Bonito is a town in western Brazil where the rivers are clear enough to see tens of metres through, and the way to see them is face down. Rain sinks into the limestone hills and comes back up in springs carrying dissolved stone, which takes every particle of silt to the bottom with it. On the Rio da Prata you get in where the spring wells up, arms tucked in, breathing through a snorkel, and let two kilometres of river carry you. The current does all the moving. Underwater meadows bend beneath you the whole way, the sunlight reaching the sand, and shoals of silver piraputanga hold station a hand's width from your mask without moving aside. Nothing that could film the water goes into it: no sunscreen, no repellent.
The same dissolved stone builds the rivers' furniture. On the Rio Mimoso a forest trail steps from one waterfall to the next, each pouring over a rounded lip of travertine the water laid down itself. The pools below are cool, faintly milky with carbonate, and open to swim in. The rock is hollow underneath as well. At the Gruta do Lago Azul some three hundred steps drop through a stalactite-hung chamber to a platform above a lake of impossible blue. For a few weeks from mid-December the early sun lines up with the forty-metre cave mouth and fires it electric. Nobody swims there, because the floor of that lake is a bed of Ice Age bones. At Abismo Anhumas a crack in a cattle pasture opens into a shaft you go down on a rope, seventy-two metres in the dark, to a lake with limestone cones twenty metres tall standing half-drowned. All of this still looks the way it does because the town set a daily ceiling for every site in 1995, fixed by biologists before the crowds arrived. And the forest leaning over the Prata was partly planted by the fish in it: the piraputanga takes figs off the twig, launching clear of the surface for them, and passes the seeds through whole.