Travel Trend: Jaguar Spotting In Brazil

by Jessica Festa on

While tiger tourism is still the most popular type of cat viewing, there is another trend that is on the rise: Jaguar spotting. For those who have already watched tigers in their natural habitat – and even for some who have not yet had the pleasure – traveling to see wild jaguars is becoming a must-have experience.

There is a big difference in spotting tigers and jaguars, nonetheless. While tiger tourism features many reliable viewing spots, jaguars are much more elusive. However, this also means that actually spotting one is a great achievement.

At the moment, the most reliable place to spot jaguars is Puerto Jofre on the Cuiabá River in the Pantanal, Brazil. Luckily, the chances are pretty high, as there are 50 to 100 habitual cats. Other places where jaguar spotting is possible include Guyana, Peru and the Brazilian Amazon.

“We’re finding a growing interest in South America‘s National Parks,” explains Catherine Strong of Naturetrek, a company offering wildlife tours around the world. “Jaguars in particular, but also in the wealth of other iconic large mammals that can be seen in the Pantanal. The number of clients booking our dedicated Jaguar watching tour has more than doubled since we first offered the tour in 2009, and bookings to Brazil’s Pantanal has increased six-fold during the same period.”

History

The area wasn’t always prosperous with jaguars. In fact, at times they were very scarce. It wasn’t until the mid-90’s that ranch owners in the Pantanal decided to try their luck in the tourism business. At this time, they began offering visitors the opportunity to view and photograph these beautiful animals. In effect, these massive pieces of land were offering a sanctuary for the big cats. If this hadn’t happened, jaguar tourism would not be as successful as it is today.

“Back in the 80’s the Pantanal, most of which is not a National Park, consisted of huge cattle ranches. Jaguars were extensively hunted due to them occasionally hunting cows,” explains Allan Blanchard, a conservationist and owner of Wildlife Trails. “If you talk to people from that era they will tell you that, apart from during a hunt, they would not see jaguars for months at a time. Now, it is almost daily.”

Industry Concerns

While jaguar spotting is usually an exciting and worthwhile experience for tourists, there are concerns in the industry.

“I would like to state as a biologist and conservationist that there is a big question to address now, and that is the impact of this increased number of tourists,” says Blanchard. “Unfortunately, there are always a few ‘bad eggs’ who take their boat or vehicle too close to the wildlife, causing unnecessary stress. Because this wildlife viewing is not happening inside a National Park, it is more difficult to regulate.”

In order to help tourists spot more jaguars, many tour companies are using questionable practices. According to Josh Cohen of Wild Planet Adventures, a nature-travel and ecotourism operation, some of these include collaring jaguars so they can be found by tourists, and using radios so guides can notify each other when the big cats are spotted. These tactics result in myriad boats rushing to the area at once, contributing to the habituation of jaguars. However, there is a silver lining in the situation.

“The area in question is mostly visited by ‘do-it-yourself’ tourists because it is at the end of the Transpanteria Road, which, until recently, was accessible by any tourist willing to rent a vehicle,” explains Cohen. “Vehicle rentals are now restricted, and those willing to eschew the lower cost effectiveness of mass tourism will find jaguar opportunities that may cost more and involve more travel and logistics, but will have less impact on wildlife.”

Solutions

In 2001, Cohen visited the Pantanal to conduct research on the subject, avoiding the tourist-heavy Transpanteria Road route and the Puerto Jofre area. Instead, he focused on an area several hours west around the Taiama Ecological Station. One reason is the logistics of getting there are more costly than the average budget traveler is willing to invest, making it less dense with tourists. Furthermore, the area is federally protected and not open to the public or tour operators. However, since the reserve sits on an island in the middle of the river, it is possible to circle the reserve in search of the jaguars. What’s more, spotting jaguars in this less touristy area allows for the viewing of more wild behavior in the animals.

“This is extremely important, as the long-term consequence of habituated jaguars is the loss of authentic, wild behavior, which is replaced by more tame, bored behavior that inevitably results in more conflict with humans. Ultimately, mass tourism practices could turn the Pantanal into a version of the San Diego Wild Animal Park, unless travelers are educated in the value of paying more to preserve, not just wildlife, but to assure authentic wild behavior is maintained through limited interaction and sustainable ecotourism practices.”

