INTO THE ORINOCO

Rosemarie Alecio

(Rosiemarie and Alfred are eight years into an extended cruise aboardIron Horse, their 39ft Colin Archer.)

Sailing north from Brazil and French Guiana, our plan to venture into the Orinoco Delta from the Atlantic side was thwarted by a cracked engine mount. Several years on we were in northern Trinidad and less than a day's sail away from the entrance to the Río Macareo, part of the great Orinoco Delta. Its mouth opens on the north coast of Venezuela at Boca de la Serpiente (The Serpent's Mouth), the narrow sea area separating Trinidad's south coast from Venezuela. The river is deep, except at the entrance, and for many years it was used extensively by commercial traffic to and from Ciudad Bolívar, the original capital, and other large towns in the Orinoco Delta. Now only shallow-draught traffic can gain access. The shifting sandbar, no longer dredged or buoyed, grows ever larger across its mouth, but once over it deep water allows navigation for hundreds of miles inland. Ironhorse draws 6ft (1∙8m) and there is often not much more than this through the tortuous and narrow route into the river.

Friends visiting from UK expressed interest, but before we committed ourselves we needed to know if the configuration of the sandbar would allow us a way in. A little research indicated that an oil company needed access for their vessels, most of which needed at least as much depth as we did, and with perseverance we obtained a poor photocopy of a survey of the entrance made for them about twelve months previously. This indicated that, so long as the riverbed had not changed too much, we ought - with careful concentration - to be able to find a way through. However it was August, almost the height of the rainy season and, for many reasons, probably the worst time to try. The temperatures were HIGH, it was almost unbearably humid, and there was often no breeze other than in the strong squalls and thunderstorms, of which there had been many in Trinidad since our arrival in June to avoid the hurricanes further north. The Macareo would be swollen and, although an increase in depth would be an advantage, the resulting increase in flow was not so appealing and could bring additional difficulties, especially at the sandbar.

These conditions encourage major diseases such as malaria, yellow fever and dengue, all of which were reported as rife in the area, but following our time in West Africa and South America we already carried prophylactics, mosquito netting, and lots of insect sprays and creams. Having equipped ourselves with visas for Venezuela there was nothing to stop us from at least attempting it. Our first hurdle, finding our way through the maze of unlit oil fields off the southwest coast of Trinidad, would be the least of our problems. We set off just after noon, having obtained permission from Trinidad Immigration to stop overnight in the southwest, some 40 miles away, where, at dusk, we anchored at Pointe Pierre.

Before sunrise we were passing between the two markers at Icacos Point and into The Serpent's Mouth, heading towards the entrance to the Río Macareo 25 miles to the southeast. The water was relatively flat, enabling us to see and avoid the mass of floating vegetation carried out of the river. Near Punta Bombadero we began to use our 'oil company photocopy', on which we had been able to establish some precise GPS positions - something we could not do on the British Admiralty chart as this area had not been surveyed. It was luxurious to have extra crew, for the depths dropped rapidly to 3m and we needed 'all hands'. From then until we were inside the bar it was a case of total concentration on plotting position, watching our course, balancing our speed against that of the current, and watching the depth-sounder - quite a juggling act, for there was little room for error on either side of the very narrow, convoluted and unmarked channel. It was about half-tide and dropping, and we were stemming quite a strong current.

In the event we found no less than 2∙3m over the bar (on our way in), and were rapidly into 10m and more once inside, bucking a current of at least 2 knots throughout our stay. We hoped the engine would remain reliable. Avoiding flotsam and finding a spot to anchor where the current was weakest were our immediate concerns. Our first night was spent near several low islands. The holding in deep mud was excellent, but it was necessary to check the chain constantly for trapped vegetation and release pieces before they became a problem - the worst being a multi-branched tree which took us over 30 minutes to clear. At times small islands of mud and grass - chunks up to 20ft and more across, broken from the riverbank - came floating down. However, our efforts were rewarded by the myriad of birds - scarlet ibis, pelicans, herons and skimmers - which coloured the evening sky as they came to roost in the mangroves covering the islands. What a picture!

The following morning a dugout canoe carrying several men approached us. They lived in the nearest village upriver and warned us to check that snakes were not boarding Ironhorse from the flotsam. They also gave us a delicious fish from their catch. We moved upriver each day. Holding was good in the thick river mud - almost too good. One morning, after working for almost an hour to clear the anchor, we thought we might have to leave it there, it was held so fast. We finally did raise it, but wondered if perhaps we'd hooked a sunken trunk or similar obstacle. The flies and mosquitoes did not disappoint us either, arriving at dusk and dawn. Our netting did sterling service except for the one night of rather violent winds, which lifted it from its fixtures allowing for an unpleasant invasion at dawn. Beautiful colours, but nasty!

