Through the Mother of God: A 36 hour bus journey to the jungle

Chris Raven on the Trans-Oceanica, Brazil.
Photo by Simon Raven

The Raven brothers catch a 36 hour bus journey along the ‘Trans-Oceanica’ in the Madre Del Dio. From the Inca city of Cusco in Peru in the Andes down through the Amazon rainforest to the border town of Puerto Maldonado.

By The Raven Brothers

Extract from the book Carnival Express

THE BUS JERKS and I'm shaken from my morning siesta. I feel hot so I wipe my sticky forehead on the bottom of my t-shirt. My brother Simon rocks backwards and forwards and nods his head in time to the unpredictable motion of the bus. I pull the red curtain to one side and slide open the tinted glass. Warm air hits my greasy face. I poke my head outside and smell the sweet jungle. Lush vegetation lines the roadside, a botanical garden full of tropical and colourful plant species all competing for space and sunlight.

After many hours, we pass a billboard promoting the construction of the new ‘Trans-Oceanica’. It displays a picture of a luxury coach cruising down a paved highway. The modern world has come knocking on the door of one of the world’s most precious wildernesses, and it seems clear little can prevent it from ploughing down the trees and thundering right through. The deeper we penetrate the Madre de Dios the more trucks begin to appear, as they make the arduous journey over the Andes to the Pacific coast where their cargo of lucrative mahogany will be loaded onto ships bound for Europe and North America. It’s the first signs of deforestation we have seen so far, and the first signs the highway will cut out the lungs of the earth. Pulling over to allow cargo trucks to squeeze by, I look at the faces of the loggers and construction workers travelling between Puerto Maldonado and Cusco. They look like hard working Peruvian men, deeply weathered by the sun. I raise my hand to a group sat on top of their cargo of logs, some smile and nod back, others look suspicious or are simply too tied to respond. We reverse and shunt in the depths of the Amazon jungle. I hear high-pitched squawking above and see a flock of Red-bellied macaws flying beside the bus. They are so close I can practically see the detail in their striking green plumage. It’s an amazing sight to see, but I fear for the birds out here in the Amazon. With habitat loss and trapping for the pet trade, many species will soon be eradicated. I suddenly wonder where the smartly dressed guy sitting nearby has gone. He was there a minute ago reading ‘The Da Vinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I look up and down the bus, but he is nowhere to be seen. He can't have got out somewhere along route, we haven’t passed any settlements all day and he looked too smart to be a logger. I'm surprised to see that he is sat behind the wheel of the bus. Stripped down to his white vest top, the guy is covered in sweat and wrestles with the steering wheel. The muscles on his arms look tense, but I catch a glimpse of his face in the large rear view mirror and I can see he’s laughing and having the time of his life. It fascinates me to think that a few moments ago he was reading a book and, possibly imagining he was in Paris or London, and now the guy is battling along a dirt track in the middle of the Amazon jungle. The bus slows down in front of a wide river. There doesn't appear to be a bridge. The dirt track simply disappears into the water. Cracking his fingers and taking a deep breath, the guy forces the bus into gear. It looks like we are about to drive right through. The bus plunges into the deep water and the wheels immediately disappear below the surface of the river. We slowly head down stream and hit boulders and sink into potholes. The bus rocks from side to side, as the driver fights against the flow, causing the vehicle to lean sharply to the right. A few people scream and then laugh. Thrown suddenly to the left, a bag stored on the rack above the seats falls onto a woman’s head. She shrieks and tosses it to the floor in rage. The bus leans to the right again and stays at that angle for twenty seconds before correcting itself. I grasp the armrests and look for exits in case the truck tips over onto its side in the deep water. The bus is packed with people, there will be panic if it rolls. The windows only open enough to fit your head through and the main door is the only way out. I hate the thought of drowning with my brother sitting next to me. If I have to drown, I’d prefer to do it in private. The water level reaches the luggage compartment. I think about our bags sloshing around. Our nightmare river journey lasts an hour, and we thankfully emerge onto the other side of the river and wheel spin onto the bank. I feel relieved to be back on dry land. Unfortunately, this isn't the last of our river nightmares and we cross many more flooded areas, as we push deeper and deeper into the Amazon. In the late evening, we start to pass the occasional wooden shack at the roadside.

Thirty-six hours have passed since we left Cusco and we haven’t had a pit stop for hours. As the day turns to night the sky opens up. A hot tropical rain thunders down. I feel physically and mentally exhausted. My body aches, my face is sore and my mouth is as dry as a bone. Si looks like he has just fought a battle and lost miserably. Cusco seems like another trip, another week, another month, another year. Fernando, Amy and everyone else we met in Cusco seem like friends from a time gone by. Bright lights appear on the horizon, as we approach the dusty frontier town of Puerto Maldonado. The bus is on a tarmac road now and it truly feels like we are driving over silk. People shelter from the rain outside the rows of tatty shops, and youths on mopeds watch our tank make its presence known. It seems to be a fairly rundown town, which I kind of expected at the end of the line. With a sigh of relief, the bus jerks to a halt for the last time. The engine cuts out, the doors swing open and everyone charges down the aisle and pushes for the exit. I turn to an elderly gentleman next to me, and smile. I feel a strong connection with him after sharing such a dangerous and epic journey. It’s like we have both experienced near death and we now need to sit down and talk about it over a cup of tea. The old man smiles back and exits the bus. That’s it. Farewell dear traveler, welcome to my world. The driver/passenger, quickly finishes the last page of his book and slams it shut before jumping off the bus. It’s stiflingly hot and we are instantly engulfed by a swarm of motorcycle taxi drivers and touts. They shout out to grab my attention and wave leaflets in my face. Everything seems to be in slow motion. I look down at the side of the bus and see our yellow sacks lying in a puddle. We drag our bags over to a three-wheeled moto-taxi. The guy fires up the two-stroke engine and we speed away from the chaos. Hurtling through the wet streets, we eventyually pull up outside a rundown hotel that looks similar to a place the outlaws Butch and Sundance would spent the night. Paying the driver with damp notes we shuffle up to the reception, which is very basic with while walls and a concrete floor. A swarm of mosquitoes buzz around a naked light bulb that hangs from the wooden ceiling. A dishelvlled looking chap with salt and pepper hair stands behind reception and beams a welcoming smile. He slides a registration book over the counter and hands me a pen. I turn to the three old men sat in a line on a hard bench. They stare at us both intensilvely and smoke cigarettes. I nod before writing down our contact details. One of the old men begins to laugh, the sound echoing throughout the building. The guy behind reception also starts to laugh, until we all laughing. I don’t know why we are laughing. Once the laughter subsides, the guy points up to the ceiling, which we guess is the room above, so we climb a rickety wooden staircase that leads onto a creaky balcony. A crooked sign with ‘Hotel Maldonado’ hangs above the quiet street. We step inside the room and discover it stinks. The mattresses are as hard as stone and the bed sheets smell musty and are heavily stained. There are no curtains, and the white walls are covered with little red bloodstains from where people have smacked the living crap out of the mosquitoes. At this moment in time the room could have no roof and a swarm of cockroaches living under the bed, and I would still be too tired to care. On that note, we collapse onto our beds and fall into unconsciousness. My last delirious thought are, the mosquitoes are going to have a field day.

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Through the Mother of God: A 36 hour bus journey to the jungle