We’ve bought a rainforest
(Well, a bit of one, anyway)
Philippa Forrester finally gets to see the ‘corner of deepest Peru’ that she and husband Charlie are using to help save the amazing giant river otter
IAM being driven over the Andes by a man called Elvis. Neither of us can understand a word the other says – luckily we both find it hilarious. My sinuses pop as we climb. We swerve to avoid the many boulders that have tumbled from the mountainside. The world turns into wrinkles below me. Ahead, the road slices through the pink cliff faces of the second highest mountain range in the world.
I am on my way to the other side of those mountains to find my husband. He is unshaven, unfed and in a scruffy patch of rainforest – which we have purchased, but I have yet to visit – in deepest darkest Peru. I have come, part landowner but mainly tourist, to see Peru for myself.
We stop abruptly. Two little children, round in their many warm layers, are herding small, brown goats, scruffy white sheep and one pig along this perilously narrow road.
We drive through a traditional village. A baby sleeps happily in a wheelbarrow.
There is no use for the latest pushchair at the top of the world – the barrow is far more practical.
At 10,000ft Elvis, still speaking Spanish (on the understanding that I don’t understand), points something out. The setting sun casts its orange light on a set of stunning burial mounds: we are at the pre-Inca cemetery of Ninamarka.
But, on this road, Elvis needs daylight; we don’t have time to stop. He retrieves his CD of pop divas from the glove compartment – and at last we are beginning to speak the same language.
When darkness comes, we are descending into cloud and forest on the other side of the Andes.
I know how steep the drop off the side is, so I’m quite pleased I can’t see it. Many, even those who know it well, lose their lives to this road. I concentrate on the divas and trust in Elvis.
Seven hours later, he brings me safely to Charlie. We find him in the black of night in a small town containing very little.
There is a small hotel – luxury, as long as we are happy to share our room with a tree frog.
After four days’ travelling, I expect a great night’s sleep. But hordes of dogs and cockerels maraud through the streets, making as much noise as possible.
So, in the morning, I need the black and syrupy coffee we drink on the street while we make our plans. First, some time for me to see the land we own, then off to explore the Manu National Park.
We bought the land because it is next to this park, which is one of the most bio-diverse places on the planet and home to the giant river otter.
The land and the park are constantly under threat from poachers and illegal loggers.
We wanted to save our patch and hoped it would act as a buffer to help protect the park itself.
Charlie has been filming a documentary about it for BBC2, but I have been waiting a year to see it. Upon arrival, we cross a river and hike up on to our patch, stopping to look at an ‘owl-eyed’ butterfly, so called because the illusion of perfect amber eyes gazes back at us from its grey wings.
It is certainly not the rainforest of our dreams. The land is overgrown with scrub species. Too much thorny bamboo, only the occasional silverbarked tree.
Whole chunks of forest have been cleared, charred. We pass stacked planks. What was once the forest floor is covered in sawdust, yet life is already struggling through again; small curls of green shoots.
I watch a rush-hour line of army ants carrying bits of leaf. They have even dug an underpass system under twigs.
Not many other animals live here any more. If we are to turn this land back into a bio-diverse rainforest like Manu, we’ll have to start by helping the right plants grow again.
Thunder grumbles above. I flick a huge, shiny, black soldier ant from Charlie’s head. I notice the detailed patterns on the frond of a tiny, emerging fern.
Butterflies in startling variety land everywhere, even on us. The life here just needs a chance.
The thunder grumbles again, closer now. Time to go. I don’t pay enough attention to the path and get spiked in the head by bamboo. We are hiking fast, there is no time to stop and investigate. I can’t tell whether I’m bleeding or just sweating but the biting insects seem to get even keener on my head.
Slipping down a muddy bank, I make the mistake of grabbing a tree trunk – and get a palmful of spikes as well.
We reach the river that borders our land. Its movement and cool clarity are refreshing after the dense and humid bush.
A kingfisher dives. As Charlie tells me about the five different species living here, my virgin legs are devoured by sand-flies.
We swim in a pool that is deep, clear, ice-cold; an anaesthetic for hot skin and bitten legs. This is more like how I had imagined our rainfor- est idyll. The heavens open; heavy drops falling fast. We have to leave. Rain like this means the rivers rise quickly, and we have three to cross.
On the next day, we travel up-river on a small boat for seven hours, into the heart of Manu.
All day I watch the riverbank slip by, an ever-changing scene of wild animals. It is one of the most beautiful journeys I have ever taken.
The oxbow lake we stop at is home to the family of 6ft-long otters which Charlie has been filming on and off for more than a decade. I have been longing to meet them.
Next day, a gentle breeze is moving the vines as we board a wooden catamaran and push out on to the smooth, green water.
This is proper rainforest; every available space on the bank is crammed with life. Straight, white lines of ridged trunks blend with spiky-leaved palms, and every shade of green is here.
Turtles bask on a fallen, half-submerged tree-trunk. Orange butterflies decorate their faces, feeding on the salts they find there. The
turtles dive into the water as we drift silently by. I watch monkeys feed in the trees, birds are everywhere.
Before long the air is filled with a whining cacophony like the revving of miniature engines. I know that sound very well from our films. It is the noise giant otters make when they have a fish and are claiming it as their own while simultaneously trying to eat it.
The boat drifts closer. For the first time I see their dark heads.
I surprise myself by weeping. A big circle has closed for me. For years I have known their names and stories, waved goodbye to my husband while he spent months with them, and even bought land to try to help this place.
I never thought I would be lucky enough to see these otters for myself. They are more impressive, more charismatic than I could have imagined. It has been a long, hard journey. Tears roll down my face.
A loud snort makes me jump, a young adult has surfaced close to the boat. We laugh. ‘Meet Dali,’ says Charlie. ‘He’s checking you out.’ The snort turns into a gurgle as Dali submerges again. The family swim effortlessly alongside the bank, 12 of them, all ages, never silent.
THEY play constantly, leaping, grumbling and whining. They clearly love each other. A big splash when one is fishing, then a row when another tries to steal the meal. No table manners at all. I am reminded of home.
Charlie spots a caiman ahead, lurking under an overhanging bush. As the family approach it, we are tense. A caiman will take an otter cub.
Two cubs swim on, unprotected by adults. We hold our breath – but this caiman is not stupid, he has decided to avoid confrontation with such a large, strong group. A white egret dangles great, grey legs as it flies in to check for stirred-up scraps of fish in the otters’ wake. Nothing goes to waste here.
We are close enough to hear the crunching of fish bones, to smell the fish, to laugh at the baseballglove paws and the brown dogeyes that roll with pleasure as the otters eat.
They haul their shiny, muscular bodies on land to rest, but not for long. When they re-enter the water, they belly-flop, and that seems to sum up their exuberant attitude: a grasping of life that I have seen ever since I arrived in Peru. Every creature makes the most of any opportunity to grow, live and feed – even the sandflies on my legs. Every creature has a place.
There is no car for thousands of miles yet one insect sounds exactly like a car parking sensor, and one bird like an alarm. The otters are noisy. It’s not really (I think, as I manically scratch my bites) particularly relaxing here, but I feel so lucky to witness one of the last wildernesses we have. There are even uncontacted peoples living in this forest.
I am a million miles from reality but I feel, overwhelmingly, that this is reality; another Eden. I am touched by something that nature insists upon and that we have forgotten about: a basic, all-consuming grasping of life.
‘I Bought A Rainforest’, a series telling Philippa and Charlie’s story, begins on BBC2 at 8pm on June 1.