Living in Peru : your everyday companion

Have you enjoyed following Martin Strel´s Amazon Swim at www.amazonswim.com and would like to hear more? The whole background story with details is now available in the Book called "The Man Who Swam the Amazon".

3274 mile Swim on the Amazon River in 66 days, piranha, crocodiles, anaconda, river sharks, blistering and relentless sun, dangerous currents, river pirates and drug runners, and the insidious candirú.

A few months old story is drawn from the eloquent and evocative trip diaries of writer Matthew Mohlke, who, armed with buckets of blood to divert piranhas, guided Martin Strel down the World’s Deadliest River.

The Man Who Swam the Amazon Book is a gripping and inspirational story of perseverance, passion, and endurance what a human can do: a real-life odyssey of a rare and driven man.

Prologue chapter from the book

Is Martin Strel crazy? Does he have a death wish?

OK, I’ll be honest. When I signed on as a kayaker to help navigate Martin Strel down the Amazon River, I gave him about a fifty-percent chance of survival. Myself, I gave a ninety-percent chance. One thing was certain though. Martin Strel would either swim the entire Amazon River, or die trying.

The man had the whole country of Slovenia on his back, and he had too much pride to return to his homeland having failed in doing what he’d set out to do. Martin isn’t the type of man who will be content riding out his waning years in some swank condo on the beach, peacefully watching the tide ebb and flow. Martin is a man of adventure. I’ve personally watched the man swim every mile of the Mississippi and the Paraná, and closely followed his exploits on the Danube, Yangtze, and other large rivers. But this is the Amazon. I gave him some credit for swimming those other big rivers. But still, I set the over/under at fifty percent. Is he crazy? Well, read the book and decide for yourself.


January 27, 2007—Atalaya, Peru

A barrel-chested Martin Strel steps off our twelve-passenger jungle plane amidst a throng of puzzled Peruvian faces. They’d seated us according to weight on the tiny plane from Pucallpa, big guys in front, small guys in the back. The two-hour flight has no schedule; the plane takes off whenever they find enough people to fill it.

Atalaya is a jungle town. The only way to reach it is by boat or plane. Everything is alive with green as the jungle tries to retake the city. “I love the smell of the jungle,” a sweat drenched Martin declares as he exits the plane with his new Peruvian guitar in his hand.

The founder of Atalaya was Juan Santos Atahualpa. He was an Apu Inca who led 50,000 Ashaninkan Indians against the Spaniards in 1742. “There will be no slavery,” he declared, and they gave up their lives to ensure the future freedom of these same Incan descendants who gaze on Martin today. He’s the first white man some of these warm people have ever seen and is twice as big as most of them.

We have dinner in a shaded hut on top of the largest hill in town. After a few beers, Martin lies in a hammock and listens to some peaceful Peruvian music while three chickens roost around him. “I love the jungle,” he tells us with a smile. He had visited Atalaya a few years earlier to exchange gifts with some tribal chiefs and shamans in order to be granted permission to pass through certain remote areas of the river. In doing so, he had fallen in love with the city a little.

Martin has developed a thing for the new machete he purchased from a native last evening, and has been gleefully carrying it around the village with him all day. His behavior is somehow childlike, innocent. I’ve been relishing these last few days of enjoying South America with Martin, because I know that the moment he dips a toe into that Amazon River, he will transform into an entirely different man. Martin the man is my friend. Martin the swimmer is just a guy I work for, and I know that the moment he flips the switch, he’ll be a tough man to deal with for the next seventy days.

February 1, 2007—Amazon jungle near Taurapa, Peru

A tone of chaos dominates the morning of the expedition’s start. The 8:00 AM start is fast approaching, and Jamie has still not showed up with the support boat. We hire another boat to take the team and equipment downstream to meet it, but an argument arises between Martin and the owner of the boat. The man wants 200 Sol, the Peruvian currency, and Borut is only willing to give him 100. A multimillion-dollar expedition is being held up over the equivalent of thirty dollars.

  After Borut finally convinces the man of a compromise, a tremendous downpour begins. The team is forced to store hundreds of thousands in satellite equipment in a stinky bathroom by the riverfront. Hundreds of soaking-wet Atalayans brave the weather and slight delay to cheer Martin on from the waterfront. “The jungle is crying because you are leaving.” The words of one local sum up the mood in Atalaya as Martin prepares to begin his seventy-day swim in a heavy downpour.

Martin enters the river about an hour and a half after his scheduled starting time. He shoots away from shore so fast that the small escort boat struggles to keep up with him in the heavy current. He swims the first three hours in total silence, stopping once to utter a single word, “DRINK.” The six people in the escort boat stare in disbelief as he quickly guzzles a pint of energy drink, then goes back to his powerful freestyle stroking. They’re all a little disappointed, having waited for hours for him to pop his head up and talk to them, proving that he’s human. They’d only been gifted one word. An hour later, they’re treated again. “How many kilometers?” followed by a grunt, then more swimming.