The bottom line? Whether you choose to take the more off-the-beaten path route or visit the popular Puerto Jofre, make sure you’re booking with a reputable company. While the trend of jaguar tourism is growing, we wouldn’t want it to die out before it’s reached its peak.

[Photo via the US Fish and Wildlife Service]

Vagabond Tales: Why Is There A Monkey In My Sleeping Bag?

by Kyle Ellison on

There are few moments more startling than waking up to a jungle primate seeking refuge in the warm recesses of your crotch. Consider the fact you’re sleeping in an abandoned, open-air, concrete nightclub in the middle of a Peruvian cloud forest, and the entire ordeal takes on a new aura of peculiarity.

This, however, was exactly how I started my morning in the rural village of Santa Teresa in the 6,000-foot highlands of southern Peru. One of the stopping points along Peru’s Salkantay Trek – the budget friendly and more adventurous alternative to the famous Inca Trail – is Santa Teresa, a remote little village that modernity seems to have forgotten.

Level of development aside, the real draw of Santa Teresa is undoubtedly the muscle-soothing hot spring, which percolates on the outskirts of town. From the confines of a massive thermal swimming pool set on the banks of a raging river, local women wade waist deep in the tepid waters and sell baskets of cold beer while attempting to simultaneously bathe. A surefire way to dehydrate yourself and welcome a morning hangover, the entire scene takes place alongside torrid waters hell-bent on draining into the Amazon Basin as part of a muddy, eventful journey to the Atlantic.

Completely unregulated and awash with the stench of freedom, in a word, it’s utterly perfect.

A welcome respite for the weary, Santa Teresa is the first real town Salkantay trekkers will encounter after having crossed over the 15,200-foot Salkantay Pass the day before.

In the actual town there are a handful of small restaurants, children playing in the town’s only square and shop owners willing to place a cot in their kitchen and firmly call it a hotel. Oh, and there’s also a communal concrete slab for slaughtering livestock, a daily affair which doesn’t seem to turn that many heads except for, perhaps, mine.

Camped out with an adventure tour company in what can best be described as a friend of a friend’s backyard, the last thing I expected to see from the window of my tent flap was a hapless cow on its way to being slaughtered.

Nevertheless, a militia of young boys wielding saws and machetes systematically took to slaughtering the bovine directly in front of our cheerless campsite. With the same level of excitement of someone brushing their teeth before bed, the young troop of butchers dismantled the cow in such a routine fashion their nonchalance spoke volumes towards the realities of rural Peruvian life.

Succumbing to a growing sense of nausea birthed from the morbid entertainment, I swapped the damp board shorts of the hot springs for a dry t-shirt and my trusty thermal underwear. Blissfully ensconced in the comfort of a two-person tent and pulling the edges of my North Face sleeping bag to just beneath my armpits, I settled in for what I deemed to be a much needed slumber.

The strengthening pitter-patter of precipitation, however, ensured that this would be far from a restful night. With drops morphing into rivulets atop the overstretched nylon dome above, it wasn’t long before the skies would open completely and turn what was once a modest campsite into a soggy and swampy mess. With the rain actually forming streams beneath the bottom of the tent, my soporific sanctuary was transformed into a dripping den of misery.

With the downpour causing my wife and I problems enough, the introduction of a violent bout of flatulence really wasn’t helping matters.

Mistaking my nausea as a product of watching the cow slaughter, it was beginning to become apparent the mystery meat from dinner was having an adverse effect on the welcoming atmosphere of our tent. As my sleeping bag finally relinquished its attempt at keeping my body dry, so too did my ability to keep us from perishing in a cloud of high-altitude methane.

Frustrated, cold and weary from days of trekking, I contemplated the few options remaining and finally decided to do the chivalrous thing and preemptively remove myself from the tent. It simply had to be done.

With zero places to turn, however, and the prospect of sleeping beneath the stars vanquished long ago, I grabbed my half-soaked sleeping bag and sprinted for an abandoned concrete building, which once housed the town’s only discotheque.

Slinking into the soggy bag and cringing at the state of my current affairs, I was eventually able to fashion a remedial pillow out of a plastic bag and a dirty towel found languishing in the corner of the shelter. Frigid, bloated and with nowhere else to turn, my vacant stare rested on a dangling disco ball awash in a sea of dripping, wet wires. This, I reckoned, was my Peruvian chateau.

