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Return to Caqueta

Part 1: By- Tyler Bradt

By KAVU

June 4^th, 2024

Manifesting dreams is a wild and highly unpredictable art. Dreams by nature have no boundaries, no physical reality to constrain them, they are limited only by imagination. However, on the rare occasion they can become greatly amplified by another person manifesting a parallel dream. When this happens and dreams begin to transition into existence, it’s often unnerving. Neither person can envision the extent to which the reality of these dreams may unfold. For in this intertwined space, anything is possible. With the first step, like a lion out of a cage, there’s no going back.

This was my experience recently as a longtime friend and expedition partner, Jules Domine and I set off to extend what until now had been one of the longest, hardest expeditions of our lives: The Rio Caqueta.

Forming the border of the Putumayo and Cauca districts of Colombia, the Caqueta plummets off the Eastern flank of the Andes into one of the greatest abysses of jungles on Earth. From an ecosystem known as the Paramo, over 12,000 feet high in the mountains, this great river begins a very special journey.

It eventually becomes one of the largest undammed rivers on the planet thanks to its ingenious stewardship from the first droplet of water trickling downhill until its mighty confluence with the Amazon River many thousands of kilometers downstream. These indigenous territories breathe with a reverence and deep connection to this river. This is a profoundly sacred river, protected and honored by people who walk in planes and dimensions beyond our physical realms.

For us, this journey would go further than the physical world.

We had been hiking for two days when we arrived at the spirit house of Valencia, also known as a Maloca. The trail had been difficult, but at least there was a trail. The rocks, placed carefully by indigenous peoples centuries ago, formed this sacred route winding against cliffs and underneath waterfalls, eventually ascending from the jungle into the clouds. Here our vision was constrained, and the wind pressed the chilling dampness of the clouds through our jackets and into our bodies. All around us, the Paramo spread out into the mist. This sponge-like ecosystem is thousands of species of plants woven together as if a single organism. There’s seemingly no bottom to the damp, spiny vegetation, but its surface flourishes with millions of tiny delicate flowers, dancing with clouds. After days of walking, we stood for a moment and looked down to where the source of the Caqueta likely was. We couldn’t see it, but its presence was felt. We then turned and began hiking down the other side of the mountains, eventually leading us to the Maloca in Valencia, near to where the river drew enough water to float a kayak.

We hugged our indigenous guide Julian, who had been with us for three days, and said goodbye. He turned to walk away but paused, his body momentarily blocking the bright light flooding through the doorway from sunlit fields. He looked directly at Jules and simply said, “Be careful”.

Something about how he said it made my hair raise. It was as if he knew what we were about to attempt. He turned and was gone, the light slanting back onto the dirt floor of the Maloca. The first page of our journey had turned.

We took our seats in classic, cheap, white plastic chairs around an empty fire pit. The "Taita", or shaman, of Valencia sat in silence, while thoughtfully chewing coca leaves looking intently at the cold, flameless fire. He handed us coca leaves. I took a deep breath and tried hard to concentrate and bring myself back into the space where nothing is planned yet nothing happens by accident, the space where realities veil is paper thin and the spirits walk. My overactive mind needed to quiet. I needed to be present. The hike had helped and I was beginning to understand why we'd spent days struggling in the mountains to arrive at a place that we could have just driven to. In the silence of the Maloca, an energy was beginning to stir, and I knew our lives would depend on our connection to it.

I had been here before.

As we chewed the coca leaves, they formed a poultice in our mouths and eventually found their home inside our cheeks. Jules broke the silence. He expressed our gratitude to be there, and our respect for this place, culture, land and river. He then began telling the story of how seven years previous, we first arrived at the river during the rainy season to "put on" an immensely flooded river. He told of our three-day portage around the top canyon, and spoke of friends we'd made on our passage downstream from Santa Rosa. Jules spoke of the giant, flooded canyon we eventually paddled to leave the mountains, and the subsequent thousand-kilometer river-passage across the flatwater of the Amazonian plane. He told of the indigenous peoples we had traveled with, and the Malocas where we had shared time. He then shared the story of our arrival to Arauacuara, an immensely powerful canyon cutting through the Chiribiquete rock formation in the deep Amazon, and his own personal journey, which would see him return to Araracuara numerous times. Finally, Jules spoke about our current journey over the mountains, through the Paramo, and here to the source of the Caqueta, and of our vision of paddling downstream to eventually pick up our old trail, where we had begun our original expedition almost a decade ago.

