Trip Report - Vaupés: Jungle, River, and Communities

Reaching Mitú is not easy, and perhaps for that very reason this journey begins even before takeoff. Our flight at 10:00 a.m. had been moved four hours earlier the day before… only to be delayed another five hours on the day of departure. These changes, common in Colombia’s regional aviation — in this case with Satena, the only airline connecting the capital of Vaupés — reflect the operational challenges of a country where, for example, the Amazon–Orinoco region represents nearly 70% of the national territory but is inhabited by barely 6% of the population. When you consider proportions like these, it becomes easier to understand why a plane may get stuck due to bad weather at its origin and why connectivity in these remote areas depends on the will of the sky.

Not long ago we were telling some German travelers that there is something almost endearing about the “old-fashioned” nature of regional air transport in Colombia: small airports with manual conveyor belts, manual checks and inspections right at the counter, printed tickets resembling invoices, runways without a control tower or full refueling stations… A system that indeed reveals historical shortcomings, but also embodies a kind of artisanal charm that, at least to me, feels like a tender reminder of deep Colombia.

The flight lasts just over an hour. After ten or fifteen minutes, every trace of city life has disappeared; then the last village fades away, and the green becomes absolute. From the air, the jungle appears infinite, untamed, almost intimidating. Rivers snake through the landscape like gigantic anacondas that, culturally, sustain the spiritual universe of the communities. You can spot a few airstrips connecting villages where, without these small planes, any journey would take days of navigation and walking.

Upon landing in Mitú, the landscape is that of a small airport surrounded by little aircraft intended to connect communities that depend on them for almost everything. The Amazonian climate — sometimes heavy heat, sometimes humid coolness — makes it clear that here time is not set by clocks or schedules, but by the jungle. When arriving in these territories, one must ask permission, listen, and acknowledge that the will belongs to the manigua, not the visitor.

Our hosts this time were Emilse and Sebastián. She is a young Cubeo woman, cheerful, dedicated, and leading her community tourism project with conviction. He is a biologist who walks through the jungle as if playing in his childhood yard: curious, observant, attentive to the smallest detail. Guided by these two (they are 25 years old) and a lively group of entrepreneurs and journalists invited by ANATO to discover the destination, we began a five-day expedition around Mitú, capital of a young department created in 1991, vast in territory yet with only three municipalities and a population density of less than one inhabitant per square kilometer. Here, about 85% of the population identifies with one of the 27 Indigenous communities belonging to several linguistic families of the region.

Our first stop was Ceima Cachivera, one of Mitú’s corregimientos. And here a clarification is needed: terms like “municipio,” “vereda,” or “corregimiento,” which have administrative meaning in other regions of the country like the Andes or the Caribbean, take on a different scale in the Amazon. We are speaking of enormous forest territories where political boundaries are conceptual, where access can depend on hours — or days — of river navigation, and where the social structure follows logics very different from those of urban Colombia.

When we arrived, we were welcomed by the impressive Ipanoré Maloca, the home of the community’s ancestral knowledge. The elders greeted us with facial paintings made from natural pigments, drawn according to the energy of each visitor. They also offered rapé, a tobacco-based medicine that each person receives according to their own readiness. Then came the traditional dance, a ritual that connects the community with nature, spiritual memory, and the wisdom of the Yuruparí jaguar shamans — a body of knowledge recognized since 2011 as Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.

The community leaders I spoke with described the Yuruparí Dance with a mixture of respect, wonder, and enthusiasm. They described it as an experience reserved for initiates, a vital privilege in which men can see, through dance, music, and sacred flutes, the presence of Yuruparí, the mythical messenger of the sun.

From there, we headed out on a walk to Cerro Flecha, a sacred hill with a 360-degree panoramic view: jungle, rivers, and the sign of an approaching storm advancing from the east. Its thunder — ever closer — made us return hurriedly, but happy. We had lunch at a countryside restaurant where I tried the delicious quiñapira, a spicy fish soup with ants and cassava bread.

Cassava bread — casabe — the absolute protagonist of Amazonian cuisine, is the bread of the jungle: a thin flatbread made from the starch of “yuca brava,” a manioc variety that requires a careful artisanal process to extract its natural cyanide. Later, in Mitú, we visited the casabe workshop at the Ba’Aribo restaurant, a project led by Indigenous women. There we learned the entire process, tasted different varieties, and also enjoyed chivé de pataba, a preparation made with fruit and tapioca, resulting in a texture somewhere between beverage and dessert. As a food enthusiast, this experience was definitely one of my favorites.

The next day took us to Puerto Golondrina, a community along the Cuduyarí River. There we walked through the settlement, ventured a bit into the forest to gather clay, and visited the ceramics workshop where we shaped our own pieces under a roof, as a sudden storm changed our plans to work outdoors. Before lunch, we practiced archery and used the blowgun. The blowgun, about three meters long (some are even longer), impressed me — traditionally used to hunt prey in the treetops, requiring both precision and lung capacity.

In the afternoon, we visited the Mituseño Urania community, a quiet and peaceful settlement about twenty minutes from Mitú. From its colorful maloca we began the hike toward Cerro Kubay, from where you can see the Vaupés River and the jungle unfolding into a majestic horizon.

That night, Emilse and some of her friends took me on motorcycles to explore Mitú in the dark. We crossed the town from end to end and stopped at several spots between lakes and rivers to listen in silence to the nocturnal concert of the jungle — a moment as simple as it was perfect.

The next day we walked to Cerro Guacamayas, another tepuy that requires about two hours of hiking. Sebastián used every stop to enthusiastically show us spiders, ants, fungi, and plants. Some in the group were lucky enough to see the Andean cock-of-the-rock. There are five viewpoints on the hill, and as soon as we reached the second one, we saw two groups of macaws flying over the mountain and disappearing into the horizon. It was one of those magical moments that need no photo because they stay tattooed in memory.

After descending, we bathed in the reddish waters of Caño Sangre — a refreshing gift after the walk, and one that opened our appetite even more for lunch. This time, the dish was cachama moqueada, a smoked fish and a delicious classic of Amazonian cuisine. We returned to Mitú, and I took a walk along the malecón — a pleasant stroll through town that ends at a beautiful beach on the Vaupés River, which grows or shrinks depending on the season, and where families and friends cool off all day long until nightfall.

On the fifth and final day, we visited a community-based tourism project on the outskirts of Mitú, with a handicraft display made by Indigenous women. Then I walked through the local market — something I never skip — and returned loaded with smoked chili, mambe, wild cassava starch, tapioca, and some ceramic pieces. I spent two weeks making casabe at home, experimenting with different combinations, and although I still believe it could be a great business, for now it remains a delightful personal experiment.

I had always wanted to visit Vaupés. In my imagination, it was a remote, scarcely documented corner, of which I knew only a few scattered stories: the imposing Jirijirimo rapids, the rituals of the jaguar shamans, the manigua in its purest form. And yes, it is remote — and it is also very authentic. It is a territory where the jungle and Indigenous communities are present in a more intimate and direct way than in any other part of the Colombian Amazon I have visited. Where visitors are still few, and responsible, conscious, energetic initiatives like those of Emi and Sebas are committed to well-managed tourism, created by and for local communities.

It was a journey that connected me deeply with the jungle and its people. An opportunity to see a Colombia that few know: diverse, vast, spiritual, beautiful, and indomitable. And one of those versions of the country that remind me, again and again, that being born in this country is a privilege — and so is the joy of continuing to discover it.

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