At the end of our Bolivian navigation, doubts resurface: will we really be able to bring the boat all the way to the Atlantic Ocean?
Fifty days after its first launch (on June 21, in Lake Titicaca) and after twenty-three days of navigating Bolivian rivers, the balsa is no longer the same.
Even before the journey began, many had assured us it wouldn’t last long.
“No es hecha para los ríos de acá, no sobrevivirá” (it’s not made for these rivers, it won’t survive).
Those words, whispered by an abuela in Guanay — the starting point of the expedition — still echo in my mind when Fabien shares his doubts, mentioning the possibility of a premature end due to the boat’s accelerated wear.
I had often considered that outcome, always concluding that the adventure would remain beautiful, and that, having enjoyed every minute of the preparation, I would have made peace even with a boat that had never sailed.
The balsa is made of totora reeds, designed for the slightly salty water of Lake Titicaca. In our Amazonian climate, it decomposes quickly, and each morning’s sweeping reminds us that we live aboard an organic vessel, born of the earth and destined to return to it.
Every day, the totora feels weaker. At first as hard as Amazonian hardwood, it now sinks under our steps in certain spots. More worrying still, the boat sits lower in the water each day, and looking back at photos of its first days afloat chills our blood.
On top of that, a wide variety of insects share the deck with us. A true ecosystem! Four species of ants, termites, and yien-yien fighting to stay, while bees, wasps, butterflies and mosquitoes come and go. Thankfully, large spiders — all named “Chloé” — keep things somewhat balanced, even if they make us jump whenever we lift a cup or a sail.
Despite all these warnings, we remain positive. The crew has more than one trick up its sleeve, and this is not its first challenge. Already, during the first four days of navigation between Guanay and Rurrenabaque, we had seen countless elements break, bend, or tear apart. The boat then left from an improvised shipyard stronger and more comfortable.
Because this boat, as primitive and fragile as it may seem, has an amazing ability to evolve and adapt. We work with simple materials — wood, rope — and we have a well-stocked toolbox that allows us to repair anywhere, often even in the middle of navigation.
Every creak, every sagging step, every new mushroom is a reminder that we are sailing on something alive. The balsa sets its rhythm and its limits, it falls apart, but it teaches us each day to embrace the journey with what transforms, breaks down, and rebuilds itself.