Category: Travel

After a smooth and almost meditative flight over the endless green waves of the jungle, my friend and I. finally descended into Leticia—the tiny Colombian town that clings to the banks of the world’s mightiest river, the Amazon. Our journey was a direct three-hour flight from Bogotá with Latam Airlines, and as soon as we stepped off the plane, we were met with a wall of humidity so thick it felt like walking into a steaming cup of herbal tea. The air embraced us like an overenthusiastic relative, and the drizzle, which seemed to have no intention of ever stopping, made sure we felt truly welcomed.

At the airport, a kind and cheerful lady awaited us—the owner of the guesthouse where we had booked our stay. She greeted us with a warm smile and an even warmer car: an American relic from the 1980s that had clearly seen many stories. From its aged speakers, the most popular local station, Radio Policía Nacional, filled the air. A rather unique choice of entertainment, it alternated between somber police reports, curious local news, and the occasional burst of Latin music, as if the radio itself couldn’t decide whether to dance or deliver bad news.

Our ride to the guesthouse took no more than 10 minutes, enough time to pass several military outposts, army checkpoints, and police stations—just in case we had any doubts about the town’s security measures. What were all these people doing there? Protecting us? I doubt it. Despite this, Leticia appeared peaceful, almost sleepy, as if the jungle’s endless hum had lulled it into a permanent state of tranquility.

Our accommodation was simple but clean, a small house with everything we needed. However, what stood out the most—both here and everywhere else—were the enormous water tanks perched on rooftops, silently collecting rain. Strangely enough, in a place where humidity suffocates at 95% and rain is as constant as the Amazon itself, clean water was a rare treasure. The river, vast and all-powerful, was not to be trusted for drinking unless you fancied an unplanned adventure of a very different kind.

Though the true heart of our journey lay in the days ahead—the grand jungle expedition—we seized the first day in Leticia with open arms. We explored the small town, sticking mostly to the places recommended by our host (no reckless wanderings just yet), admired the lively fish market, took in the sights of the central park, and watched the people around us. We observed their rhythm, their interactions, and their daily rituals. Leticia had its own quiet charm, a slow but steady heartbeat, pulsing in time with the great river that embraced it.

We didn’t shy away from indulging in the local delicacies—starting with the famous yucca pizza, moving on to the protein-packed tree bark worm, known by the locals as mojojoy, and finishing with a remarkable dessert: coca leaf ice cream with an extra topping of crunchy ants. A true Amazonian feast.

After hours of trekking through the flooded jungle, a clearing began to emerge in the distance. I suddenly realized where we were—this was it. We were about to have our first encounter with an Amazonian tribe. Stepping cautiously among the wooden and thatched huts, we observed the daily life unfolding around us—some people dressed in simple clothing, others wearing considerably less. But what immediately caught our eye was a massive structure towering over the rest of the village—the maloca. Golbert explained that for the Ticuna people (one of the many tribal families in the Amazon), the maloca was once the heart of the community. In the past, the entire tribe lived, ate, and slept under its roof. Over time, families had moved into their own huts, and the maloca had become a communal space for gatherings, ceremonies, and celebrations. Just as we were absorbing this information, the main figure of the village appeared—the tribal chief. A man seemingly in his early sixties, dressed in simple sweatpants and an open button-down shirt, he radiated warmth and an undeniable presence. His energy was calm and welcoming. In surprisingly clear Spanish, he invited us into his maloca to share more about his people, their traditions, and their way of life. Settling onto a small wooden stool, the chief offered us our first taste of tribal hospitality—a ball of tobacco clay and a fine powder made from coca leaves, which they traditionally place under their tongues. As we hesitated for a brief moment, he began to speak, revealing the core of their existence—hunting, and the cultivation of tobacco and coca.

