Don't Rock My Boat (Part 4)

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A blood-curdling scream rips me from sleep and carelessly drops me into consciousness.

For several seconds, I have no idea where or when I am. I sit up and look around in the darkness - straining to see. Pieces of reality fall into place and I become aware of the empty deck of the Cabo Pantoja. Beyond the railing I see the village of Pantoja itself dimly lit by the moon and deadly silent. But what was that sound?

Far off to my right and at the back of the boat, I hear the bubbling clucking of a rooster. In the darkness, I can make out the faint outline of a small cage that someone must have brought up from the depths of the lower level cargo hold. The rooster crows again. The sound is warbled and nonsensical.

I look at my watch. It's 3:30. What the hell is he doing? Why did some fool leave him here?

I flop back down in the hammock and try to go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, the rooster cries again. This time, every rooster in the village is roused from sleep and answers in a chorus of crows.

"Oh, you bastard," I mutter.

I roll over and try to go back to sleep - ignoring the intermittent scream of the deranged conductor and the horrifying orchestra that follows his lead.

This goes on for the next few hours. I never really fall back asleep, and the badly-programmed rooster never realizes how close he is to having his cage gently pushed over the side of the boat and into the murky water of the Napo.

At around 6, I give up and roll out of the hammock. After one last trip to the swampy bathroom downstairs, I knock softly at the captain's cabin. I hear him shuffle around and he opens the door. I've no idea how he has managed to sleep through the muppet show outside, but there he is sitting up in his bunk and yawning.

"Sorry to wake you, just need to get my bag," I say.
"Sure, sure," he says, rubbing at his eyes.

I slide the pack out from under the bunk and offer him my hand.

"Ok, paisano," he smiles. "Have a good trip."
"Thanks for everything."
"No problem."

He flops back down on the pillow and I gently shut the door.

Having rolled my hammock up and shoved it down into the pack, I gather up my stuff and head down to the bank. I take a seat on one of the concrete benches and bite into an apple.

After a while, the boatman wanders up the path to find me.

"Morning!"
"Good morning."
"Ready to go?"
"Ready."
"Ok, give me fifteen minutes. The boat is tethered down there, ok?" He points downstream to a small cluster of wooden canoes.
"Ok."

Leaving my large pack, I walk up to the top of the hill to get my blood moving and take a look at the river.

DMZ

No one is down on the bank, but finding the boat is easy. Fernando's little red motorcycle has been loaded into a long wooden canoe - carefully straddling one of the bench seats. The two sections behind it are packed with a large cardboard box and at least ten of the bags of bread I had seen on the Cabo Pantoja. The pieces of bread look like bagels, but are hard and dry like melba toast. I know because I must have eaten half a dozen of them on the cargo boat when they were handed out with soup for dinner.

All this stuff takes up most of the space on the canoe, which leaves two bench seats available - the very front and the very back at the motor. I carefully wedge my packs at the front of the bow and stand on the bank to wait.

A few minutes later, Fernando, the boatman, and his ten-year old nephew come down the bank from the village.

We all take turns steadying the boat as each of us climb in - the boatman and the kid at the back, Fernando and I at the front facing backward for maximum leg room. After a few violent pulls on the zip start, the motor sputters to life and we head upstream toward the border.

Fernando asks me where I'm from and where I'm going.

When I mention having lived in Belém in Brazil, his face brightens. It turns out he also lived there for a few months while working for an oil company. So we switch to Portuguese for the sake of practice.

Fernando is from San Martín way over on the western edge of the Amazon basin. He now lives with his family in Iquitos where he has gone back to school for a career change.

I point to the motorcycle and the bulging mound of bread.

"Where are you going with all that stuff?" I ask.
"Well I need some cash. I'm sure I can sell all the pan roscos in Rocafuerte," he says, pointing to the bagel-toast-thingies. "Will turn a good profit."

At first, I think it insane to travel six days up a river to sell bread for a 'good profit'. But on reflection, it's not such a bad idea. The stuff is probably dirt cheap in Iquitos. But the official currency in Ecuador is the U.S. Dollar. This, of course, makes everything seem much more expensive. Something that goes for one sol in Perú could easily go for one dollar across the border. A huge markup.

"And that?" I ask, pointing to the little red motorcycle.
"Obviously no one in Rocafuerte needs a motorcycle. But someone might want to buy it, then turn around and sell it in Coca or Quito."
"Nice bike."
"Yeah, it's in great shape. Only about a year old."
"Japanese?"
"No, it's Chinese. Much cheaper. It's an RTM."
"What's the stand for?"
"Dunno. Something in Chinese I guess. But I can tell you what we call it around here. Rrrrrrrapido Te Mata!" he grins.