Martin becomes a little more vocal in the late morning, stopping twice to give Jamie an earful. Jamie had taken his eyes off the river for a few seconds to take a few pictures of the beautiful scenery. “Jamie, this is not holiday. This is not tourist boat. Once mistake, we all go home.” Grimacing, he says these last words with a throat-slashing gesture.

Jamie had volunteered to take over my morning shift after an all night boat trip as I was struggling with a severe bout of diarrhea. He does an excellent job directing Martin into the fastest possible current while under considerable pressure to navigate during the all-important first half day of the expedition. After draining my whole box of Imodium, I start a five-day regiment of prescription drugs, grab a bucket and some toilet paper, and hop in the escort boat to start my first Amazon shift with Martin.

It’s impossible for Martin to swim and think about swimming at the same time. The best analogy I can offer is that while swimming, Martin is outside of his body. It’s the only way he can withstand the pain and last every day through the long hours. I watch him swim, I see his body moving, but his glazed, unfocused eyes show that he’s really not there.

As navigators, our jobs are simple. Look for the fastest current, avoid whirlpools, and blow a whistle every time danger comes. But, at the same time, I must use discretion. To blow my whistle and bring Martin back to the pains of the present moment pisses him off, so I do that as little as possible.

We use GPS and detailed topo maps to track our progress and make decisions about where to stop and what side of islands to travel on. We also prepare drinks and carry bananas for Martin and provide an outlet for him as scapegoats for when he needs to blow off steam.

A moist morning surrenders to a tranquil afternoon of light breezes and mysterious animal noises. The rain is gone, the sun is covered in clouds, and a tone of adventure captivates the team. The foothills of the Andes are shrouded in cotton balls as Borut and I take turns paddling a small support boat with local guides Geraldo, Arturo, and Jarvez.


February 22, 2007—Tabatinga, Brazil

We receive a rock star welcome at the Complejo Turistico de Tabatinga by a mob of Martin Strel fans that’d been following the trip since day one. The mayor brings out his entourage of samba dancers and presents Martin with the key to the city.

I’m happy to have finished our two-day stint along the little finger of Columbia that cuts in along the river between Brazil and Peru. From here it will be Brazil for the rest of the trip. There is no comparison between Brazil and Peru. When you cross the border, everything changes. The colors get brighter, the frowns turn into smiles, and everyone wants to dance. The Brazilian women are like creatures from a different planet, and their aggressive gyrations indicate they may be looking to extend their species.

Actually, there is a very odd social problem in Brazil. There are too many women. Nobody knows exactly why, but there is such an abundance of Brazilian women that many have become alpha-females, claiming the male for their sole possession and physically defending their catch against other potential alpha-females. They try to seal the deal early, using two of the things they’re best at, dancing and sex.

We say goodbye to the Peruvians aboard the Cielito Lindo and move onto the M.S. Cassiquiari. It’s a rainy, quiet farewell as the Peruvians wait for a big tip that never really materializes. Alfredo breathes a big sigh and tells us, “I didn’t want to scare you earlier, but I really didn’t think we would survive all the way through Peru. It was a lot more dangerous than I told you it would be. We must have just gotten lucky.” No wonder he was stoned the whole time.

At lunchtime, Jamie stands up and announces to the team that he will not be accompanying us into Brazil. We expect a big reaction from Martin, but he just nods his head and says, “Ok Jamie, big mistake for you.” Jamie promptly checks in to a motel in Columbia and is robbed of his cell phone and digital camera that same day.

Borut learns that the exchange rate for Brazilian reais (pronounced hay-ICE) was better in nearby Leticia, Columbia. He insists I go with him for the trade. He had $15,000—150 crisp hundreds in a wad—and would save almost $2,000 at the better rate. Great, we were going into the belly of the cocaine and counterfeit money world with fifteen large wadded up in a fanny pack.


Acknowledgements (Afterword by Martin Strel)

Exploration of the world’s most unreachable places has become quite popular and challenging in the last decades. Some climb Everest, some sail around the world, some walk to the North and South poles, and some row across the oceans.

In recent years I’ve been rolled by a wave of dreams that inspired me to attempt to swim the world greatest rivers. The Amazon, the largest, longest, and most dangerous river, was always my biggest dream. I did not only swim the Amazon to achieve some great record or sport result, but also much more. I decided to do it with the mission to show the world something different, something really important for our present and future living. We have to protect our forests to keep them growing. We need to keep rivers and other waters clean. The world is still a beautiful place; we need to protect it and keep it that way for future generations. This issue is bigger than any of us alone can comprehend. The future of mankind depends on us.

I was not strong enough to swim the river all by myself; I had a talented team to support me. I decided to risk my life for this gruelling project, which shook up the world and made history. Without the right hard-working people around me, this would be an impossible mission. I would like to thank all of the people who I was fortunate to have around me, those who suffered and laughed with me, and contributed their own part to this unforgettable project.

Here, I would like to thank and name the following people, companies and institutions which helped make my challenge possible. Without the names on this little dedicated space at the end of the book, this project would not be possible.


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