Tyler Sharp

Uxpanapa Expedition

I arrived in Mexico via Ciudad del Carmen, an airline’s maximum weight allowance worth of photo gear in tow, and was greeted by the damp and sticky handshake of the Yucatan Peninsula’s humid breath. As all of the passengers waited to pass through the one customs officer, sweat started to bead on our foreheads and backs, and even on the breast plates and nipple protrusions of some of the larger, overweight men in the line, alluding to a tropical lactation. They didn’t seem to notice or care, as it was most likely not the first time they had wet spots of perspiration on their stressed and over-sized man nipples. As sweat began to run down my legs into my socks, I began to wonder if wearing jeans in a tropical climate was a good idea, or even socks for that matter. But that thought was interrupted by a much more important one; the feeling of anticipation that a travel junkie gets when nearing a customs official, as the prospect of a new and beautiful entry stamp lingers.

As my travels have increased in the last year, my addiction and desire to obtain more stamps and visas has grown, even to the point of uselessness. I get flustered when US customs agents don’t always stamp for re-entry; “but I WANT the stamp…,” the words falling dead on bored and tired ears, and then drowned out completely when they shout “next!” Brady and I once had the idea to try and float across the Ravuma River from Tanzania into Mozambique for an entry stamp, but it turns out they don’t honor aquatic entry visas. All of this anticipation culminated when I stepped up to the counter, handed the dark complected Mexican officer my documents, and did my best to look age 17 like my passport photo.

At the moment of truth, he signed off on my paper, grabbed his stamp, and then without even looking, flipped to a random page in my passport and stamped my Mexico entry with haste. I lacked the reflexes or adequate spanish to say anything as he stamped over my Egyptian visa, then was ushered out of the way with my barely legible and hidden new stamp. My disappointment was brief, but it was disappointment nonetheless; a botched, no-look, entry stamp that may as well not have been there. There is always the chance for redemption in a solidly placed exit stamp, or a nice welcome home stamp from a friendly and helpful US customs agent.

After a stern and thorough search of my gear by airport security, I re-convened with the rest of my crew, and we loaded the luggage into a ready and waiting Mexican chariot cleverly disguised as a Chevy Suburban. Our multi faceted driver/guide/translator Armando was a particularly cultured and articulate man, and hustled us onto the road to keep to the tightly planned schedule. We had a 5 hour drive to reach the housing for the evening, and an early rise for another 5 hour drive to the final destination. I was told that we were then to ride on horseback into camp, but it turns out that was a fable. Sometimes miscommunication can be funny, but not when horseback riding is involved.

Having six passengers and lots of gear, I sat in the back seat. “I like the peace in the back seat, I don’t have to drive, I don’t have to speak. I can watch the countryside, and I can fall asleep (thanks Arcade Fire for writing a song that described my exact situation). On our long and scenic drive, we headed west to Minititlan, then headed south to towards our destination in the Vera Cruz region. We arrived at our hotel without incident, stretched our Suburban cramped legs, and had a pre-slumber molé feast.

After a peaceful, air conditioned sleep, we all loaded back into the forest green Suburban, and continued our multi-state trek. We left the Campeche state, and continued through Tabasco, Oaxaca, and then finally into Vera Cruz. During this drive, the roads were riddled with speed bumps and road blocks, complete with military barricades, sandbag bunkers, and machine guns aimed directly at our car. No less than 5 times we were stopped and asked to get out of the car for a search. As usual, the array of photo and video gadgets threw the soldiers for a loop, particularly the steadicam. We were put through extensive screenings and searches every 50 miles or so, and a drive that should’ve taken 3 hours was easily double to 6. Not even in Pakistan did we experience this much security.

When we passed our last delinquency test on the Vera Cruz border, we were allowed to proceed to meet the man who would show us to the longboats, our method of travel for the next 3 days. I had noticed the sudden tropical change that the landscape that undergone as we approached Vera Cruz, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the breathtaking scene that awaited us at the river.

