Welcome to the Jungle (Part 2)

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"Tienen linternas?" asks the girl.
"Unh?" I reply, rubbing the dry mucus of sleep from my left eye.

It's 8:30 in the morning. I don't speak proper Spanish until a full hour of morning consciousness has elapsed. A cup of coffee helps, too.

"You have flashlights?" the girl repeats in English. This is Magaly - a girl we have seen working back and forth between here - the tour agency office - and the hotel.

I think back to Colca Canyon where Ross, Anna, and I contemplated climbing the wall of a canyon without the assistance of artificial light in the wee hours of the morning.

"I've been lucky without one so far." I look at Luis. "Do you have one?"
"Nope."
"Nope," I say to Magaly.
"Well, you're going to need them. There is no electricity at the lodge. Here, you can buy a couple from us."

She rummages around behind the desk for a moment and produces two silver flashlights and hands them to us.

The flashlight resembles something from a Terry Gillian film. Its body is a long, ribbed tube of shiny aluminum. The cap at the butt of the light unscrews to expose the hollow body - lined with a narrow copper-coated strip for closing the D-cell powered circuit. The wall of the body is thin and you could crumple it with one hand if you wanted. It is identical to the flashlights we had when I was a kid. A classic design.

There is only one thing that is missing. Down at the center of the mirror-coated funnel intended to redirect the entire sphere of radiance outward into the darkness, there is no incandescent light bulb. In its place is a much smaller and modern LED assembly - marring the antique feel of the flashlight.

Very retro-future. I like it.

Magaly then hands us each a pair of Rayovac batteries to feed into the back end of the lights. Rayovac? But for $3 USD, I can't complain. At least I have a light, now.

-

After a two-hour speed boat trip up the Amazon, we turn off onto a small tributary and arrive at the jungle lodge.

We were joined at the last minute by Peter - a middle-aged guy from Colon, Germany. He comes to Brazil every year for vacation, but this year he decided to start off in Perú to see the jungle. Afterwards, he will take one of the slow boats from Iquitos up the Amazon to Manaus in Brazil.

The central building of the lodge is a large, circular dining hall filled with wooden tables and benches. The main guide, Danny, meets us here and introduces himself.

"Hi guys. Welcome to the jungle."

He says it in Spanish, but the greeting firmly replants the GNR song back into our heads.

Leading us out of the opposite door of the building, he shows us to our cabin. The cabins are all interconnected by a series of elevated boardwalks. During the wet season, the river level rises and the ground around the lodge floods. These walkways are the only way of getting from building to building. But this is November, so the area is grassy and dry.

The cabin where Luis and I will stay is at the far end of a row. There are two beds and a small bathroom. Running water comes from a small tower which is filled by a diesel-powered pump two or three times a day.

We rest for a few minutes before being called back to the dining hall for lunch, which consists of a buffet of rice, salad, fried bananas, various types of river fish, pork, and fresh juices squeezed from fruits I can't begin to identify.

Jungle Trek

After lunch, Danny asks our shoe sizes and brings out three pairs of knee-high rubber boots. We're going for a walk in the jungle.

About ten meters past the tree line, Danny looks to his right, notices something, and stops.

"You guys put on mosquito repellant, right?"
"Lots," says Luis.

We both did. We smell like a Dow chemical plant.

"Good. Hopefully it will work. I never use the stuff."
"Why not?"
"Don't need to. Look."

He walks off the trail a few feet and points out a large, brown pod attached to the drooping branch of a short tree.

"This is a termite nest. The outer layers contain materials that mosquitoes hate."

He reaches out, grabs the nest, and pulls away a piece. Like dried mud (I'm sure most of it is dried mud), it crumbles to dust in the palm of his hand. He rubs both hands together and then applies the dusty remains to his neck and arms.

"Best repellant in the world," he says. "I never get bitten."

Several minutes later, Luis slaps at the back of his neck.

"Joder. So what are the chances of us getting malaria?"
"Not very high," says Danny. "It's November, malaria is very rare this time of year. It won't pick up until around January during the wet season."
"So is it a big problem around here?"
"Yeah, but we get by. Like..."

Danny pauses again and looks around. He then points to a small shrub growing next to a tree.

"Like see that plant? If the kids get malaria, we come out, take those leaves, and make a tea. With plenty of rest, lots of water - good as new."
"Cool," I say. "So if we get it, you'll give us some tea, and no problem?"
"Nope. You're not a kid. Would probably make it worse. There's a different plant for someone your age. But like I said, nothing to worry about in November."
"Good," says Luis.
"But dengue fever is always a problem. Believe me, not much more fun than malaria."
"Joder," says Luis, slapping at his neck again.

We spend the next hour walking through the thick of the jungle. The trail is clear enough, but Danny occasionally hacks at vines and overgrowth with a machete.

