The boatman drops me on a small wooden landing stage next to what I assume is the riverbank. “They’ll be here soon,” he says. “The lodge is up a creek and my boat can’t get there.” When he has gone, I clamber up on the bank and discover that I’m actually on an island. Orioles are perched on swaying stems of tall grass; a hawk and an osprey are watching for fish. Despite the drought-induced low water, the Amazon stretches far away to a distant shore and the smooth surface is occasionally split by a river dolphin rising for air. I have a moment of pure exhilaration. I am alone in the centre of the Amazon basin, unsure if I’m in Peru, Colombia or Brazil, but feeling that I’ve escaped such mundane concerns.
From the shimmering heat downstream a canoe appears, carrying two men. One sits upfront, a battered straw hat pulled down low over a wispy grey beard and round horn-rimmed spectacles. He looks like an intellectual who has spent a lifetime living in the remotest places on Earth. And that, as it turns out, is precisely what he is.