The old man began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. He described their peaceful way of life, their rituals, their dances—each one a celebration of their deep connection with nature. To him, the jungle was more than just a home; it was a mother, a provider, a guardian that nurtured them, and in return, it had to be protected. The forest and the Amazon gave them everything they needed to survive: shelter, water, food, even medicine and entertainment. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but notice a growing discomfort in my stomach—my all-too-familiar battle with acid reflux. I mentioned it to him in passing, and without hesitation, he walked over to a nearby tree, made a small incision with his knife, and handed me a few drops of its sap. I drank it, and within moments, the burning sensation in my chest vanished as if by magic. But of course, it wasn’t magic—just nature, the same nature that modern medicine bottles up, dilutes, and sells back to us. Speaking of natural remedies, he eventually arrived at what he called the ultimate medicine—ayahuasca. Not just a treatment for the body, but for the soul. But, he warned, ayahuasca isn’t for everyone. You cannot simply decide to take it; you must be chosen by the shaman. Only those deemed special, those with the potential to open their third eye, are granted access to its secrets. And who, exactly, is this shaman who holds such power? How does one become the gatekeeper of the spirit world? Simple—spend an entire year alone in the jungle, consuming every known poison from every known creature. If you survive—and if you return with your sanity intact—only then can you call yourself a shaman. The conversation shifted to the tribe’s history, a tale intertwined with Colombia’s darker past. He confessed that his people once lived hundreds of kilometers deeper into the jungle, far from the main branch of the Amazon. But in the 1970s, they were forced to relocate closer to Leticia, seeking refuge from the guerrilla factions that controlled the jungle—and, in many ways, still do. These groups would raid villages, taking young boys and forcing them into wars that were never theirs to fight. Moving closer to Leticia meant greater security, with the Colombian military nearby. But not all tribes were as fortunate. The Amazon is home to thousands of distinct tribes, each with its own fate. Some have become recruitment grounds for guerrilla armies like the FARC. Others remain untouched by modern civilization, living as they have for centuries. And then, there are the warrior tribes—the ones few outsiders have ever encountered. According to the old man, some of these tribes still practice ancient rituals, including one that outsiders whisper about with both fear and fascination—cannibalism.

After that rather fascinating little stroll, guided by our dim lanterns, we made our way back to our cabin in the forest. We had a small rainwater reservoir that was just enough to wash off a bit of the grime. As for electricity… well, I’m sure you can guess that was never a consideration. Before heading to our makeshift cabin, Golbert handed us a gas lamp. The lamp proved to be quite useful, primarily for spotting a bullet ant that had sneaked into our cabin. Legend has it that its sting is excruciatingly painful, and honestly, I preferred to take that as fact rather than testing it for myself. Once we successfully eliminated the dangerous little invader, we climbed into our stacked beds, utterly exhausted, and turned off the small gas lamp we’d been given. This is where things got a bit more interesting. Have you ever experienced “nothingness,”or  “emptiness”? Normally, when you turn off the lights, your eyes need a few minutes to adjust, and soon you start to see something. Here, though? Absolutely nothing. For a while, I understood what it means to be practically blind—to see absolutely nothing. And, of course, nothing could be seen. The nearest light source was probably miles away. Not only was it pitch-black, but everything around us was so incredibly noisy: the jungle was alive with rustling, cracking, the shrieks of nocturnal monkeys, and other sounds we couldn’t comprehend or recognize. After a short while, I began to see something, but not exactly what I hoped: many pairs of eyes, of various shapes and sizes, far too close to our “cabin.” Wait—let’s not even call it a cabin; we were practically sleeping outside. Although I knew, in theory, that we were perfectly safe, and nothing would go wrong, for a few minutes, a primal instinct was awakened in me—a surge of fear and insecurity. I quickly calmed myself down, though, and managed to appreciate the beauty of this night spent immersed in nature. I felt peaceful, secure, and almost on the verge of falling asleep from sheer exhaustion when, not even two minutes later, I was jolted awake by more sounds—this time, much less natural. Gunshots. I heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire nearby. Every few minutes, a shot rang out. Now, knowing that it was a heavily militarized area, I peacefully lay down, convinced that the gunshots were just some nocturnal military exercises.

The next morning, as we discussed the gunshots we’d heard, we learned about Golbert’s second greatest fear, of course, right after the electric eel—sicarios. He explained that the gunfire had come from the numerous cocaine labs hidden deep in the jungle. This region produces the largest share of the world’s total cocaine supply. Do you think the drug lords built their labs far from the airport? No. These labs are guarded by armed guards, and at night, the guards see exactly what we saw—nothing but eyes. And if a pair of eyes gets too close, they fire warning shots to scare them off. Golbert then launched into a dramatic monologue about how dangerous Leticia was. He warned us that when we returned to the city, we should stay only within the central area, between the military bases, because the law does not have a foothold there. People are killed every day, and their bodies, still warm, vanish into the dense jungle within hours, with no one even questioning their disappearance. Leticia is full of sicarios—hitmen sent from Medellín, Cali, or Bogotá to oversee the cocaine business right from the point of production. With a voice filled with desperation and fear, Golbert told us that there are many bad, wicked people on the streets of Leticia, and that he often feels afraid to leave his house. It’s not a place where human life holds much value. He wrapped up his story with a chilling tale that had happened just a few days before our arrival, just two streets away from where we were staying in Leticia. A man involved in the business had lost a few cocaine packages in the jungle, but he soon bought new clothes and a new phone. A few days after making these purchases, two men on scooters, armed with automatic rifles, massacred his entire family while they were sitting in the yard—him, his wife, her parents, and the two small children they had.

