It’s the green that draws you in, coming to land at Iquitos airport. I fundamentally understood, of course, that the Amazon Rainforest is enormous. We’ve constantly been told about this unique ecosystem’s vast size and mysterious power, but seeing it from above is a different beast altogether. It’s one thing to read that the Amazon covers six million square kilometres; it’s another to get a bird’s-eye view of endless stretches of green, as far as the eye can see.

Well – not entirely green. Because meandering between it all, a rare break in the verdant stretches: the sinuous lifeline of the Amazon River.

My first glimpse of the Amazon River actually took place the day before I arrived on its shores, on my flight from Amsterdam to Lima. As we flew over South America, the river’s brown waters cut through the landscape in a series of elegant twists and turns, like a carefully stitched piece of embroidery.

We were over 2,000 kilometres from my destination of Iquitos, and yet there those same waters were, flowing through the rural landscape of Venezuela. Running for 6,400 kilometres, passing through six countries and stretching between the Peruvian Andes and the Atlantic Ocean, it holds an almost mythical reputation.

Floating hut on the Amazon

The Amazon travels through some of the most rural parts of our world. More than 34 million people live in the Amazon basin, and many of these live in rural communities that are only accessible by water – either along the Amazon itself, or one of its tributaries that flow deeper into the forest. Beyond being a key ecosystem for flora and fauna – it is believed that around 10% of known species in the world live in the Amazon – the river is a literal lifeblood for these communities.

Landing in Iquitos, the largest city in the world only accessible by air or boat, it’s almost inconceivable that this thriving town, home to nearly half a million residents, is completely cut off from vehicle transportation. Once a relatively small community, Iquitos rapidly grew during the late 1800s and early 1900s when the rubber industry boomed.

These days, though, arriving at Iquitos airport, you’ll find fewer Fitzcarraldos and more tourists. You’ve got the elephant-trouser-clad crowd here to find themselves at ayahuasca retreats. You’ve got intrepid backpackers setting out for rainforest lodges. And then there’s me, a perpetually sweaty, arachnophobic travel journalist who figured that drifting downriver in an air-conditioned boat with Pisco Sours was preferable to sweating through the undergrowth in mortal terror of eight-legged surprises.

Aqua Expeditions, the operators of my floating home for the next four days, have been cruising the Amazon River since 2007. The two ships that explore this region – Aria Amazon and Aqua Nera – feature just 16 and 20 suites each, making these ultra-boutique, luxury cruises that feel more like group trips with friends than anything resembling the gargantuan ships that define ocean cruising.

My first sight of our trusty steed is through a wall of water. Fittingly, given the Amazon’s status as a rainforest, the heavens opened almost the exact moment we arrive to board. Sheltering under a pavilion, I get a first glimpse of how this final frontier of wilderness is completely at the whim of Mother Nature.

River boat on the Amazon

Sheets of rain pound on the roof, and the wind and water turn the river into a maelstrom, its latte-hued depths churning with rage in the fading daylight. As we all peer out apprehensively, vaguely concerned we may not make it to our beds tonight, a frog hops straight onto the wooden floor. Cameras are whipped out, shutters snapping.

Our first animal sighting in the Amazon! I peer around suddenly remembering where I am, expecting a tarantula to come leaping at me from the ceiling, or an anaconda to slither out of the bushes, jaws snapping.

Unsurprisingly, neither of those things happen. In fact, I don’t see any spiders on my four-day trip, nor do I see any monkeys. I see a lot of birds flitting between the trees, and a couple of sloths slowly loping through the branches, dangling effortlessly and camouflaging into the leaves. We spy an abundance of pink dolphins, which, in person, are a little more muted in hue than you might expect.

Once, they surface in every direction around us while we’re being paddled across a tributary in the Pacaya-Samiria National Reserve in a concerningly unstable canoe. A few times, they breach briefly while we’re motoring along on one of our multiple excursions.

One of my fellow guests catches a piranha on a fishing expedition, and just ten minutes later, as we chug back to the boat, we come across two fishermen trying to extricate a glossy, imposing anaconda that had been accidentally tangled in their nets. As we watch, one of them deftly grabs it by the tail, while his friend almost tips the dugout in his effort to jump out of the way.

More than just for burnt our westerners, ayahuasca is an integral part of life on the Amazon  

While certainly impressive, it’s hardly the terrifying hellscape of tarantulas, snakes and carnivorous fish I had imagined. In the lead-up to the trip, my excitement had been tempered by nightmares of treks through the bush where large, hairy spiders rain from the branches and snakes coil around every trunk. In reality, it wasn’t the animals that caught my attention on our trip as much as it was the people we encountered along the way.

