Rio Madeira : gold, spies, and complications

After 18 days of logistics to bypass the damn hydroelectric dams located between Bolivia and Brazil, Pipilintu finds itself in a completely new environment.

Adiós Bolivia, Rio Béni; bem-vindo ao Brasil, Rio Madeira!

The unpredictable Rio Madeira—wider, more inhabited—becomes our new route. Between crocodiles, giant barges, illegal gold miners, and isolated villages, every day brings discovery—sometimes fascinating, sometimes unsettling.

Departure from Porto Velho 🌊

On August 30th, 2025, we leave Porto Velho and make our first Brazilian paddle strokes at sunrise. The Brazilian navy, who had promised to escort us at the beginning, stands us up completely. The message is clear: we’re now on our own.

From the very first meters, small waves wash over the bow and stern of the boat… We quickly realize two things:

• The boat bent during hoisting.
• We can no longer sit on the beautiful pointed ends. Those chill spots where we loved to nap for hours are now doomed to be flooded at the slightest wave and slowly rot away...

That kind of thing kills the mood! Barely one-third into the expedition, and Pipilintu is already looking miserable.

As usual, we adapt quickly. This smaller, overloaded boat is simply our new reality now.

Pipilintu: Federal police spies on a traditional boat? 🕵️

After a bit of fame in Bolivia, no one in Brazil has heard of the expedition: we’re just four suspiciously scruffy gringos on a strange-looking boat.

Our first encounters with the ribeirinhos (Brazilians who live along the rivers) are quite strange. People cautiously approach the boat without saying a word, often filming us from a distance with their phones.

We soon learn the reason for this fearful behavior: a rumor has spread that we are spies from the federal police, on a reconnaissance mission ahead of a raid to burn down illegal gold dredges. Needless to say, not everyone sees us kindly. What started as laughter turns to disbelief as this “fake news” spreads like wildfire across social media.

The height of ribeirinha fame and generosity 🤲

Fortunately, we also meet many kind and curious people who often come bearing gifts—fruits, fish, cold drinks—encouraging us and taking photos while we paddle. Such generosity! We regretfully turn down delicious watermelons because we already have four giant ones (15 kg each!) piling up on board. At times, six or seven small boats tie up alongside Pipilintu, while one poor crewmate keeps rowing alone.

One evening, we are warmly welcomed by Eder and his son Jeffinho (a former pro football player for Manaus FC). They share our expedition on their social networks, and the project goes viral. More visitors, more generosity, more invitations—to hotels, restaurants…

Another night, in the town of Borba, there’s a big open-air concert in the main square. It’s packed, and it’s hard to move without being stopped for photos every few steps.

This fame doesn’t take away from the beauty and authenticity of the encounters. Just like in Bolivia, we’re often welcomed with curiosity and share much with ribeirinha communities. One night we sleep at the home of a 21-year-old cheesemaker, alone with his 30 cows. He offers us freshly drawn buffalo milk while we cook him dinner. Another night, a local pastor insists on lighting a big fire for us and shows us where to set up our tents and hammocks.

When we don’t stop in a community (about 80% of the time), we sleep in the mata—the jungle! There, we must stay alert, build a large fire, and grit our teeth as mosquitoes feast on us and wild animals roam nearby.

Autonomous navigation, no army this time! 🐊

Our Brazilian life brings many new experiences—this time, all on the water.

We’re no longer escorted by the Bolivian navy, which had accompanied us for the first 1,200 km. Pipilintu is heavier now, and we must reorganize all our storage. Fabien, our captain, plans the navigation daily: which spots to reach, how to zigzag between islands, and so on.

Our trolling fishing technique, which worked so well in Bolivia, quickly falls into disuse. While we still catch fish, they can’t compare to the big, delicious ones gifted to us everywhere we go. We become lazy! That feeling only grows stronger the day dozens of tambaqui, pirarara, pacú, and piracatinga literally jump onto the boat.

Then there’s the heat! Despite the shade canopy we built, we’re boiling. Like since the start of the journey, we often end our rowing shifts with a quick dive in the river—never for long, always aware of the crocodiles nearby that might fancy our muscular paddling legs. Yet even then, the water feels hot, more like a bath than a refreshment.

The only true cool moments come when we get hit by temporals—violent tropical squalls. Almost every afternoon, we see massive dark clouds racing toward us. We have just a few minutes to tie everything down, cover up, and get close to shore. Then, life jackets on, we brace for 5–10 minutes of pounding wind and torrential rain.

The first temporal catches us mid-river, with huge waves, five meters of visibility, and wind threatening to rip us off the boat. Terrifying! But with time and repetition, we grow used to it—and even come to enjoy these thrilling, refreshing storms.

Life on board 🔧

We never get bored on board! Since entering Brazil, pink dolphins constantly accompany us. The soft sound of their breathing, with towering clouds and trees swaying in the wind, can keep us entranced for hours.

Besides these moments of contemplation, the crew always finds something to do: talking, reading, writing, listening to podcasts, cooking, playing guitar, self-care, or fixing things.

The boat gets plenty of love, with daily repairs and upgrades. Everyone also tries—often in vain—to keep their belongings dry. Someone is always washing clothes or struggling to patch a leaking mattress.

Time flies astonishingly fast. Often when we stop for the night, someone’s still naked, just out of a refreshing river bath.

Complications and doubts 😬

By mid-September, we notice the current weakening drastically (it represents over half of our propulsion). We struggle to reach our 50 km daily goal. We wake earlier and row longer—12-hour days from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m.—each taking 30-minute turns. The fatigue is immense! We fall asleep instantly every night, joints aching (knees, elbows)—clear signs of overuse.

We look for solutions. To rest body and mind, we schedule breaks for each crewmember. Fabien stops first for two days in Novo Aripuanã, leaving the three others to continue. Then Santiago takes a break in Borba, then Benjamin.

Meanwhile, progress is slow. After exhausting days covering only 30–40 km, we can’t help but imagine the current fading entirely before reaching the Atlantic. Two months already on the water—and at this pace, it’ll take two more.

These uncertainties weigh on our morale. Meanwhile, the boat keeps sinking lower. Constantly soaked by temporals, it also suffers from the wake of giant boats that pass too close, splashing us.

Despite it all, the days pass, and little by little, we move forward!

Arrival on the Rio Amazonas 🌊

After exactly three weeks of heat, doubts, and wonder, the river’s color begins to change. The Madeira widens and merges with the legendary Amazon.

Where the waters blend, Pipilintu glides slowly, as if drawn into infinity. We look at each other silently—tired, sunburned, drenched, but alive. The dream continues, now on the world’s greatest river.