Finally, amidst a fitful bout of thrashing and copious amounts of internal dialogue, I eventually drifted off into an impressively deep sleep. Falling ever deeper into the realm of mental exhaustion, amidst a gastrointestinal meltdown and a torrential tropical downpour, I somehow welcomed a restful and purposeful slumber.

Waking to clearing skies, the first rays of lights were beginning to penetrate the high clouds and twist their way through the verdant valleys above. With the introduction of sunlight, I could tell that the concrete shelter I had chosen had all the charm of sleeping in a construction site.

Feeling an itch against my inner thigh and still searching for an exit from my early morning daze, with much difficulty and little coordination I fumbled with the ability to unzip my still damp bag. Just as the first teeth of the zipper began to chatter, however, in an explosion, which can be described only as mammalian fury, a rambunctious young monkey exploded from the dark nether regions of my sleeping bag.

Nearly climbing over my face in his hasty exit, he too was simply seeking emergency shelter from the sky-opening downpour and brisk evening air. As I would later find out after recounting the story to my guide, the monkey was actually a pet of the property owner and not some wild primate.

Nevertheless, there are few things more startling, scary or downright confusing than waking to a face full of monkey – an unwelcome visitor from the depths of your loins just trying to stay out of the rain.

Want more stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” here…

10 Best Cities Around The World To Experience Graffiti Art

by Jessica Festa on

“Graffiti is one of the few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don’t come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make someone smile while they’re having a piss.” – Banksy, “Banging Your Head Against A Brick Wall”

While often thought of as vandalism, there are many cities around the globe with beautiful works of graffiti that add an aesthetic property to a destination. In fact, many of the cities on this list feature legal graffiti walls, and works commissioned by the city to help enhance and beautify the region. Moreover, a lot of street art helps to tell the story of a culture, express political views and enlighten viewers on important topics.

Want to know where to experience the best graffiti art around the world? Check out the gallery below.

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Travels In Myanmar: Under A Night Sky

by Jeremy Kressmann on

I had no idea what to expect that morning in Yangon. Inside the city’s once grand but now decrepit train station, a few lonely bulbs fought weakly against the dark. Across the arrivals hall was the silhouette of my transport, an intimidating iron locomotive. I moved hesitantly towards this slumbering rusty giant, past anonymous passengers squatting on the cracked cement floor, huddled in the chill of pre-dawn. The station’s shadows whispering with nervous energy. Who knew where this day was headed?

In the vague outlines of my journey, only one detail was certain: I was in a country called Burma (or was it called Myanmar?) and determined to witness a mysterious festival of “Fire Balloons” in a distant Shan State town of Taunggyi. Beyond that, I knew little. The previous day I had wandered into a travel agency hoping to find a way to get to the festival. Buses and flights there were full, and the agent had suggested heading north to the rail depot at Thazi to arrange further transport. It sounded like a half-baked plan. But with dwindling options and a burning desire to witness this strange festival, I had agreed.

As I considered my uncertain itinerary, the shaky locomotive rumbled its way out of the station in a fog of anxious dawn. The ancient carriage embraced a landscape of endless, monochrome-green farm fields, shrouded in a mist of faint light. A treacherous white-hot sun soon pierced the horizon, igniting a furnace of unrelenting heat. Out the window I could make out distant water buffaloes lumbering across shimmering rice paddy fields, trailed by men hidden beneath sun hats. Amtrak this was not.

Inside the train car, red-robed monks stripped to the waist in the warmth, fanning themselves with wilting sports pages. Meanwhile, men puffed on fragrant cheroot cigarettes, the smoke curling its way into every orifice and fabric. Young boys roamed the aisles hawking glistening nooses of freshly plucked chickens, while the heat painted sweat stains in mosaics on my pants and shirt. I sat stewing in this pungent mixture of sweat, billowing cheroot smoke and grease, drowning in second thoughts as the reality of the unknown journey inched forward.

My motivation for visiting Burma had so far escaped introspection. Romanced by visions of countless travel writers and the exotic, I had left my job and life behind, traveling alone to this reclusive Southeast Asian nation in search of something different. I wanted to have an adventure and discover some deeper meaning to my journey. But as the hours bobbed and squeaked past tiny wooden villages and muddy brown farm fields, fat and thick with monsoon rain, I felt invisible and wracked with uncertainty. I desperately craved something familiar – an anchor to the reality I had discarded far behind in my relentless search for discovery.