Lost light

When we’re sunk in our blind dark,
And can’t see we’ve lost our spark,
We see pairs of eyes that silently fly,
Judging us with their quiet sigh.

I’ll shoot them all beneath the wing, in the side,
Waiting to see the smell of carrion at dawn’s tide.

We left the Witoto tribe in a tiny boat, gliding through winding canals. The rain had slowed down a bit, but we still had to scoop out water from the boat every now and then with a cup. As we drifted through the waterways, we passed countless canals, spotting dozens of interesting bird species and lotus flowers. The landscapes were utterly enchanting, so much so that they reminded me of the Danube Delta back home in Romania. It was a delightful journey. Our destination, however, was where we’d spend the night. I’m not quite sure how to describe it—maybe a mini-farm run by a local family? They had a house, and a few little “rooms” with no walls, of course, that they rented out. The place was accessible only by boat, sitting on a small hill between the winding channels and the mighty Amazon River. It was quite a charming spot where we could unwind with a few Brazilian beers. We even went fishing for piranhas, caught a couple, and fed them to the family’s pet—a massive arapaima. The family also had cows, peacefully grazing on the only patch of land that had escaped the flood, with a few of them actually swimming in the Amazon. Seeing these cows swimming, I asked the owners if they weren’t worried about caimans. Laughing, they said the caimans were “calm,” but they had had issues with boa constrictors eating their cows. That left me speechless. How does a snake eat a cow? How big does the snake have to be? I was going to find out soon.

As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, we set off with Golbert and a man from the shack family, plunging into the jungle, winding through canals, all in pursuit of boa snakes. The rain had finally relented, and the clouds scattered like an overzealous painter clearing the canvas. But before we could enter the canals, we had to cross a lake. The minutes spent gliding across the serene waters felt indescribable. It was a dreamlike night on the Amazon! The chaotic noises of the forest from the previous evening gave way to the soft, timid songs of birds, and the stench of decay was replaced by the fresh perfume of flowers. The best part? The darkness was still deep and soothing, but it was transformed by a sky so dazzling, it could make even the stars jealous. A sky richer than Van Gogh ever imagined, a sky that echoed those of the Sahara desert. For a few blissful minutes, I slipped into a state of deep relaxation—calm, meditation, and awareness. Gratefulness and joy bloomed in my heart because, at that moment, I was there. But, as all good things do, my delirium was brief. No sooner had I settled into the peace of the night than the farm man spotted a boa. Golbert, in his infinite wisdom and bravery, steered the boat through the reeds, trying to capture the snake to prove his courage. He failed. So, we spun around, for another hour, in the darkened canals of the jungle, dodging falling things from the trees—things we couldn’t name, which fell into our boat… and onto us. A proper Amazonian adventure!

Silent nights

In the dark, no light to find,
Whispers close, a restless mind.
Eyes that watch, the jungle speaks,
A peaceful fear, the night it leaks.

Gunshots pierce the silent air,
Yet in the stillness, I don’t care.
No light, no sound, just space to roam,
In emptiness, I’m safe, I’m home.

Spoiler alert – it wasn’t a luxury cruise down the Amazon, but it sure felt like one. After a lavish breakfast at the farm, complete with coffee, omelets, and patacones, a boat that could comfortably fit 7-8 people (and, unbelievably, had a motor) was waiting for us at a nearby dock. The entire day was nothing short of magnificent—relaxing, sunny, and entirely devoid of adrenaline. We spent the day listening to music on that boat, and I’m happy to report it wasn’t “Radio Policia Nacional” this time. We stopped at various key ports in three different countries: Peru, Brazil, and, of course, Colombia. The first stop was Santa Rosa Island in Peru, where we sipped some fantastic coffee and watched locals go about their business—fishermen prepping their nets, kids dressed in the neatly embroidered uniforms of Peru, heading off to school. The highlight of the day came in Tabatinga, where we stopped at a bar, knocked back a few Caipirinhas, sang, and danced to the sounds of Brazil. By the end of the day, our adventure had come full circle, and we found ourselves back “home” in Leticia.