The region was extremely remote, and in the two weeks we spent in the Río Macareo we saw only three commercial vessels, each on their way upriver. They each sounded their foghorns and the crew waved as they passed. There were no other pleasure craft such as ours.

Probably our most fascinating memories are of the small villages of the indigenous Warao Indians, three of which we passed as we made our way upriver. Their simple wooden dwellings, open sided with thatched roofs, were built on stilts at the water's edge. Behind them was dense forest, so their only form of transport was by water, in their dugout canoes. Passing by the first of these villages we were taken by surprise as an armada of canoes, many carrying complete families, paddled furiously towards us against the swift current. Some approached simply out of interest to see our unfamiliar craft, but several came with goods to exchange, happily coming alongside and holding on. Spanish was not understood by most, their remoteness having ensured that the language of their ancestors has been preserved. Lots of gesturing and demonstrating seemed to work for our basic needs with communication. Fishing hooks were in demand, as were short lengths of cotton fabric. Flour was most acceptable, too, but the most frequent request was for T-shirts. Interestingly, when offered a new shirt - button front with collar - it was rejected in favour of a T-shirt that one of us had worn for painting the boat!

No safety equipment on board these shallow draught craft! Skilled though they obviously are in handling them, we wondered, as we negotiated with one family, how often lives are lost to the river. The canoe, less than 20ft long, carried mum with a tiny babe at her breast, dad, two small boys, and a girl of about twelve with a two-year-old in her arms. Each time we passed a village we were approached for trading, and were delighted with our mementoes - a colourful necklace, small woven baskets, a model canoe and some delicious rainforest fruits, freshly gathered. The tiny cockroaches that ran out of the woven baskets and onto the coachroof were not welcome, however! Cockroaches are one of my biggest fears onboard, but luckily we dealt with them promptly, placing the baskets in plastic bags and spraying and sealing them to ensure the remainder (surely there would be others?) would not become a problem.

Our limited time allowed us to travel only about 30 miles up the river. Nevertheless, we were all thrilled by this experience We observed at very close quarters the colourful gold and blue macaws, the toucans that called from their treetop perches at dawn, and enjoyed the busy chattering of the green parrots flitting across the sky in twos and threes throughout the day. Amazonian pink river dolphins regularly visited us - exciting to see for the first time, but odd, primitive-looking creatures. Often in pairs, these were a buff/dirty pink colour, and rather lethargic in their movements compared with the more familiar ocean dolphins. A rather noisy snort is emitted as they lift their bodies laboriously above the surface of the water to breathe, and then disappear. They seemed to have no fear of us. Yet, in spite of their close proximity, photographing them was not easy since it was always a guessing game estimating just where they would next emerge.

Possibly our most alarming experience was the noisy awakening we had one morning. Overnight we had anchored close to the bank and tree line and it was already light, although the sun had not yet risen, when a distant rumble broke the peace. It was not unfamiliar, being a sound we had heard from the troops of howler monkeys that inhabit the forested area rising above Scotland Bay in Trinidad. However, the volume rapidly increased to a terrifying roar apparently very close to the adjacent shore. We hurried into the cockpit to take a look, but could see nothing except movement of the foliage accompanied by swishing noises and the continuing roaring. We had watched troops of monkeys high up in the trees along the river each day and they had not appeared to be bothered by us, but perhaps we had inadvertently invaded the territory of this group and they were taking exception. They need not have worried - we had no plans to venture into the forest.

Sadly, our time was up. After breakfast we weighed anchor and, reluctantly, returned downriver. Now, with the current in our favour, a speedy trip was promised, and by late afternoon we were at anchor by the mangrove islands, preparing our evening meal and anticipating another wonderful display from 'our birds' arriving to roost for the night. They did not disappoint us and, after eating, we prepared for our departure at first light. We reviewed the charts, checked the state of the tide and carefully planned our exit - I would only relax when we were in the deep water of The Serpent's Mouth once more. The night gave us another thunderstorm and heavy rain - sufficient for a hair-wash in fresh water! - and though it had stopped by the time we set off, with flat land either side of the mouth there was no protection from the high wind. I hoped Ironhorse would not be blown off course, for there was little room for error in the shallows.

We had timed our exit close to high water and navigated a precise reciprocal of our entry. In spite of this we found less depth and touched bottom more than once, sweating profusely and with our hearts beating rapidly. No rescue services in these parts to tow us off! Finding deep water seemed to take forever, and it was with some considerable relief that eventually we did. We returned confidently towards Icaco Point, Trinidad, which we rounded a few hours later to anchor once more in Columbus Bay We had experienced a brief taste of a hidden culture, the memories of which will remain forever.

(2009 words)