Twelve dripping, exhausted hours later, a small triumph shook me from my daze. Thazi! I made it! But Burma wasn’t ready to let me off easily. The plan was to meet some other travelers in Thazi and find a ride – but I was the only one there. Come to think of it, Thazi didn’t even have a bus station. It was no more than a dusty main road littered with stray dogs and wobbly Japanese pickups. It was nearly dark and I was fenced in by my stupid choices. Growing nervous with dwindling options, I stumbled to a nearby pickup truck owner and pleaded for assistance.

“Can you…take me to Taunggyi?” I asked haltingly. The man sized up the tall foreigner in his midst, grinning at his luck.

“Maybe tomorrow. 20,000 kyat.” he spat out, with a smile.

My shoulders sagged. The vehicle was barely upright, let alone roadworthy – the cream-colored exterior was polka-dotted with rust. Four balding tires looked ready to deflate or burst, I couldn’t tell which. But the prospect of spending the night in that strange city, alone, drove me to further action.

“I’ll pay 10,000, and I want to leave tonight,” I countered.

The owner grimaced and crossed his arms in thought. Meanwhile a visibly intoxicated man and several kids crowded behind us, intrigued by the transaction. The cost was worth less than a dinner back home, but it felt like something large was at stake.

“OK, we go – but very far. You pay 15,000.”

Adrenaline surged. Taunggyi was now within my grasp! How naive I was. The truck still needed to fill with passengers and goods before it would depart. We waited for what seemed like hours. Six women climbed into benches in the back. Three more men perched themselves above the truck’s metal scaffolding. A precariously stacked bundle of wicker baskets was lashed to the roof. The truck looked less like transport than a vehicular Jenga game ready to topple. I sat on the curb, eyes wide and mouth agape. The drunken man from earlier hovered over me babbling, gesturing at the pickup and chuckling.

The evening was well under way before we departed. I climbed into the pickup’s front cabin with the owner and a young camouflage-clad man named Mikey, my knees jammed against the dash and head poking against the cabin’s roof, backpack shoehorned beneath my knees. The intimate seating arrangements encouraged Mikey to strike up a conversation.


“Where you come from?” Mikey inquired in his halting English.

I got asked this question a lot while I was in Burma. Frequently the desired answer had less to do with learning your citizenship than simply conjuring your state of mind.

“Man, it’s been such a long day, I can’t even remember anymore” I groaned.

We set off shakily, our pickup struggling to gain speed with its massive load. A horse-drawn cart rolled past, leaving our shaky vehicle in the dust. Shortly after departing Thazi, the pickup had its first breakdown. An hour later, the owner stopped to secretly siphon gas into the tank from a roadside oil drum. As we drove, Mikey chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes blowing smoke in my face in between eruptions of flatulence and cackling giggle fits with the driver. Spending the night in Thazi began to look like an attractive option.

Despite the setbacks, I realized my earlier anxiety was gone. Each unexpected stop seemed less like a challenge than a bizarre novelty. I found myself smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. Mikey even bought me a can of iced coffee, trading a grin and thumbs up of solidarity. As I sipped my shockingly sweet Coffee King beverage, I happened to glance up at the night sky, which had unfurled itself behind the Shan foothills like a blanket of twinkling brilliance. Sparkling meteorites zipped and swooshed with startling frequency. Distant constellations seemed to pulse and move like the rhythm of a cosmic ocean. In my semi-lucid state, I stared in wonder, mouth agape. At that moment, all the doubts, insecurities and vanities of my journey faded. This was exactly where I needed to be.


After each repair, we were back on the road, our ride wobbling ever higher in the foothills of Shan State. The smooth pavement became a dirt road treacherous with potholes. It was not much more than a single car wide, and we had to share with the hulking Chinese semis lumbering past, showering our vehicle with aromas of diesel fumes and dust. It was all I could do to keep from gagging on these noxious clouds, fortifying myself with the knowledge that clean night air would soon return to my window, along with that luminous sky.

