Don't Rock My Boat (Part 3)

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Late morning on the final day aboard the Cabo Pantoja feels oddly like the last day of junior high in mid-May. For one thing, the sky is empty of clouds and the sun is out for the first time since we left Iquitos.

There are only about fifteen passengers left on the top deck and, like the last day of school, there is an atmosphere of pleasant finality. Everyone is taking down hammocks, repacking bags, and getting ready to depart at one of the last few villages. With a good chunk of floor space opened up, kids are running around and playing - having finally been liberated from the impossibly confined torture of the first few days.

But mid-May in the Midwest was never so hot and humid.

The only ones not participating in the last-minute preparations are the two soldiers. Like good, disciplined military men, their stuff was ready first thing in the morning. Now the older of the two is rummaging through his duffle bag for something. Before him stands a skinny kid from the second deck that can't be any more than twenty years old. The soldier looks up at him.

"What was your name?"
"Garcia, sir."
"Where were you stationed last?" asks the other soldier, who is leaning against the railing with his arms folded across his chest.

They discuss military bases that I'll never see as the older soldier pulls out a thin, folded collection of documents and looks them over.

"What about...Vargas?"
"He's downstairs."

My two neighbors go over a few details of Garcia's new assignment with him. All three soldiers are dressed in the official uniform of the Cabo Pantoja - flip-flops, nylon shorts, and a ratty tank top. But soon, they'll be covered from head to toe in full jungle camouflage - baking in the bush on the lookout for gunboats from Ecuador. What feels like the first day of summer vacation for the rest of us probably feels like the last for them.

Garcia goes back downstairs and the soldier tucks his documents back into the bag. He looks up at me.

"Where are you headed? Coca?"
"Yep," I reply.
"You'll have to hire someone to take you across the border to Rocafuerte," he says.
"I know, I'll have to figure that out when I get to Pantoja."

The two soldiers and I talk for twenty minutes or so and they give me pointers on the second half of the trip up the Napo River. The private boat to Rocafuerte will cost about $20 USD - ten less than I had assumed. Good.

The Cabo Pantoja docks on the left bank of the river and the soldiers shoulder their duffle bags and we shake hands. I thank them for their advice and they leave.

About an hour and a half later, we dock again - this time on the east bank. The village where we have stopped is made up of a few dozen wooden houses and buildings with thatched roofs spread out all over a tall, steep hill that juts straight up off the river bank. The ramp swings out and dozens of people begin buzzing off of and onto the cargo boat. Just beyond the makeshift port in the lower level of buildings is what looks like a general store. Crates and bags begin to pile up outside the door. This would appear to be the commercial heart of the village. Captain Paisano and one of the crew members, Lorenzo, lean over the railing of the third deck and bark orders down to men hauling goods onto land. Lorenzo notices me and points at the village.

"Pantoja. You made it, gringo!"
"Really?" I say, looking at my watch. "I thought we'd get here later in the day."
"Yeah, we made good time."
"You're going to Rocafuerte, right?" asks the captain.
"Yeah."

He points up to the top of the hill where there stands a rickety wooden watchtower.

"You won't be able to leave until early tomorrow morning. But the immigration official won't be up by then, so you should go get your passport stamped now. He's up there at the top of the hill."
"Ok."

He then points down to a long building with a large porch next to the general store.

"The woman there rents rooms for about 15 soles. Or you can just sleep here on the boat. We won't leave for a few days."
"Oh, ok. How much?"
"Ohhh," he thinks. "Nothing. Doesn't bother me any."

He then jerks head toward his private cabin.

"Go ahead and stick your bags or whatever in my room. I keep it locked when I'm not on the boat, so it'll be fine."
"Wow, great. Thanks a lot."

He grunts an acknowledgement and darts into the control room in response to some request from someone down on the bank.

I get my large pack, open the door to the captain's cabin and slide it into a tight space under the bunk bed. I walk back for the small pack and take a moment to appreciate how odd my hammock looks hanging all alone in the vast vacuum of the third deck, then head downstairs and onto land.

Just off the ramp, a skinny local approaches me.

"Hey mister," he says with a big smile. "You going to Rocafuerte tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Ok, I have a boat and am going there in the morning. I can take you."

We agree on a time and a price - $20 just like the soldiers said. With that out of the way, I turn to go deal with immigration.

