The pure scale of the Amazon is astonishing: 28 miles wide, on average, when the water is at its highest, a half-mile when it drops to its lowest ebb. At its most swollen during the rainy season, the mouth of the river can be 300 miles across, dumping 7.1 million cubic feet of water per second into the ocean—60 times the discharge of the Nile and 11 times that of the Mississippi.
The Aqua, built to Francesco’s specifications by the Peruvian Navy, towers above the water like a citified condo. It's one of only a handful of large boats running regular trips down the Peruvian Amazon (it will be joined by a bigger sister ship, the Aria, next April). The Aqua accommodates 24 travelers and a 24-person crew that includes pilots and naturalists who know the jungle intimately.
Most visitors to the region stay in landlocked lodges, limiting the area they can explore. But the Aqua has the advantage of ranging much farther afield, using its small skiffs, twice daily, to penetrate deep into previously inaccessible jungle. In the next four days it will take us roughly 280 miles, ending the journey in Iquitos.
The rainy season came two months early this year. Fed by an average annual downfall of more than 120 inches, the river rises and falls 30 feet throughout the calendar in Peru and more in Brazil. Only the wildlife sense what the skies will bring.
As we settle into our cabins, curtains of lightning accompany window-rattling gusts, and the skies drive rain down hard. The Aqua is not anchored; instead it is lashed securely to riverbank trees.
My fellow travelers and I dine off a menu prepared by Pedro Miguel Schiaffino, one of Peru’s top chefs and owner of Malabar, a prestigious Lima restaurant. Throughout the trip we are told to expect Peruvian dishes, South American wines, and local ingredients. Juices like cocona and camu camu. Fresh heart-of-palm soup with avocado puree. Regional pastries like aguaje muffins andsachaculantro and sweet chili bread. And such entrees as Amazon bass tiradito,tiger catfish ceviche, and river snails with Amazon salsa. After we eat, we huddle in the boat’s top-deck lounge in front of a huge picture window. “Some people ask me if we have TV on board,” says Francesco. “You’re looking at it.” He motions to the plate glass. “A moving window on the Amazon.”
Later, as I settle to sleep, I consider what lies ahead. We are in Pacaya Samiria, the second largest rain forest reserve in Peru and one of the world’s most diverse. It is home to anaconda, manatees, pink dolphins, jaguars, anteaters, giant otters, tarantulas, and more than 500 species of birds. Accessible only by water or air, it is a five-million-acre monster that has only 92,125 inhabitants and saw fewer than 6,000 tourists last year.
We steam through the night, lulled by the rolling gait of the boat. Light creeps up by 5:30 a.m., and I am treated to a doublewide-window view of a rain forest smorgasbord of mangroves and palms. On our first day in the reserve we motor in a 24-foot-long skiff powered by an eco-friendly four-stroke, 40-horsepower outboard. Photographer Richard Olsenius and I share the boat with our guide/naturalist Juan Tejada, Francesco, a driver, and the Aull family from Los Angeles—Robert, Jan, and high-schooler Nick.
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