled back to the hotel before dawn.
Dream Realized
That trip into the Bolivian Amazon remains one of the most vivid adventures of my life. As a child, I dreamed of this place without knowing what it would really be like. I imagined mystery, wildness, danger, beauty. What I found was all of that and more—monkeys and dolphins, piranhas and parasites, unbearable heat, unbearable joy.
The Amazon didn’t disappoint. It reminded me that sometimes dreams come true not in the way you expect, but in the messy, sweaty, unforgettable details you could never imagine as a kid.