Seven hours passed before the lights of Taunggyi shined in the distance, glittering like a city on a hill. It had been over 20 hours since I left Yangon that morning. I found the nearest guesthouse, banged on the door until it opened and collapsed on a bed. My longest day soon faded into the memory of the stillness of night.

Life frequently requires us to make decisions without fully understanding their impact. I keep asking myself the same questions about my purpose and finding no clear answers. Where am I headed? What’s the point? With so much uncertainty and doubt, it’s easy to believe I’ve lost my way. Except that I haven’t. Whenever I have these moments of doubt I remind myself to take a deep breath, and look up at the night sky. Suddenly I find myself transported back to that night in Burma when I rediscovered my purpose, gazing up at a blanket of stars shimmering with light.

Visiting The Favela Of Rocinha In Rio De Janeiro, Brazil

by Jessica Festa on
“There were five people killed in the past two days,” Patrick, tour guide from Be A Local, whispered to me. “Even though the cops are moving the gangs, they’re trying to get back in.”

It was sunny and 85 degrees Fahrenheit that afternoon in Rio de Janeiro. In the distance, I could see trekkers climbing Sugarloaf Mountain, hang gliders whizzing through the air and kayakers taking advantage of the calm waters and beautiful beaches. So, what was I doing spending the day wandering around one of the most notoriously dangerous places in the country, the favela of Rocinha?

The previous day, I had been hanging out with a local who had told me that she thought it was an interesting and eye-opening experience, and even she had done a favela tour. In Rio, colorful hillside favelas dot the landscape just as much as beaches and mountains. If you want to really get to know the whole personality of Rio de Janeiro, you should consider visiting one — with a tour, of course, as these places can be unsafe to enter alone.

This is what brought me to Rocinha, instead of the beach, on that beautiful day. For those who don’t know what a favela is, it’s basically a slum or shantytown. Rocinha is the biggest favela in Brazil, and one of the largest in the world. While a 2010 census found there to be about 70,000 occupants, many believe there are actually more than 150,000. The favela is so big it is actually considered a neighborhood with its own neighborhood association. While many of the houses do have basic amenities and the town has shopping and cultural opportunities, it is still not somewhere you want to hangout alone. Concrete buildings aren’t made of concrete because it looks nice; they’re made that way because it gives extra protection from bullets over brick homes. At the bottom of the hill, you will find sewage, garbage and crumbling homes due to poor foundation. The smell in the air flips between rotten eggs and sewage to sweet cakes and sizzling meats, as you stumble through narrow alleys and over uneven rock, decaying wood and twisted wires.

Usually, the way a favela works is the people who live in them do not pay taxes. However, since November of 2011, police forces have taken over the streets in an attempt to clean up the area. Now residents do pay taxes and the cable and electric that was once illegally installed in homes is accounted for. Furthermore, police have been able to move gangs that had been wreaking havoc over the favela, although there are still problems with these groups trying to invade. Still, I was surprised that with all the corruption, disease and drug dealings Rocinha is known for, there are facilities like clothing shops, medical facilities, dance schools, art galleries, bakeries and even a daycare center. The favela has a rich culture and many of the residents are friendly, especially the energetic children that dance and smile in the streets.




One reason for the improvement in quality of life is these people who would once beg for money now are being told they must earn it. Whether through baking, painting, dancing, or drumming – as you can see in my video above – many of these people are now working hard to make money. Moreover, a samba school, ballet school, and music school are also in the favela, allowing for youths to become involved in extracurricular activities. At the bottom of the hill, a sports complex offering boxing, martial arts, capoeira, football, volleyball, swimming, surfing and more is offered, free of charge, as long as the family’s children are enrolled in school. The city is planning to also install cable cars and funiculars, to help those who work in the city and children in school get home in an easier and safer way. Events in the favela like marathons, boxing matches, and dance competitions are also giving the area something positive to focus on.

While walking around the favela, it was clear there is a lot of room for improvement. However, it is also obvious there are people living there with a lot of potential who want to do something good with their lives. The area holds a lot of culture- and the best view of Rio in town- it just needs to remove the dirt and grime hiding its beauty. At least 20% of Rio de Janeiro’s population lives in favelas, and most of them are good people who just want to put a roof over their heads. Hopefully, the new favela pacification program can continue to help bring a higher quality of life to these people.