I walk about 250 meters up the paved path to the top of the hill. At the base of the watchtower is a bench where two soldiers decked in camo sit with their rifles and little to do. The actual border is a few hours by boat upstream, but I imagine this is the first outpost for monitoring any military activity from the other side. The path takes a sharp turn back to the right and into a group of small houses.

"Can you guys tell me which building is the immigration office?" I ask the soldiers.
"First one there on the left," one says. "The blue one."
"Thanks."

I walk down the path to the building and push on the large door. It's locked. I knock loudly.

A moment later, the door of the house across the way opens and a young man trots over with a set of keys. Full-time jobs must be hard to come by around here.

"Hi," he says, as he unlocks the door and lets me in.

The immigration office is virtually empty except for a small desk to the side with an old typewriter.

"Take a seat," says the guy.

I sit in the chair in front of the desk while he switches on the lights and runs into the back room to get something. He returns a moment later and sits in the chair on the other side of the desk. He clears his throat and takes my passport.

"Entering or exiting?"
"Exiting," I say.

He flips through the pages for a moment and examines the entry slip.

"How many passports do you have?" he asks.
"Um, just that one."
"Ok. What's your name?"

I tell him. He looks back at the ID page of the passport.

"And where did you enter Perú?"
"Near Puno."
"Ok, so who's Nicholas?" he asks.
"Huh?"
"This immigration slip is for someone named Nicholas from the United Kingdom," he says, holding out the slip for me to observe.
"What?" I snatch the slip from him and look at it.

No way.

I don't know anyone named Nicholas from the UK, but I think I know what must have happened. It is routine for hostels and hotels to make a copy of your passport when you check in. My guess is some careless employee accidently inserted someone else's slip into my passport. Either that, or someone in the embassy in Lima did this when they were adding extra pages.

In either case, Nicholas and I are screwed.

I explain all this to the immigration official. He frowns.

"Well this is a problem. I can't stamp you out of Perú without your entry slip."
"I understand. But what can I tell you? It's gone."
"I have to charge you a sixty-sol fine for another one."

Twenty USD. This could be a problem for my already critical financial situation.

"You're kidding, right? Look I'm really low on cash. You can see the entry date in the passport. You know that I didn't overstay my tourist visa."
"I know, but I'm sorry. Those are the rules."

Rules. We're in the middle of the jungle, there are no rules. This guy doesn't even have a computer. No one back in Lima will ever know. $20 says he pockets the $20.

I sigh and rub my face.

"Fine," I say.

Finally stamped out and sixty soles lighter, I walk back down to the bottom of the hill. I take a seat on a bench next to Lorenzo and a few of the crew members who are watching the Cabo Pantoja being unloaded. He claps me on the back.

"How did it go? All set?"
"Chucha..."

I tell him the story.

"Where are you from?"

The question comes to me from my left - in English.

I turn and see two guys sitting on the next bench. One is about my age, tall, and with a shaved head. The one next to him is maybe forty, heavy-set with thick glasses, and keeps his long hair pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. The pale color of their skin immediately indicates that they are not from around here.

"The US," I respond. "You?"
"I'm from Australia," says the bald guy. "And Marco here is from Germany."

We shake hands.

"You guys have been waiting on the cargo boat to go to Iquitos?"

Ryan, the Australian, nods his head slowly.

"You could say that. Marco's been waiting...How long have you been here Marco?"
"Five days," says Marco in a thick Bavarian accent.
"Five days," repeats Ryan. "I've been here for ten days."
"Ten?" I ask.

He nods again slowly with a crooked smile.

"Wow."
"You said it, mate."
"Do you know when the boat leaves again?" Marco asks me.

I ask Lorenzo and turn back to the first English conversation I've had in weeks.

"Sunday morning," I tell them.
"Excellent," Ryan says with the tranquility of a stoner who is never in too much of a hurry anyway. "Wait, what is today?"
"Fff," begins Marco and pauses in doubt.
"Friday," I finish, grinning.

These guys have been just as pummeled by boredom as I have.

"So what does one do in Pantoja for ten days?"
"Fuck all mate!" Ryan laughs. "Not a bloody thing. I've been sleeping as late as possible. Then get up, walk around town a few times."

He points up the path to where the lookout tower stands.

