
To get to my destination in the Peruvian Amazon, I went to the port of Nauta, from where I was to take a boat upstream the Marañon River.
The port was as busy as a beehive. Countless long boats, low and narrow, generated a continuous flow of people and goods to and from the shore. Bunches of bananas, sacks of rice, crates of fish, and bales of clothes—all fit on board alongside passengers, without restriction. People traveled that way not just for hours but for days in a row, because the distances on the Amazon were enormous and the boats, though motorized, were quite slow.

Not long after Nauta was out of sight, I saw some gray silhouettes leaping out of the water. They were freshwater dolphins. I couldn’t have expected a more touching welcome.
When I reached my destination, at the entrance to the Pacaya Samiria Reserve, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I was in the true land of the Amazon! I had searched a lot for a good place and it hadn’t been easy to find, because I wanted to be as far away from any human settlement as possible, and the options were very few.
On top of a hill with magnificent views of the Marañon, a wooden bungalow awaited me among liana-draped trees populated by giant butterflies and noisy parrots. Unlike the latter, the shy hummingbirds were almost impossible to spot against the lush vegetation. It would take me some time to learn to recognize them—mainly by the turquoise blue, fiery red, or iridescent green of their feathers, which made them shine like jewelry.
The temperatures were high, around 90˚F, as was the humidity, but they seemed bearable compared to what I had experienced in the jungles of Malaysia. Thanks to the wide open spaces carved by the river, the heat was less stifling and the air more breathable. However, the concentration of wildlife was lower than I had expected. With such generous expanses at their disposal, the animals preferred more remote areas, where nature was untouched.

My guide Pablo, an affable and very dedicated young man, had planned a pretty busy schedule for my jungle trips. Apart from me, the only other guests at the lodge were a middle-aged couple from Argentina. I was to share with them the expeditions organized by Pablo.
The first one was a fishing trip. I thought I’d be bored to tears, because that had always been the case the few times I had tried it. Nevertheless, given that the aim was to catch piranhas, I accepted the invitation, eager to see the terrible killer fish in their natural habitat.
We traveled upstream in a small boat and continued through a few narrow channels until we reached what the locals called “aguas negras.” The milky beige waters of the Amazon, which carried large amounts of sediment, were typically referred to as “white waters.” In contrast, the “black waters” of certain small tributaries were still and filled with rotting leaves. According to the guide, the latter were the habitat of piranhas.

Pablo made us fishing rods on the spot, using wooden sticks and a long nylon string to which he attached a hook.
“All you have to do is put the meat on the hook, cast the line into the water, and wait for the fish to come,” he instructed us briefly as he handed us a pile of diced meat on a wooden platter.
Then he offered us a demonstration.
The water churned almost instantly, and within seconds the bait disappeared. As it would soon turn out, the piranhas were so fast to snatch the meat that the chances of catching one were very slim even for the most experienced.
Nevertheless, it proved to be a very funny activity, almost like playing a game. I would hook the meat, cast the line, jig the rod a little, and then…get set go! At the first movement—hurry, hurry, pull it in! Everything had to be done at maximum speed, but even so, my efforts were in vain. It was impossible to get the rod out of the water in time. No matter what I did, it was always too late. I tried all sorts of tricks and strategies, but the piranhas kept on winning.
After multiple attempts, the guide caught a white piranha. Soon after that, Gregorio, the boat captain, caught a red one. The two lucky fishermen then held up their trophies for us to examine closely the massive jaws and saw-like teeth that make piranhas so famous. Apparently, the little monsters were edible, although not really tasty. They would later be cooked on the grill and eaten by Gregorio.

Just when I was about to give up and declare piranha fishing an impossible mission, the Argentine guy managed to catch one. I was green with envy, but at the same time I gained hope.
So it’s not impossible! I said to myself.
Indeed, it wasn’t impossible, I just had to practice more. I tried for almost an hour, with no outcome other than two smaller fish, called sabalos, as collateral victims. Then, when I least expected, I saw a red piranha struggling at the other end of my rod. Victory! Final score: Me—one point, the piranhas—999 points.

I ended the fishing game with a smile on my face, not so much because of the modest catch but rather because of how hilarious it all had been. As if to add more fun and irony to our futile efforts, on the way back several sabalos jumped out of the water straight into our boat. Over the next few days, I would see the same thing happen again and again. The river was so prolific that one didn’t even need a rod. The fish just gave themselves up. With more serious gear, I don’t dare to imagine what kind of leviathans could be caught. If there is a fishermen’s paradise somewhere on this planet, then it must be the Amazon.