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All my love,
Ivy xxx
I don’t expect any letters in return. Although, in this letter I have given the Canaima Lodge address. I have wished for them to have a wonderful Christmas and asked for them to not miss me but make this Christmas one to celebrate together. Make happy memories with my son as I’ll soon be home and have many more Christmas with them, and my time away will be forgotten.
I posted the letter at the main lodge in Canaima.
Tomorrow, we will travel by motorized canoe to Angel Falls.
December 15, 1962
It was a little after dawn when I met Maria, and we boarded what she called a curiara to travel along the river—a wooden canoe with planks for seats and nothing but a motorcycle motor to propel it along the river.
I held onto the edge of my seat as we sailed along the river for five hours, only stopping when we ladies needed to find a shrub to pee behind. And it had to be strategic as the rainforest walled most of the river in. The guides knew where to stop, and I was amazed by the abundance of flowers and bird life surrounding us. In these pockets, the bird songs overpowered the screech of the monkeys, and it was refreshing to hear. Maria told me the rapids were okay to ride through as it’s outside the wet season. It’s why she urged me to take this trip sooner rather than later, as the waterfall slows to a drizzle soon and is not so impressive.
Nearer to the falls, we disembarked the canoes and trekked uphill through the rainforest. My fitness is shocking, and I struggled to keep up with the guides’ pace. Thankfully, they stopped to show us macaws and a toucan in nearby trees. I was sure the monkeys were laughing at me.
I find them to be cute animals and also a menace when they steal our hats and bottles from the campsite.
I don’t know how long we walked, yet it was worth it to see the majestic waterfall. I had to cover my eyes from looking up directly into the sun to see the beauty of the waterfall in its entirety. Maria mentioned it’s the tallest in the world, and I simply stared for minutes at the rocky formation of the mountains surpassing the clouds in the sky. Thankfully, I snapped plenty of photographs on my camera.
The lagoon below the falls is one of the cleanest water pools I have ever swam in, and even here in the tropics, the cool water temperature surprised me. It was a much-needed dip before the return hike down the hill, only to stop to admire the various plants, orchids, and animal life.
On our trek back, Maria told me she had spotted a puma. I quickly caught up to the guide and remained by his side until we reached the river. She laughed at me and said it was a puma, not a jaguar. I told her wild cats don’t roam freely where I’m from, well, not the kind that eats humans.
On the trip home in the curiara, we discussed the myths of Angel Falls and the surrounding flat-top mountains.
Tepui is the indigenous term. I believed the mythology to be all fairy tales until we came to a fork in the river, and the mood in the canoe changed. We sailed past the confluence in silence. Beyond the overhanging branches almost blocking the river opening, I could see a short distance ahead. There were children swimming in the river.
I pointed them out to Maria, she shook her head, and covered her lips with one finger. The silence piqued my interest, especially when I sensed happy children. After studying science and nursing for years, surely, she’d understand I didn’t believe in hoodoo.
So, I waited many hours until we arrived safely at Canaima Lagoon, and I asked her why she couldn’t talk about the people living along the secret river.
She spoke about tribes that missionaries haven’t touched. These tribes refused to have contact with the outside world. Not influenced by modern man, they live solely off the land and use the jungle as their pantry. It’s not unlike the community at our camp. It’s not like we have a shop to buy groceries. The men hunt and fish and the women work the fields and cook the meals. In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve lost any excess weight I may have carried by comfort eating chocolate. Even on the boat trip over, I packed enough blocks of chocolate to ration over the months at sea. It helped with the nausea and gave me some energy when I couldn’t stomach the ship’s food.
When I asked more questions, she said a powerful shaman lived there, and the Pemón community respected their privacy. Many years ago, Caucasian religious missionaries breached the river opening and were shot at with poison arrows, so she emphasized we must not travel there. Ever.
It should have been a red flag.
A clear warning, yet it has sparked curiosity to see these people living in their native life. I don’t want to interfere or make contact, simply observe. I’m not a religious missionary trying to convert their way of life to follow my god or behave a certain way in a modern world.
I merely want to sit on the bank on the opposite side of the river and observe from behind the trees.
No one will even see me.
Maria doesn’t have to come with me.
I know the way and could borrow a canoe and be back by dinnertime in one day.
December 20, 1962
After giving another letter to the lovely man at reception, I walked the trail back to our camp. It was a five-mile walk each way, and it gave me time to reflect and understand the overwhelming emotion that keeps hitting me like a freight train from the moment I open my eyes.
Overnight, we lost three children to measles, a disease that spreads like wildfire. It could decimate this community as the people have no immunity. One child suffered respiratory complications, and sadly, I assumed pneumonia killed him in the end. The other two were from encephalitis. I believed both girls were recovering. One day, they were sitting up talking and eating. Their fevers had broken. Then their brains stopped communicating with the muscles. In a short time, they couldn’t move, fell into a coma, and died.
I’d seen it before and should have known not to be complacent in the recovery window. Measles fools us all.
Measles didn’t distinguish between the rich or the poor or the color of your skin.