Kills You Quick. Funny.

As if in response to this remark, the motorcycle suddenly lurches over to the side as the canoe bumps over a swell in the water. We both lunge forward to steady it. Having returned the bike to an upright position, Fernando works around to sit in the seat and avoid subsequent tumbles.

After a bit of inspection and satisfied that the bike hasn't sustained any injuries, he plops his hands down on the handlebars and spins the accelerator grip a few times in an subconscious urge to just zip up the river across the surface of the water.

He sighs heavily.

"So, do you know where you're staying in Rocafuerte?"
"Not really. There are supposed to be some rooms for rent above a shop on the main street."
"There are. And they're ok. But you should come with me. I have some friends - an old married couple. They have a really nice house on the edge of the village. They just finished building some rooms upstairs - very nice. Will cost you the same and she's an excellent cook."
"Ok, sounds good."

We fall silent for a few minutes as we cruise up the river. The sun is fully above the horizon now and the jungle heat begins to seep into the cracks of the air around us.

I look around at the thick, tall grasses and trees drooping down over the surface of the water and wonder at what exact point the Peruvian military presence ends.

"How far are we from the border?" I ask.
"A little over an hour from here. The river will take a turn to the left. It's not far from there."
"Are there any more bases between here and there?"
"Maybe a few lookout posts. Not sure."
"I assume Ecuador has their side guarded, too."
"Believe it. Treaty or not, they're still pretty upset about how the war ended."
"What happened, anyway?"

Fernando does his best to explain the exasperating background of the 1995 Cenepa War. This part of the Spanish Empire was divided dup into different regions of local government - two of which being Quito and Lima. Self-contradicting royal decrees from the Crown over a few hundred years gave mandate of certain areas in this region to either Quito or Lima. After the wars of independence in the early 19th century, nationalism amongst local populations increased and disputes over exact border definitions erupted into occasional military conflicts. The matter was exacerbated by the fact that the nation of Ecuador never actually existed until the original state of Gran Colombia finally split in 1830 - forming Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. Given Colombia still technically comprised the entity formally known as Gran Colombia, Perú could argue that Ecuador had no authority over former legal claims. Ecuador can claim that it naturally inherits those claims due to its proximity to the region in question.

Blah blah. Blah blah blah.

Except for a fairly mild clash in 1981, the 20th century had been fairly calm after the full-scale war between Perú and Ecuador in 1941. But in late 1994, a unit of Peruvian soldiers was on patrol on the Cenepa River a few hundred miles southwest from where I am now. They came across a group of Ecuadorian soldiers who informed them that they had accidently strayed into Ecuador. They escorted the Peruvians to their base further south where they gave them supplies. Then they sent them on their way with a smile and a wave.

The Peruvians returned to their own base with a report, and it was soon discovered that the Ecuadorian base was actually in Peruvian territory - far south of the contested border. A meeting took place between officers on both sides. Ecuador claims that the Peruvians gave them a week to remove the base lest it be taken out by force.

Over the next few months, one thing led to another before the situation disintegrated into all-out war.

The conflict didn't last too long. By the end of February, a peace treaty had been forged - brokered by Brazil, the U.S., and a few other countries. The treaty formally ends the centuries-old disagreement and fixes the border between both nations.

Effects from the war are still being felt and has dragged new players into the mess. Chile - who has long had its own territorial disputes with Perú - was accused of illegally selling arms to Ecuador during the conflict for use against its old adversary. The charges have never been proven.

Argentina was also accused of selling arms to Ecuador. This was largely ignored until it was unequivocally proven a few years ago. The president of Argentina at the time of the sale - Carlos Menem - has been brought up on criminal charges for this and a similar sale to Croatia during the Balkan wars. Although he faces jail time, he cannot be prosecuted under Argentine law while he occupies his current seat in the Senate. He's nearly 80 years old, so chances of going on trial before he croaks are slim.

Magna Carta anyone?

The most obvious remnant, of course, is the constant military presence on both sides of the border. The treaty has ended aggressions and official disputes. But opinions haven't changed, and there certainly isn't any trust.

Even here in northern Loreto where there was no fighting, posts and bases dot the jungle on both sides - just in case. After all, most of Loreto itself is part of the territory that Ecuador has insisted belongs to it. One of the principal reasons for the very existence of the city of Iquitos was an attempt by Perú to 'Peruvianize' the otherwise unsettled region in order to weaken Ecuador's claims.

