After Sucre we were torn between heading straight to La Paz, the bustling capital, or further into the wilderness and the Amazon basin, which was no small feat transportation-wise during the rainy season. While we eventually decided we didn’t quite have enough time to dive head-first into the commitment of malaria meds (throwback, doxy-sick anyone?) and amazonian jungle treks, with the basin so close we decided to at least dip our feet in.

Emily and I first went to Cochabamba. By this point in the trip, the festival of throwing water balloons at easily startled blondes was in full swing- so much so that I actually have a watermark in my journal from writing on a bus with an open window. Amateur mistake. After an afternoon getting to know Cochabamba and their fabulously decorated ice cream (I ordered the “carniveral” which looked like a clown wearing half a broken cone for a crown; try saying that five times fast) we quickly departed for Villa Tunari. The busride alone was worth the detour. Glimpsing up from my thrilling Dan Brown novel, my jaw hit the gross bus floor as I noticed we were careening through Amazonian cliffs. Everywhere I looked was filled with steam rising from the jungles and rivers below forming clouds hugging the roads around us. At one point we passed through a mountain tunnel void of any lights which reminded me of the scary boat ride in Willy Wonka, except instead of Wonka reciting a crazy creepy poem while neon lights played behind his face, we merely had a Bolivian bus driver singing along to Shakira.

We were starving by the time we arrived, so we stopped at one of the first restaurants we encountered to try some of the freshly caught fish. While the catfish was delicious, it turned out to be more of a challenge than I anticipated, as I had to eat with one hand and keep the other constantly brushing away the swarm of flies that couldn’t take a hint. After lunch we asked a local hostel owner the quickest way to get to the river, to which she responded with her thumb pointing over her back. We followed the relative direction and came across a clearly marked path leading to a stairwell that descended into the wildlife – at the bottom a small stream filled with local women and children washing clothes and bathing. We very discreetly (read: awkwardly) made our way through with our shoes in our hands, until our path was abruptly cut short by a brown river just barely too wide to jump. Even with a running start.

“No problem, we’ll do the stick test and see if we can wade through.”

When the mini tree we threw into the center was swallowed whole and never seen again, we decided to reevaluate our options.

To the left the river was visibly passable, and we thought we kind of saw the inklings of a trail, and so embracing the tourist part of us that delighted in reading Lonely Planet’s “Off the Beaten Path” recommendations, we decided to carve our own. Within about thirty seconds we were officially trailblazing in the Amazon, dodging thorns, stepping over Jumanji style man-eating flowers, and swatting our own sweat beads that we were convinced were poisonous insects and spiders. As we finally reached the river bank we discovered, and I swear I’m not exaggerating, giant jaguar footprints. I repeat, giant jaguar footprints. I know this first of all because I am now a footprint expert after my dinosaur museum trip, and second of all because Lonely Planet warned me.

Anyway, we followed the footprints to the giant real river ahead, and spent the rest of our time dipping our feet in and applauding ourselves for turning a boring city trip into an Amazonian adventure.