His monologue ended. Conversations here are in long form with ample time given within the pauses. Silences are not filled, and truths are fully spoken until their end. The Taita handed us more coca leaves; we filled our mouths and sat quietly, chewing.

“And you?” The Taita eventually asked, looking at me as if knowing Jules had only told half our story.

After a similar introduction and expression of gratitude, I told the story of my personal journey on our original expedition, my sickness with a flesh-eating parasite, Leishmaniasis, which I contracted on the expedition. How it ate at my lips, deforming my face, and the months of chemotherapy to treat it. I told him that I felt as if I'd encountered a dark energy on the expedition, and spoke also of the recent death of my father. My dad’s passing had led me on a journey back to Colombia the previous year to seek out powerful Taitas, and plant medicines to help me heal. Dad was my best friend, mentor, father, paddling partner and our bond was inseparable. In his passing, I knew if my path was to follow his, I would need to take a great leap and expand my spiritual path. This path led me to Colombia, and it was from this journey that I had the vision of reconnecting with the Caqueta and to again, seek the plant medicine to assist me on my spiritual path to heal.

For me, this trip was incredibly significant. I was going back to face my fears, to heal, and connect with my father. I was hoping to lift the energy which had enveloped me since our original expedition.

After another long silence and chewing more coca leaves, the Taita began to speak and our conversation carried deeper. The 75% I could decipher left ample margin for interpretation and mystery. I knew Jules would clarify nothing for me. What was understood was meant to be understood. What wasn’t, wasn’t.

I watched the sun setting and pushed my thoughts back, trying my best to feel the right answer. Our minds speak loudest, and it’s often easy for thoughts to overpower our deeper, heart-felt intuitions. For us, the path was clearly downstream.

A cold, high-elevation morning broke into the warm glow of a mid-morning sun on green grass. Our gear was spread an arm’s reach from our kayaks as various things found their home inside our boats. A spare paddle, a pair of machetes, some apples, webbing, and carabiners were still looking for a place to squeeze within the assortment of drybags carefully placed in the stern of each kayak.

It was an unassuming start to the expedition; a peaceful burbling brook, a sunny field, easy banter and welcoming weather.

We offered some coca leaves to the river, said a silent prayer, and watched them float downstream. It was like seeing a 1/100th scale of our past-selves being flung like leafs through the flooded canyon downstream.

We slid from the bank and began finding our way through the shallow creek. We bobbed and weaved through bushes and wire fences as the river twisted through the last bit of human-settled land.

Slowly the forests grew around us and the river began to draw further and further into the earth. The jungle and mountains began to meld together; the walls of vegetation hid any geographical features which might have been present.

Like a portal into another world, we turned the corner and arrived at a deep, slot-canyon.

The canyon rose into the jungle, where the canopy folded together creating a lush, green ceiling to its carved walls, polished by uncountable centuries of flowing water. We boat scouted the entrance rapid, dropped in, and were immediately awestruck by the beauty and significance of the canyon. The jaw-dropping beauty of this canyon was unforgettable. It was also unforgettable that this was the gateway of full-commitment to this expedition. And as the walls slid past, so did any hope of a last minute decision to leave the river.

There was no going back.

Tyler Bradt

Footnotes

There are few explorers alive who are as adventurous, and who embrace all of life's unknowns like Tyler. We're continuously inspired by his KAVU soul. Stay tuned for Part 2

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FootNotes

There are few explorers alive who are as adventurous, and who embrace all of life's unknowns like Tyler. We're continuously inspired by his KAVU soul. Stay tuned for Part 2

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