So hundreds of years of two nations fighting over a piece of land where neither had actually lived. The only people to occupy the area prior to settlement and for thousands of years before that were indigenous tribes who had no (and now only barely have any) sense of nationalism. No one asked them for their opinion on how their lands should be divided up.

We fly up the Napo River for another few hours. If at some point we cross an invisible line worth dying for, we don't notice.

New Strongrock

We cruise into the outskirts of Nuevo Rocafuerte along the left bank of the Napo.

The river is low at this time of year, so the bank is a good two meters high and lined with a thick wall of lush, green vines. We pass a few simple, floating docks tethered to land that lead to stone steps up top. We catch glimpses of bungalows - some with thatched roofs and others made of more sophisticated tiles. A man in a Panama hat stands on one of these docks with his shirt unbuttoned and a cigar clinched in his teeth. He waves, and we wave back.

After a while, we stop at what appears to be a public dock in the center of the village. The boatman cuts the engine a ways off and steers us toward it. Fernando and I reach out to grab the tall wooden poles sticking up out of the water to kill our momentum. Once we have a bit of control, we pull the boat in and the boatman tethers us to the dock with a long, nylon cord.

I hop out onto the rickety planks of the dock and Fernando hands me my packs. At the top of the concrete steps, I drop my stuff to the side of the footpath that leads into the heart of Rocafuerte and look around. From what I can tell, the village is a narrow grid of two or three streets that run along the bank of the river. Like the few houses we have already seen, buildings are a mix of simple wooden shacks and more solid concrete structures. Just in front of us and on the bank is a large, official looking building with an iron watchtower next to it. A sign at the base of the tower reads "ADUANA" - the customs office.

Fernando trots up the stairs with his bags and sets them next to mine.

"I'm going to go talk to my friends to see if they have a few rooms for us. It's just up the road. I'll be right back, ok?"
"Alright," I say.

The boatman, his nephew, and I begin the job of unloading the bags of bread from the boat and carrying them up the steps to the path. The heat is insane.

A few minutes later, Fernando comes back.

"They aren't home. They should be back later this afternoon."

I look down at all the crap we've taken off the boat.

"What are we going to do with all this stuff?" I ask.
"It's ok. I talked to the woman next door. She's going to let me keep it all in her house until they get back."

The next task is for the four of us to carefully lift the motorcycle out of the boat and onto the dock. We then slowly roll it up the stairs one step at a time - keeping a careful grasp on the thing so that it doesn't sail back down and into the river.

By the time we have the cycle on solid and even ground, we've worked up one hell of a sweat. Fernando rummages around in the cardboard box and produces a two-liter bottle of orange soda and a few plastic cups. We take a seat in the grass and have the bottle drained in less than ten minutes.

The boatman and the kid get to their feet and say goodbye. They remind us that we need to stop by the Aduana office to register our entry at the "port" and then report ourselves to the police post at the far end of town to get our passports stamped. They climb into the boat, start the engine, and are off.

Fernando and I sit in the grass a few more minutes to rest, then make several trips back and forth to carry the bags of bread to a small wooden house a few blocks up the street.

It's a small house with a front room and a few tiny bedrooms in back. A squat, sullen woman in a simple white dress stands in the corner and gazes somberly at the enormous pile of bread that has stacked up in her living room. Next to her is a worn hammock slung low a few inches off the ground. A little girl of around five or six years of age in a long, cotton t-shirt sits in the hammock and uses it as a swing - pushing against the rough wooden planks of the floor with her bare feet to send herself swaying back and forth.

The woman sighs as she realizes the mess she has agreed to, and Fernando eases her anxiety with his cool, diplomatic politeness.

"I really appreciate it Señora. I promise I'll have this stuff out as soon as possible."
"I hope so. There are a lot of rats around here, and they'll get after it. Muuuchos."

He unfolds a few dollar bills from his pocket and hands them to her.

"I know, I know. It won't be long, and I'll have a few more dollars for you as soon as we get settled."

The woman's tight face softens a bit as she takes the cash.

"Well, It's fine. Take your time."

The little girl then reaches the apex of one of her swings, loses the hammock from underneath her, and falls flat on her back on the dusty floor. The wild stallion hammock flutters and settles above her.

No one says a word. The woman shifts her gloomy gaze ever so slowly down to her daughter as if to say "What have I told you about that?"

The little girl lies there for a few seconds and looks up at the ceiling. She sighs loudly, scrambles to her feet and crawls back into the hammock to sit cross-legged.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood to suppress the maniacal laughter bubbling up in my throat.

Fernando claps me on the shoulder.

"Come on, let's go to the customs office."
"Ok."

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