Only a week was enough for me to grow fond of this boat and its crew, to feel at home here. I’ve found my rhythm with the oars, my place on board, and the adventure is taking shape. The routine has only just begun when it’s already shattered: before us stands the unpassable.
A chaotic mix of powerful rapids and massive hydroelectric dams forms the border zone leading us into Brazil. The waterways of the past are gone. We’re forced to step ashore to pull our butterfly out of the water, so it can continue its journey toward the distant blue horizons.
The end of this first part of the voyage leaves us with a bittersweet taste: the takeoff and the first adventures went well, and now our wings are being clipped. The physical effort comes to a sudden stop, replaced by mental gymnastics: How do we get the boat out of the water? How do we transport it over 300 kilometers? How do we deal with all the paperwork?
Questions that, of course, come with their share of doubts and worries: Will the Brazilian army help us? Can the crane reach the balsa from the shore? And what if Pipilintu breaks during the operation?
This crucial moment reminds us that challenges rarely appear where we expect them, and that solutions are almost never the ones we first imagine. Benjamin and Fabien head into Brazil the very evening of our arrival, determined to contact every trucker and transporter in the state of Rondônia to find someone willing to help us without breaking the bank.
The 40°C heat with no shade gives full meaning to that famous feeling of saudade, as we think back to the lush, soft greenery of the Bolivian Amazon. The Brazilian landscape is one of concrete and asphalt, the reflection of a more “modern” and prosperous economy—whatever the cost. The endless refusals and outrageous quotes drain the duo’s energy and morale — not to mention the bewildered looks from drivers seeing two gringos hitchhiking, without air conditioning or água gelada.
Meanwhile, Santi and I stay behind to handle logistics with the boat — and honestly, I think I was lucky not to speak Portuguese this time. We’re hosted in the shade of the Bolivian Navy’s port authority in Cachuela Esperanza.
To set the scene: this village was founded in the late 19th century for rubber extraction and export. That precious resource brought great wealth to the town, as shown by the remnants of its infrastructure — a colonial theater, a state-of-the-art hospital (now in ruins), a multi-story school, and German-built machinery. Of that prosperity, only shadows remain. The buildings now serve as makeshift housing for poor families. The machines rust in the tall grass.
We unload the boat on the first day, helped by half a dozen marineros — 18-year-old conscripts under the sharp orders of their superiors: “¡Apúrate! ¡Vete a ayudar, rápido!” (which roughly translates to “Would you kindly go help them?” … something like that).
Every day they wake us up to tell us breakfast is served — the same at lunch and dinner. We have showers, beds with mosquito nets, and two little puppies who love cuddles. The officers are kind and curious, eager to hear our story and learn about our journey.
The marineros, on the other hand, are teenagers in oversized uniforms. They mumble when spoken to, avoid eye contact, and stay quiet — at least for the first few days. Eventually, I’ll learn all their names and nicknames (not always politically correct), share laughs with them, and even comfort one who didn’t get the promotion promised to his family.
Life in a military base is far from the rhythm aboard the boat. They live by strict order, shout thanks to the homeland before eating, and get scolded for being too slow. Yet I find some similarities: the brotherhood, the shifts (ours for rowing, theirs for watching the balsa), and the steady rhythm of daily tasks.
In a few days, we become part of the village. We have our tienda for beers and small supplies, our little restaurant overlooking the rapids, our routines. People greet us in the street, and some still ask for pictures.
Then comes Fabien’s call: the quotes are too expensive — transport from Cachuela Esperanza won’t be possible. We must consider the other option. To face the unpassable. To repeat the feat of Kota Mama 3.
Pipilintu will have to dive into the rapids.
Change of pace. Now we have to figure out if the operation is even possible. We find the most experienced fisherman in the village, a man named Don Marco. He takes us out in his canoe to see the cachuela up close, and tells us we should wait at least four days for the water level — and the waves, some nearly two meters high — to drop.
Ben and Fab are already on their way back. We explore every option, talk to every expert in the village. When the rest of the team returns, the conclusion is clear: Don Marco is right. It’s our best option.
The decision is made, the team is complete, and adventure awaits. Everyone knows their role: Fabien handles the maneuver while filming with the drone; Benjamin, Santi, and I board with Don Marco — one to film from the boat, one to catch Pipilintu, and me filming from the opposite bank.
But the radio communication with the person in charge of releasing Pipilintu above the cachuela is messy. He releases the balsa too early, and our vessel drifts alone toward the rapids. No time to drop me off on shore.
The balsa is tossed violently by the roaring currents of the cachuela. We must recover our butterfly. We find it slightly deformed: a misaligned raft, an oarlock bent at a right angle. But it still floats proudly on the Río Béni. The operation is a success.
We reassemble everything, load our gear, and the next morning we’re back on the river, navigating the thirty kilometers to the border. Half a day later — once again — we must unload everything, untie the ropes, and separate the two hulls.
The crane truck will arrive in two days to cross the 300 kilometers of unnavigable terrain to Porto Velho. Pulling a boat out of the water is usually a routine task — but Pipilintu is anything but ordinary.
Imagine lifting two massive bundles of soaked straw, weighing around 1,500 kilos, over ten meters long and seven meters wide. There’s a good reason why the Aymara never take their boats out of the water — not to mention the overpowering smell of rotting compost from the submerged parts. Totora reed doesn’t hold up well under such focused pressure.
The straps cut through the fibers. The hulls crack. It’s as if we were hearing our own bones break. We know it will leave irreversible scars on Pipilintu.
Even so, there it is — our floating home resting on the platform of a truck, ready to head to Porto Velho the next day.
This time, Benjamin and I go ahead to prepare for the boat’s arrival. We find Gaucho’s flutuante (floating shop), where he welcomes us with open arms, renting us a room for a symbolic price while we repair the vessel and restock before resuming the journey.
Five days are enough to reassemble, fix, and resupply. After a visit from the Brazilian Navy’s inspection team and a few final adjustments, it’s time to begin the last stretch of the voyage — the remaining 2,200 kilometers. A trifle.
Farewells are made, the ropes are cast off. One last glance at the industrial port of Rondônia’s capital, and our minds are already turned toward the horizon and its unknown. The warm glow of dawn, the first waves washing over the boat, and the pink dolphins accompany us into what is already shaping up to be a whole new adventure — full of mystery and fresh dangers.
Pipilintu takes flight again toward the ocean.
But… will it ever get there?