As we descended onto the banks of the Uxpanapa River, the sound of rushing water grew louder, and the forest canopy grew thicker. Awaiting were 3 wooden long boats carved from single trees gently bobbing back and forth as the emerald tinted river lazily shuffled by, and limestone cliffs skied over our heads on all sides, riddled with vines, caves, trees, and exotic birds. Wherever it could, the tropical foliage grew thick and wild, embracing and choking itself into a beautiful living tangle. There were cedar, mahogany, palm and banyan trees, ferns, vines, and all manner and size of bushes and undergrowth. It is by far the most “jungle” of jungles that I have ever walked in, and had the insect population to back it up. I become quickly and painfully acquainted with the resident mosquitoes, ants, and wasps.

Our mass of gear loaded and balanced across the 3 canoes, we started our cruise up river to camp. As the boat parted the emerald waters, creating the only disturbance in the slow moving Uxpanapa River, the other cameraman Branlin and I quickly shot a few tapes worth of scenery footage, realizing the perfection of our natural surroundings. It looked like a scene out of Jurassic Park, and we half expected to see some ancient creature peer out of a cave. Though not as ancient as dinosaurs, there was plenty of game there just as wild and exotic. On our short float into camp we saw spider monkeys, curasaws, iguanas, and the tracks of a jaguar. We passed dark caves that our boats could easily glide into, vines and moss hanging over their eroded mouths, and even one cave called Tiger’s Cave that no one had ever seen the back of, even after 3 days pursuit. The limestone cliffs reflected the bright Mexican sun to create a diamond glimmer off the cool water’s smooth surface, contrasting the jagged and menacing formations of the looming cliffs. Trees grew sideways from certain faces, and even straight downward from rock overhangs, moss dangling from them like so many organic wind chimes.

Our camp was on a gently sloped sandy beach on the east bank of the river, and consisted of no more than a few tents, some tarpaulins stretched between trees for a dining hall, and various fold up tables and chairs. The camp could easily be deconstructed and transported within the hour if needed, but the simple function that every piece served was charming. After the display of human strength that was required to haul our gear ashore, we decided to swim in the cool river to soothe the sting of some of the fresh insect bites we had acquired. Alfredo, our other guide, recommended a spot further down river, as it was also a good place to go spear fishing. The “spear fishing” was actually more like deep water harpoon gun fishing, and was astonishing to witness. Corey encouraged the competition by offering $20 to the man who caught the biggest fish.

Now smiling with the prospect of a handsome reward, 4 of the Olmec men donned masks and flippers, took deep breaths, and dove deep underwater, their harpoons spring loaded and lethal. I was wallowing in the shallows to avoid spooking their potential catches, but decided to submerge myself for a moment. While under the surface, I heard a booming crack that sounded like lightning crashing, and quickly realized that our dinner had been harpooned. When the man surfaced, you could see the smile of satisfaction on his face, knowing that he had a contest winning specimen on the end of his bent and bloodied harpoon. When the writhing ceased, and the line was reeled in and re-coilded, there lay a massive 15 pound Snook fish, glistening green and brown in the now hazy light. The others had also caught large fish, but each were dwarfed by this gilled goliath that lay at a gloating Eduardo’s feet.

We spent the next hour doing what most would do on the banks of a river; skip rocks, swim to the other side, and dig your toes in the sand. I swam to the other side and climbed up a few of the limestone cliff faces, spotted a landing, and flipped back into the calm waters. I believe that I may have been born to be a cliff diver.

As we floated in our canoe back to camp to start meal preparations, hordes of mosquitoes had also emerged to make their meal plans. Swatting and spraying somewhat futilely, our plight of blood sacrifice was more easily accepted after a few cold cervezas. We spent the evening relaxing and discussing the filming plans for the next few days in the jungle, while the beer soothed the ache and sting of the relentless insect welts. The freshly grilled fish was served with hand made salsa and corn tortillas from daily harvested corn, grown across the river from camp. It was a delicious and authentic meal, made all the more palatable by the locally caught and grown ingredients.

Well fed and half drunk off Mexican beer, I retired to my tent, where I fell asleep to the sounds of water navigating through limestone cliffs, insects chirping their night song, and the hum of a jungle very much alive, deep in the heart of a wild and remote pocket of Mexico.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 21st, 2009 at 8:28 AM. It is filed under Mexico, Travel Tales and tagged with April 2009, Mexico, South America, Uxpanapa, Vera Cruz. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.