After half an hour hunkered on land, the rain eventually eases enough for us to make our way across to the ship on the skiff. Following an introduction, one too many Pisco Sours and a blissful sleep in a room as big as any you would find in a hotel on land, I am up before sunrise for a dawn expedition to meet a local village healer. Stepping out into the already sticky early morning heat, I am struck by the smell. It is almost tangible; verdant and fruity. It smells alive.

Aqua Nera suite

There is some kind of irony that, despite distinguishing myself from the enlightenment-seeking wellness tourists at the airport, my first morning on the river would have me face-to-face with the psychedelic root. More than just an avenue for burnt-out Westerners to avoid therapy, ayahuasca is an integral part of indigenous life along the Amazon.

It is often used in small doses by healers – and plays a key part in the selection of new healers, where the one who currently holds that title partakes in the ceremony and lets their visions guide them on the new recruit. Once chosen, the incoming healer heads out into the forest with them for a few years in order to fully understand the natural medicine on offer in this vast ecosystem and how to use it adequately and responsibly.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it – we weren’t consuming any today. Instead, we were given an insightful look into how the many communities along the riverbanks are nourished by the immense wilderness in which they live. People often blithely suggest that the cure for cancer could be hiding in the Amazon. If it were, it would be people like this who would find it.

After heading back to the boat for breakfast, we are back on the skiffs, this time motoring up the river, past reeds and dense foliage to another village. As we pull up to the riverbank, 20 kids come running up to the boat, inspecting us as we disembark. One of them, a little girl no older than six or seven, is captivated by the collection of charm bracelets I always wear on my right wrist.

I point to one and explain, in broken Spanish, that my sister gave it to me. She smiles, and asks me my name. For the remainder of our time in the village, she is my shadow, pointing out her school, and introducing me to one of the many puppies roaming the grass.

George Davila

One of the benefits of travelling with Aqua Expeditions is that all of the guides hail from South America, with many of them coming from villages just like this. They don’t just speak the language, they also have an inherent understanding of everyday life along the river and what it means to live in such beautiful but remote and unforgiving surroundings.

Our guide has brought a bag of books and stationery with him – a gift from a guest on a previous trip – and the kids line up dutifully to receive their goods. Before we head off on the skiffs, I sneak up to my shadow and press the bracelet into the palm of her hand, saying my goodbyes.

Aqua has a symbiotic relationship with these communities we visit along our journey. Some are paid by the company to offer canoeing or kayaking excursions, with the villagers providing deep insight into how they interact with the dense wildlife around them – what trees contain what fruit, which areas of water to avoid and how to best avoid mosquito bites (rubbing termites on your skin, as it turns out). For others, it gives them a chance to sell their wares, like the vibrant, playful woven napkin holders that feature in every meal on our journey.

For us, though, it’s a chance to see how the river is intrinsically woven into the fabric of these communities. It is, of course, their only access to the outside world. Should anyone need to get into the city, either for supplies, modern medical care or education, they need to travel there by boat. But it’s so much more than just a connecting force – it feeds them, with many of these villages living off of fish caught in its waters.

It is a place to swim; a place to paddle. It ebbs in the dry season, revealing swathes of new land, and flows in the wet season, rising to swallow patches of reeds and climb up tree trunks. It’s not always a giver; the water can take as much as it offers, but when your family has lived on its banks for generations, locals quickly learn to move with its rhythms.

When we’re not out getting a feel for these rhythms, we’re on the boat jumping from the plunge pool to air-conditioned rooms in an attempt to fight the sticky, tropical heat. Efforts to keep you entertained onboard are just as immersive and interesting as those on the river or among the trees.

Toucan in the Amazon

On one afternoon, we sit on the back deck as we cruise, eyes and binoculars peeled to the trees for toucans and sloths. On another, we get a Pisco Sour and ceviche class from the kitchen team. Menus are designed by Peruvian chef Pedro Miguel Schiaffino using primarily indigenous Amazonian ingredients like caigua and paiche (an enormous fish native to the Amazon River). More than just sustenance, meals serve as a further immersion into the region.

On our last day, the skies are finally clear enough in the evening for our first sunset. I take a drink onto the back deck and have it entirely to myself. As the boat quietly drifts along, animals coo and caw from the trees in a natural pulse. The setting sun, hot and fiery orange in the sky, turns the water an otherworldly gold.

It feels like floating through another planet. And in many ways it is. As one of the last remaining truly pristine wildernesses – albeit one at increasing risk from climate change and deforestation – the Amazon is about as far from everyday life in London as it’s possible to get.

Rather than living in defiance of nature, here life takes place in harmony with it. And cruising along the lifeblood of this immense rainforest – the river that snakes through it all – feels like riding along with the beat