The locals called Mil ‘Guide One Thousand’, as though he was a new action toy figurine for hyperactive kids. Admittedly he was short, but not off-the-shelf size. I could appreciate the nickname though; as a guide, he was full of action, adventure and a thousand useful tips and monologues on this plant, that animal, this rock formation, that mountain top.

Without him, Brazil’s Chapada Diamantina, translated literally as Diamond Highlands, would still have sparkled, but not as brightly.

Humble pie beginnings

Mil was introduced by the man credited as the very reason for the Park’s existence: American biologist/ecologist and locally renowned character, Roy Funch.

A twenty-five year resident of the small colonial village of Lencois – a popular ‘base camp’ for Diamantina hikers – 54 year old Funch originally came to Brazil from Arizona as a Peace Corps volunteer. Stints in the bustling cities of Brasilia and Recife left Roy unfulfilled and so it was into the forgotten hills he headed; to Lencois and the Chapada at a time when it was still being mined – although in a severely depleted state – for diamonds.

“When I first got here, there was just a dirt road in and the people were dirt poor,” said Funch. “Diamond finds had petered out and with it the working population who migrated to coastal cities in search of work. All that remained were old buildings and old diamond miners still panning, still hoping for another rush.”

That rush came again not in precious stones but in the rich and untapped vein of tourism.

“When I saw the sheer beauty of the place, I thought ‘Back home, this would be a national park’ and a light went on in my head. As they say: ‘The dollar is as green as the trees’. When the locals realised one could be generated from the other, they supported tourism wholeheartedly.

And so Funch set up camp and went to work. An environmental background helped him establish contacts in the Brazilian government and after much lobbying he convinced the powers that be to officially declare the area a national park – a fearsome achievement in a country where officialdom rhetoric is much more prevalent than action.

As what he calls ‘punishment’ for his success, Funch was duly appointed as the newly named Parque Nacional Chapada Diamantina’s first Director to oversee conservation, a post he held for five years and continues to advise on.

Hiking hotspot

Today, Diamantina is a hotspot for hikers from around the globe. They venture in to explore a vast area of 38,000 sq km (15,000 sq miles) on anything from a half day traipse suitable for five year olds to challenging five day treks more suited to hardy hikers with a good deal of adventurous spirit and a resting pulse rate below 60.

One of the most scenically diverse parks of Brazil, Diamantina features sharp topography with deep valleys, gorges and ravines nestled in among isolated peaks. Intertwined are weather-sculptured rocks, crystal clear rivers, pools and gloriously isolated waterfalls.

Into the oases

Trekking into the park, our guide Mil strode forth waxing lyrical about his ten years of study with mentor, Roy Funch. His knowledge of botany, fauna, geography and local folklore was an entertaining highlight of the three day trek from Lencois to Fumaca Waterfall (literally ‘smokey waterfall’), the crown jewel of Diamantina.

As we crossed flooded ravines and mosquito infested fern gullies, Mil breathlessly continued his asides, pointing out various leaves and roots. “This is used as a snake-bite remedy,” he pointed at a rather benign looking root. “Only a few people know how to make the anti-venom. I’m one of them.”

And with thanks in our snake fearing hearts we trekked on with watchful eyes.

“This leaf is for abortion,” Mil stopped us dead in our politically correct tracks. “Three leaves, fifteen minutes boiled in water and no more,” he motioned with his hands away from his stomach.

As we approached a well-weathered stone and thatch hut, an elderly woman watched with cautious eyes as she weaved. Although operating illegally, a few hardy miners remain in the mountains, stubbornly continuing their search for diamonds. The woman, with an aura of pride, was one of those still clinging desperately to an era long gone.

“When they declared the park, the government refused to provide re-skilling for people who had known nothing but how to mine,” explained Mil. “People like that don’t know how to survive any other way, so they keep mining, living quietly, isolated in the hills, occasionally finding a small haul. Usually it’s enough for some food but more often than not they spend it on alcohol,” and for an instant Mil’s ever-present smile disappeared.

Later, stopped for a well-earned rest beside a small creek, Mil vanished, leaving his sweaty charges, presumably to answer the call of nature. Answer such a call he had, but not the kind we assumed. Mil returned holding a bag overflowed with food freshly picked: lemongrass for tea, basil for dinner, fruits for lunch.

“I shop in the supermarket of nature,” Mil grinned, proudly displaying a range of ingredients which would make most gourmet chefs drool and which made the following two nights’ dinner a treat of tastes, truly a la natural.

That night, a large rock slab perched above a roaring waterfall was our rather precarious camp. No tent, just a choice of open rock or nearby cave.

“What if it rains?” I asked with a nervous eye to a cloudy sky. “We get wet,” Mil laughed, but he wasn’t joking.

The cave provides sparse shelter for a small group, but for those more trusting of nature - and more scared of tarantulas - it’s a starry sky lullaby as you fall asleep on the ledge, mindful not to roll over; the drop is a long one.

The following day we set off bound for the foot of Fumaca, four hours upriver. The hike took us deeper into a canyon filled with palm forests and tropical, jungle-like foliage. Every half hour saw a distinct change in foliage as though we were moving through a well tended greenhouse display, a few drops from above the only reminded there was no glass ceiling above.

Arriving at the base it was clear how the waterfall attained its ‘Smokey’ moniker. Looking up 340 metres toward the source we watched as the wind whipped the stream into a cloud of vapour before it could drop even ten metres. When strong enough, the area’s constant easterly can throw the stream back up and above the level of the land in a curtain of mist that from a distance looks like smoke. At the bottom, water again finds the cliff face, cascading down into a large pool, perfect for a lunchtime swim.

The final day was all about up. From the bottom of the gorge, skirting gently around the side before it was hands and feet on deck, scrabbling up the steep incline to reach, three hours later, a plateau to the southern flank. Views back down the valley were reminiscent of a green-hued Grand Canyon, the farthest valleys cupping a distant blue sky.

An hour on and we were at the source, amidst the billowing water cloud that is Fumaca. A precipice jutted out to one side of the fall, allowing photos that defied common sense. With Mil’s hands acting as an anchor on our feet, we took turns lying flat out, craning necks as far as dared to look down, a drop equivalent to 112 storeys. Yesterday’s swimming hole, the size of two Olympic pools, now seemed a small puddle below.

With no loss of life and lunch refuelling tired legs, we headed west, crossing the high plateau which acts as Fumaca’s collection plate before quickly dropping 1000 metres to the small artisan village of Capao and the hike’s end.

A few cold beers and yearnings for a hot shower put paid to any thoughts of taking a walking trail back to Lencois, a possibility for the keen which takes another day. Finding a taxi in the form of a beaten pick-up truck that had no clutch and little in the way of brakes, we made a return journey as breathtaking as the hike to Fumaca itself. But while the ride back kept our adrenalin going, it was the action man, Mil, who defied bumps, near collisions with roadside villagers and our expectations as he fell fast asleep atop our heaped packs, broad grin still on face.

And so we smiled: our Guide One Thousand had finally run out of batteries.