The need for the tall rubber boots soon becomes apparent. The jungle floor is littered with all sorts of muddy pools. We tread through them carefully - the depth of some of them nearly reaches the top of our boots. Halfway across one, I underestimate the powerful suction of the wet earth underfoot and lose my balance. Just before falling back and staining my jeans, shirt, and threadbare dignity in a stagnant puddle of muck, Peter grabs my arm and steadies me.

"Danke schön," I say.
"No worries."

Halfway through the journey, Danny stops, turns with a smile and asks "Ok guys, which way is the lodge?"

I have a very good sense of direction. But it only works when I'm by myself and paying attention. If I'm with someone who already knows the way, my survival instinct takes a nap.

Peter thinks for a moment and points. "Well, we came from there, and had turned," he pauses. "So that way?"

Luis just takes the insect repellent from his pack for the third time and sprays himself.

"Hang on," I say. "I got it."

I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my compass.

"Ok, so that's north," I say pointing to our left.
"Ok, so where is the lodge?" asks Danny.
"Well," I stammer. "If I had looked at the compass when we left, I would know. But that is north, dammit."

Danny grins and goes on looking at us. I look at the compass again.

"Ok. West. Behind us."
"So?"
"So that way to Iquitos. Day and a half walking through the jungle, no problem. There, I saved your asses."

We move on and hope Danny isn't stricken by a sudden brain embolism.

The heat is nearly unbearable. It isn't even that the temperature is that high - but the humidity is suffocating. To make matters worse, the air is motionless. By the time we make it back to the lodge, sweat is streaming from every pore of our bodies. The thick insulation of the rubber boots isn't helping much.

Once back in the dining hall, Peter and I collapse onto a bench to remove the boots as quickly as possible. Luis walks over to the small mini-bar at the far end of the room to ask about drinks. He comes back with a Coke.

"They have beer. Do you guys want some?"
"Yes!" we say.
"Well there's no electricity. So they're...warm."
"Don't care," we say simultaneously.

Luis comes back with two bottles of beer. Warm or not, they're exactly what we need.

"Right," I say once finished. "Shower."

As with most things cold showers are meant to cure, the relief is temporary. One way or the other, you're sweating again before long.

-

After dinner, we slide the muddy boots back on and head outside - this time with flashlights. A few of the guides come with us equipped with bright, head-mounted lanterns. The beams of light are filled with an array of tiny flying insects and moths.

Not venturing far from the lodge, the guides poke through short trees and point out huge tarantulas and lizards crawling around. The jungle is just as alive at night.

We walk off into the trees a ways. One of the guides stops and stoops down slowly. He waits for a moment and then quickly reaches down and snatches something. He stands and holds out an enormous frog.

"This is the largest species of frog in this part of the jungle."

It is huge. It must weigh at least five or six pounds.

"Want to touch it?"

No one wants to.

"Oh come on." he says.
"Yeah, ok," I say and reach forward with my index finger.

The skin is smooth and feels slimy. But this is just the texture. There is really only a thin layer of oil. It's weird.

We continue walking.

"Tony," says the guide.
"Yeah?"
"The hand you used to touch the frog. Don't touch your eyes with it. Could cause problems."
"Now you tell me."

Less than a minute later, my right eye starts to itch and begs to be rubbed.

Dammit. Typical.

Having seen enough creepy crawlys, we head back to the lodge for a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we will get up at dawn to take a canoe trip on the river before breakfast.

Hunting for Lunch

As promised, we are awoken at a little after five in the morning. Groggy and speechless, Luis and I take turns using the bathroom and get dressed.

Luis sits on the side of his bed and scratches at several parts of his body.

"Did the mosquitoes get you yesterday?" I ask.
"Everywhere! Didn't you get bitten?"
"Not once," I reply, checking my arms.
"How is that possible? I'm a walking mosquito bite! And I used tons of bug spray."
"Well how much DEET does your repellant have?" I ask.
"What's DEET?"
"It's the chemical in repellant that actually does the repelling. The higher the percentage, the more effective it is."

He studies the back of the bottle for a moment.

"25%" he says.
"Well that sounds ok. But maybe it should be higher. Here, take a look at mine. Might have more. We can share it."

I toss Luis my bottle. He reads through the ingredients, and tosses the bottle back to me.

"7%," he says in disgust.
"What? That's nothing."
"So why are they coming after me and not you?"
"Dunno."

I look at the bottle for a moment and drop it back into my pack.

"Aren't you going to put any on?" Luis asks.
"Apparently I don't need to. You'll draw them away for me," I grin. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."
"This isn't fair."
"They like Spanish blood. It's all that fine Rioja wine coursing through your veins."
"But I live in Ireland," he mutters, studying his bottle of repellant again.
"It's all that fine Guinness coursing through your veins. Come on, they're waiting."

We meet Peter and a few of the guides down by the dock and step into a few of the wooden canoes.

The quiet, narrow tributary where the lodge stands is covered in a blanket of bright green vines and lilies. I didn't really notice them yesterday when we arrived in the speed boat. The large, motor-powered vessel cut through all of this with no effort.