"The path goes up there, turns to the right through some houses, then comes back down here. Takes all of fifteen minutes to walk it. The jungle is too thick beyond that. Things got better when Marco got here. My Spanish isn't so good, so it was nice to have some conversation again."
"In the evenings we just sit here, have a few beers, and watch the sun set," Marco puts in. "Then the electricity goes off at 11, so not much else to do but go to bed."

We see a man in his early thirties slowly wheeling a 150cc motorcycle down the ramp of the Cabo Pantoja and onto solid ground. It looks Japanese - small, sleek, and red.

"Now why on Earth would someone need to buy a motorcycle and bring it here?" asks Marco.

He goes off on a mild rant about the encroachment of the developed world on indigenous cultures. Ryan and I can hardly argue. It seems superfluous at times.

We sit on the bench for a while and swap stories. I describe the journey on the cargo boat and give them advice about Iquitos. I give Ryan my tupperware container and the spoon I used for meals.

"Thanks mate, I appreciate that!"
"You'll want to give it a good washing in the hostel," I say. "It's never been introduced to soap."
"Hey," says Marco. "I don't suppose you ran into a few Kiwis on the way up here?"
"I don't think so," I respond. "Why?"
"I came in on the same boat with a few guys from Wellington. They bought a canoe and some oars from a local and are heading down to Iquitos."
"By themselves?" I ask incredulously.
"Yeah, they have some camping equipment for whenever they can't stop at a village."
"Did they take a map? it's not a straight shot to Iquitos. The Napo is full of all sorts of little tributaries and branches."
"No, they wanted to figure it out for themselves."
"Jesus."
"Well," says Marco. "They're making their own adventure."

To say the least.

"There she goes," says Ryan nodding to the sun. "You'll want to get your camera out for this, Tony."

My evenings on the cargo boat have been plagued by rain and cloudy skies. Tonight, however, the weather is clear and dry. The sun begins to set on the far bank of the Napo River. The sublime is delivered.

By the time night has fallen, the guy with the motorcycle is giving joyrides to kids one at a time around the Pantoja beltway. The children revel in the new experience.

I take out my wallet and thumb through the remaining cash. 180 soles. That's about $60 USD. I need $20 for the boat tomorrow, so I have about $40 to get all the way to Coca in Ecuador where there are ATM's. The worry is how long I'll be in Nuevo Rocafuerte before I can catch the speed boat to Coca. The stress seeps in.

"Do you guys know how much it costs to stay in Rocafuerte?" I ask them.
"Cheap," says Ryan. "Like $5 or $6 for a room."
"Ok, but the boat to Coca only leaves like once a week. Hmm."
"No," says Marco. "It leaves at least three times a week."
"No shit?"
"Yeah, you won't have to stay there more than two nights."

I turn my head and look into the small general store that is buzzing with people.

"Do they exchange currency in there?"
"Yeah," says Marco. "And she gives a very good rate. Better to do it here than in Ecuador."

We get up in walk into the store. I exchange my Peruvian bills - setting aside what I will need to pay the boatman tomorrow. The rate is better than I had worried. I do some worst-case scenario math and conclude that I will be fine. The stress recedes back into its cage to wait for some future calamity.

The guy with the motorcycle walks into the store. He's maybe a few years older than me with large, brown eyes and a thick handlebar mustache.

"Hey," he says to me. "we were on the boat together. You're going to Rocafuerte tomorrow, right?"
"That's right," I say.
"Me too. Looks like we'll be going on the same boat. I'm Fernando."
"Tony," I say as we shake hands.

One of the kids runs into the store and grabs Fernando's hand. She pulls at it and starts whining for him to come back outside to the motorcycle.
"See you tomorrow," he says and obliges the little girl.

Ryan, Marco, and I buy a few bottles of beer and return to our bench. We sit and talk for a few hours. At around half past ten, we shake hands again. I'm leaving early in the morning, and probably won't see them again. We wish each other luck, and they head off to their rooms.

With my flashlight, I steadily walk across the plank to the boat and up to the third deck. The first few days here were packed with people shoulder to shoulder. Now I have the whole thing to myself. It almost feels wrong.

I stretch out in the hammock and gaze at the glow of Pantoja in front of me.

At 11, a generator somewhere behind the town is switched off as promised. The lights of the village all blink out in the very same instant. Pantoja goes dark.

I adjust myself in the hammock a few times. Before long, I too go dark.

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