For breakfast in Belém, a Brazilian city on the Amazon River, I needed a drink. The menu was baffling - all I knew were pineapple and mango juices. What about bacuri, buriti, muruci? Even my phone was confused with "uxi", a Zulu word meaning "you are". But then I spotted names from my journey downriver, like cupuaçu and açaí.
I'd picked up cupuaçu pods in Colombia 3,000 km back. In Peru, there was also açaí - a purple berry growing high on a wild palm. The Amazon is vast and varied but remarkably similar along its length.
My six-week adventure started with a conference on sustainable tourism in Peru. I'd set off from Belém towards the city that had been declared the location for the Cop30 conference, determined to cut air miles. I used public riverboats, met people working to preserve the environment and learned about the challenges of conservation.
Tourism can be a double-edged sword when it comes to saving the planet. Flying is CO2-intensive, tourism is a luxury. But some people see it as a way to support sustainable development. A schoolboy in Brazil told me his father was a rancher who burned forests to feed cattle. But he wanted to be a tour guide instead.
In Belém, I met Charles, who runs a small handicraft shop and sells his own açaí. "It goes with anything," he said. On Ilha do Combu, an atoll beyond the waterfront, I saw how açaí was becoming a valuable product for local farmers.
But rubber has had a very different impact on the Amazon. The discovery of its properties triggered a catastrophic series of events that still haunt the region today. Rubber made fortunes but also led to exploitation and disaster for indigenous tribes who were forced into harsher labour conditions.
Açaí has avoided some of these issues, but not all. Some people have dented its reputation with hyperbole about superfoods. On Ilha do Combu, Charles wasn't worried though - local demand was strong and prices good.
On my final journey on the river, I found a small cafe on an island near the mouth. The owner served me lunch with delicious river fish, pineapple ceviche and a dessert with pale green berries that I'd never seen before. "Like açaí," she said. But different.
I'd picked up cupuaçu pods in Colombia 3,000 km back. In Peru, there was also açaí - a purple berry growing high on a wild palm. The Amazon is vast and varied but remarkably similar along its length.
My six-week adventure started with a conference on sustainable tourism in Peru. I'd set off from Belém towards the city that had been declared the location for the Cop30 conference, determined to cut air miles. I used public riverboats, met people working to preserve the environment and learned about the challenges of conservation.
Tourism can be a double-edged sword when it comes to saving the planet. Flying is CO2-intensive, tourism is a luxury. But some people see it as a way to support sustainable development. A schoolboy in Brazil told me his father was a rancher who burned forests to feed cattle. But he wanted to be a tour guide instead.
In Belém, I met Charles, who runs a small handicraft shop and sells his own açaí. "It goes with anything," he said. On Ilha do Combu, an atoll beyond the waterfront, I saw how açaí was becoming a valuable product for local farmers.
But rubber has had a very different impact on the Amazon. The discovery of its properties triggered a catastrophic series of events that still haunt the region today. Rubber made fortunes but also led to exploitation and disaster for indigenous tribes who were forced into harsher labour conditions.
Açaí has avoided some of these issues, but not all. Some people have dented its reputation with hyperbole about superfoods. On Ilha do Combu, Charles wasn't worried though - local demand was strong and prices good.
On my final journey on the river, I found a small cafe on an island near the mouth. The owner served me lunch with delicious river fish, pineapple ceviche and a dessert with pale green berries that I'd never seen before. "Like açaí," she said. But different.