El Friaje - story of a cold spell

The friaje. Alan Lee “Friiiooo, Friiioooo, Friiioooo” came the whistle of the hidden bird in the tangled vegetation beyond the canopy tower upon which I was standing. I peered up at the wispy clouds in the sky, remembering the story Jose Duran had told me two years before about how one always new a friaje, or cold front, was coming by the voices of certain birds that called just before. “Hay uno que siempre dice “Friioo”” (“There is one that always says “Cold””) Jose had pointed out to me as I tried spotting the Rufous-capped Nunlet calling close to the lodge. And indeed, the inflection of the thin whistling call was perfect. A few days later the voices of the birds had dried up from the jungle and the incessant shrill of cicadas that make their songs 24 hours a day had stopped as the trees swayed to the echoes of an Antarctic winter pushed up along the Andes into the heart of the jungle. This journey I had arrived this time to Piedras on the coat tails of a friaje 2 weeks before and the weather had been crisp and dry ever since, gradually growing warmer with each passing day. Being the middle of July, the middle of the southern hemisphere winter, I new we were due a cold front and mentally checked the warm clothes that still lay packed up at the bottom of my rucksack. That evening when I arrived back to the hammocks of swinging students, I mentioned to my supervisor: “A cold front is coming, I heard the Rufous-capped Nunlet calling today.” “Nonsense!” said Stuart, who despite many field trips to Brazil, had yet to experience the full effects of a friaje and had become cynical as to their existence. That night after dinner I lay on the wooden walkway leading from the communal rest area to our bungalows. I could make out the sinuous form of Scorpio through feathers of thin clouds, the pincers of the formation strangely punctuated by some brilliant, unknown planet. Every now and again the formation would fade as the sky lit up as the humidity of the Amazon sky carried the pulses of lightning from distant storms whose clouds we could not see and thunder we could not hear. The calls of the macaws heading to the clay lick the next morning heralded a clear day, no signs of a cold front in the vicinity. Or was that a tone of urgency in their calls? Did they know something we did not as we set out for our last morning of data collection for the students’ individual projects? Last chance for a bite of clay before the grey rains prevented the jungle denizens from leaving the refuge of their roosts? Us humans continued with alacrity, counting ants, palms, moths and butterflies, our sense of what tomorrow’s weather brings blunted by the general ease of access to weather.com. In the evening the Cuba Libres flowed faster than the waters of the Tambopata river, as we toasted the successful field trip and revelled in our experiences and joyous company. Music and dancing heated the night and only while navigating the open walkway to the bathrooms by the faint kerosene lamplight did I glance up at the sky for a glimpse of the scorpion’s starry tail in the sky to realise that an endless blanket of cloud had put the galaxy to bed. In the morning a cold breeze blew my un-tucked mosquito net over my face and I unwrapped myself from the depths of my sleeping bag. No calling birds greeted me this morning, no crickets or insects or howler monkeys. Racing grey clouds dragged sheets of misty rain beneath them that must have born the invisible command “Silence!” that only the wildlife could see. “Isn’t this wonderful? I wish the weather could be like this all the time!” said Stuart, as I pulled my beanie tighter over my ears to warm them against the damp cold that made me believe the thermometer with saying 12 degrees Celsius was lying. It definitely felt colder. After hugged good-byes to those staying behind and by the time I had carried my rucksack and equipment the 10 minute walk to the boat, it almost felt warm again. But as the outboard motor on the boat roared and raced us to speeds of up to 30km/h, the chill wind bit through our jumpers and fleeces, causing even Stuart to abandon the helm where he was seated to seek the warmth of his sleeping bag at the back of the boat. Having to act as tripulante, or lookout, I was not able to follow. I wrapped myself up in my poncho to protect myself from the drizzle that cut in from the open front and sides. Soon my glasses were pooled with water and the wind was pushing its cold fingers through the unsealed gaps in my protection. I had only my shivering to keep me warm and was thankful that our boat driver, from the native community Montesalvado further upriver, knew the river so well as the wind and rain hid from me the telltale lines in the water that warned of sandbars below the surface. Inevitably, we found ourselves cornered off in a section of the river by sandbars, and some of us had to strip off our trousers to enter the river to push the boat into deeper water. The water was surprisingly warm and the exercise invigorating. But the respite was brief, and after 3 more hours I was thankful to uncurl my stiff body for the short trip to the Hotel Cabana Quinta and the luxury of the warm showers that awaited. In the end the friaje was a short one, only 3 days of grey and cold so I was thankful that on my next boat trip upriver to Refugio that the degrees were once again accumulating on our thermometers. Yes, it does get cold in the Peruvian Amazon, even Stuart agrees. Be prepared!