The boat engine dropped to an idle, and the suddenly deafening silence was filled with the sound of the Paraguay River lapping against the hull. I was ninety kilometres south of Corumbá, staring at a whitewashed fort that had been sitting on this riverbank since 1775. This is Forte de Coimbra.
Our pilot cut the motor completely, letting the current do the work, and pointed me toward the landing. I'd been told it would be a proper frontier story. I just hadn't felt it yet. But there it was, this compact, star-shaped bastion staring me down. It looks smaller than you'd imagine, maybe, and older, but the weight of the place is considerable.
The journey down here was a reward in itself. I left the Porto Geral this morning, before the sun got too high, and the sky was doing that winter thing it does here — all pale blue and endless. The river was the colour of strong coffee, wide and slow, sliding past sandbanks where caimans lay like misshapen logs and giant river otters surfacing with a huff, eyeing us as if we were intruders in their living room.
I've spent two days in Corumbá now, trying to get a feel for the place, and everyone I've spoken to has told me the same thing: you haven't understood this town until you've seen Coimbra. The history is not some vague, dusty artefact here. It is the reason this city exists.
Corumbá was founded in 1778, a year after the American Revolution, as a military outpost. It was built to control the river, but the fort here was the real guardian, watching over the border with what is now Bolivia and Paraguay.
That history is heavy. This old building is accused of being the spot where Brazil's resistance to the Paraguayan invasion began. In 1864 and into 1865, Paraguay's forces swept up the river, and all that stood against them at first was this fort. They called it the first chapter of the War of the Triple Alliance. The defenders held out long enough to delay the invasion, even if they were eventually overwhelmed.
I walked the ramparts, and the walls are an impressive three metres thick in places. It is sobering to stand where soldiers stood, watching for a smoke plume on the river bend, not knowing if the next ship would be friend or foe. The whole place hums with that kind of tension.
Getting here involved a bit of work. There is no paved road that follows the river reliably, so you've got to go by boat. You can charter a boat from Porto Esperança, which is a trip in itself, or you can find a tour operator in Corumbá. It's about a two-hour trip on the water, give or take, depending on the current and the boat. The military still administers the fort, so I had to call ahead, ask for permission. They are used to visitors, but it is not a turn-up-and-wander-about sort of place. You have to plan it.
The trip cost me about two hundred and fifty reais including the guide and the fuel money for the boat owner. That is, you know, about forty-five dollars, and for a private day trip that feels reasonable. It is a proper expedition.
Standing out there, in that empty space, I kept thinking about how young Brazil is, not as a country, but as a settled place. It is a theme that keeps coming up in this journey. In Foz do Iguaçu, the story was about the natural wonder and the triple frontier. Here, it's about the very first lines drawn on a map, lines people fought and died over.
There were more modern layers too, I noticed. From the fort's tower, you can see the outline of the Urucum mountains to the north-east, that deep red iron-ore massif that drives so much of this region's economy. Watching the big cargo ships negotiate the river, the same waterway the Paraguayans used for their gunboats, it feels like the old and the new are in constant conversation.
My boat pilot, a quiet man named Sebastião, smoked a cigarette and said little during the crossing, but as we pulled away from the fort he finally spoke, pointing to the far bank. 'That's Bolivia over there,' he said. It was that simple. A river that is a dozen wide lanes of water, and two different countries staring at each other.
The return journey felt faster, the current pushing us back toward Corumbá. I leaned back in the boat and let the wind dry the sweat off my face. I thought about the cold beer waiting for me and the feeling that I'd just touched something that matters.
Back on shore, I wandered the Casario do Porto again. The riverfront is a collection of colourful, slightly faded colonial facades, all peeling paint and old signs. It is easy to see why they call it the 'Cidade Branca' — the white city — because of the pale limestone soil that dusts everything in the dry season. It coats your boots and your eyelids. You feel it in your teeth, sometimes.
I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since a quick coffee at Dolce Café, a good spot near the Praça da Independência. The coffee was strong, about eight reais for a large one, which is a touch over a dollar and a half. I'd tried pacu and pintado already, but I had not yet had the proper local caldo de piranha.
I found a little place near the old market, a counter with plastic chairs, and ordered a bowl. The broth is a rich, salty, deep-flavoured thing, with chunks of the piranha and a dusting of coriander, and you drink it hot with a squeeze of lime. It was about twenty five reais with a fresh bread roll to dip. Roughly four and a half dollars. It is probably the most Corumbá thing you can eat. The dish is not just food, it is a kind of identity, a way of surviving in a land of big predators and little fish.
My apartment for the night is a good example of what you get for your money here. A simple, clean place in the Centro, close to everything, and it is costing me about a hundred and ten reais a night. That is about twenty dollars. For that, you get a fan, a hot shower, and a view of the street. You don't come to Corumbá for luxury. You come for the access to the Pantanal.
The town is a busy border hub. There are frequent buses that leave from Praça da República and head over the border to Puerto Quijarro and Puerto Suárez in Bolivia. I'll do that run tomorrow, see what the other side of the river looks like, but today is about the Brazilian story.
There are still plans to wrestle with. The bridge over the Paraguay River on the BR-262 is scheduled for closure — I was told the first full closure is going to be this coming Friday, from five in the evening until noon on Saturday, and they are going to do it again on the twenty second and the twenty ninth. They say they are doing repair works and need to do it in half-lane mode. It is worth checking before you plan any road trip out of Corumbá in the next few weeks. That is not something I've confirmed, so ask locally when you get here.
As the sun began to set, I walked up to the hill where the Cristo Rei do Pantanal statue stands, looking over the city and the river. The light was going golden, turning the water into a sheet of polished bronze. I stood there for a long time.
This is the thing about the Pantanal. It is not a place of urgent drama. It is a place of patience and wide horizons, a place that forces you to slow down and look. The jaguars are out there, somewhere, in the receding water, but you don't go chasing them. You wait. You listen.
I thought about the fort, and the soldiers, and the river, and the thin, fragile line of history that runs through all of it. This place has survived wars, floods, and the slow erosion of time, and it is still here, still insisting on its own story.
I am two days into my eight in Corumbá, and I can already feel the particular pull of this place. The saudade has started to set in, before I've even left. There is a rhythm to the river town, a quieter pulse than the big cities, and you either get it or you don't. I think I get it.
Tomorrow, Bolivia. Today, the river and the fort. I am learning to let the days unfold the way they want to, rather than forcing them into some neat itinerary. The best things here seem to happen in between the plan.
For now, I am going to find a cold beer, maybe a caipirinha, find a bench near the Porto Geral, and just watch the boats move in the dark. This is the Brazil I came for, the one that doesn't hurry, and I'm learning to keep it company.
That is it for today. From Corumbá, from the edge of the river, and from the shadow of a very old fort, this is Rafael, sending you a little bit of saudade from the Pantanal. Até amanhã.