But now, seated in the low canoe just inches from the surface, I realize just how thick the layer of growth is. Some parts are so thick that the only way you can tell that there is a river beneath it is by the gentle undulation caused by soft waves beneath.

Moving through the leafy skin of the river is difficult using only wooden oars. We can only make progress by using them to slash and cut through the vines and then move a few feet forward. It takes us half an hour to leave the tributary and finally merge with the swifter traffic of the Amazon superhighway.

We spend an hour or so paddling up the Amazon and down a few other small branches. We listen to the early-morning singing of exotic birds and spot several large iguanas perched high in the trees. We come across a few fishermen from local villages cruising the banks for the day's catch.

Back at the lodge, we have breakfast and rest for a bit. Later, we will go fishing for piranhas.

At mid-morning, we don the rubber boots and return to the canoes. This time, rather than returning to the Amazon, we simply cross to the other side of our neighborhood tributary. We tie the canoes to some tree trunks on the bank and walk into the jungle.

Twenty minutes later, we arrive in a small village. It consists of a single concrete sidewalk that runs the length of a long clearing in the jungle. Either side of the pavement is lined with small houses built in the same style as our lodge - wooden structures with roofs made from a thick mesh of straw and dried grasses. The houses are elevated, so I assume the river floods this area, as well. I wonder how the clean, seemingly new sidewalk holds up during the wet season.

Many of the roofs and floors of the houses extend beyond the walls to form large porches draped with hammocks and tables. Children of the village wave to us and say hello from these porches as we walk past.

Later, we cross another river. This time, we walk across a narrow but sturdy log fixed just below the surface of the water. Tall sticks have been driven into the mud at three-foot intervals for holding onto. The way is slow and cautious, but it beats wading through the waist-deep water to the other side.

After another twenty minutes of walking through the jungle, we arrive at a lagoon where a few more canoes await us. Peter and Danny climb into one. Juan (the other guide), Luis, and I get into the other and we push off.

Juan baits a few of the rods and hands them to us. The rods are just medium-length sticks with some fishing line tied to the end. The bait is a bit of hot dog. I've never used any kind of sausage for fishing - but we're out for piranhas, not rainbow perch.

Piranhas have a bad reputation of attacking people in droves and devouring them. But this image is mostly a product of Hollywood. They are, indeed, carnivores, and their razor-sharp teeth make them dangerous to their prey. But like most fish, they avoid humans. In some cases, if someone walking through the river has a cut on their leg, piranhas will sense the blood and may bite. But this is rare, and the idea of a person being dragged under the water and gobbled up by a school of ravenous fish is nonsense.

There are much worse things in the Amazon to worry about.

Danny stands in his canoe thirty feet form us and calls out.

"Guys! Competition. Let's see who can catch more piranhas!"
"You're on!" says Luis.

We drop our lines into the water and wait. Not five minutes later, Peter pulls back on his rod to sink the hook. He scrambles to pull the line in by hand and brings up a small piranha. It flops and jerks on the end of the line.

Danny taunts us.

"We should move closer to the bank," I say.
"Yeah," says Juan, picking up the oar to bring us closer to the grassy edge of the lagoon.

Forty minutes go by. Danny pulls up their fifth fish and shows it to us.

"How are you guys doing over there?" he laughs.

We have yet to catch a single piranha.

"We're waiting for the big ones," I say.
"Well, this is embarrassing," says Luis, spraying himself with mosquito repellent for the fourth time.
"Maybe that's piranha repellant you're using," I say. "Certainly isn't helping you with the insects."
"No, it's not," he replies and swats a mosquito from his arm.

In the end, we suffer a spectacular defeat with zero piranhas.

"I'm not sure," I say as we climb out of the canoe. "But I think this is the first time I've gone fishing without catching anything."
"I've never gone fishing," says Luis. "Fish are something you buy at the store."
"Damn city boy," I say in my best Oklahoma drawl. "The only thing you can catch is malaria."

Thank God for Spanish civility. It's so fun to pick on them.

For lunch, the buffet from yesterday is repeated - this time with a platter of fried piranhas. Their little mouths are open and reveal the sharp, triangular teeth. They are small, and have surprisingly little meat for a fish that eats meat. The flavor isn't the best, either. But at least I can say I've eaten one.

"Thanks for lunch, Peter," I say.
"Hmm. More like a snack," he replies.

After lunch, Luis and I lounge around in a few hammocks. Later, we will go to another village to meet a local shaman who will talk to us about traditional healing and medicine.

Luis and I sit in the hammocks and talk for a few hours. It's genuinely going to suck when he leaves for Colombia. He makes a great travel friend, and we can go on talking for hours about anything and everything. But that's the way it works.

One of the guides comes to the porch.

"Ok guys. Let's go see the shaman."

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Photos

Natural Insect Repellant
One of the termite nests used as mosquito repellant