Welcome to the Jungle (Part 4)

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Out of the Jungle

In the morning, we have a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bread. Luis and I each have a tall glass of limeade as per the shaman's instructions.

Later, after a failed attempt to search for pink dolphins in the Amazon with the Italians, we gather up our things and board the speed boat back to Iquitos.

No one talks much on the trip. Luis and I mostly just stare out at the passing jungle - lost in thought.

"Dammit!" I say, breaking the silence at one point.
"What?" asks Luis.
"Got a mosquito bite on my pinky finger."

Luis glares at me.

"You haven't put repellant on in two days, and you're complaining about one stupid bite?"
"Well it's on the knuckle. It itches."
"My whole body itches!"

-

Back in Iquitos, we visit various travel agencies to inquire about the ferries that go to Leticia in Colombia for Luis. At around $70 USD, they are all pretty expensive. But it's the fastest way to get there.

At each agency, I ask if they know when the cargo boat that goes to the border of Ecuador will be in port. None of them do.

"We don't deal with that," says the girl at one agency. "Not really a tourist route."

No, not really.

At the last agency, Luis buys a ticket for the next ferry that leaves the day after tomorrow. This gives us a day and a half to kill.

-

We spend much of the time sitting under the whirling ceiling fans at Ari's and discuss anything that comes up.

When not escaping the revolting heat in this manner, we surrender ourselves to it by walking around the city center. Like many cities in the Amazon region, Iquitos experienced a rubber production boom in the early decades of the 20th century. This brought a massive influx of wealth which can be seen in the elaborate and sometimes gaudy architecture of mansions along the river.

But mostly it's just hot and humid.

Killing Time

High up in the Andes of central Ecuador, the Napo River forms and flows east through jungle plains, across the border, and into Perú. Just north of Iquitos, it merges with the Amazon.

The Peruvian banks of the Napo are dotted with small villages and military bases left over from the most recent war with Ecuador in 1995. The region is remote and sparsely populated. There are no roads.

There are a few cargo boats that travel between Iquitos and the border once or twice a month. They stop at all the villages to deliver supplies and livestock, and bring fruit and grain back. Hiring a private boat to travel to these villages is way too expensive for locals, so the owners of the cargo boats have made a business of taking passengers. It isn't luxurious, but it's how things are done here.

On the morning of Luis's departure, I grab a motocarro to the main port of Masusa.

It is chaos.

The road that leads into Masusa passes by a small booth where one sol is paid for entry. Beyond this, a large plot of barren, uneven land is filled with dozens of large trucks for hauling goods in and out of the port. To the right, there is a line of ramshackle buildings used for administration and selling snacks. A crowd of men in threadbare t-shirts sit around sweating in the sun and drink from bottles of water. These are day laborers waiting for work to load and unload boats.

I walk past the haphazard array of trucks to where the ground takes a steep downhill turn toward the edge of the water. The port itself is about sixty meters wide and is packed from end to end with riverboats.

Most of them are cargo boats of three levels. There are no docks or piers, so the boats are simply run aground - their long bows emerging from the water and resting on the muddy earth.

People are everywhere. Each boat has a narrow plank of wood propped on the edge of the bow that extends down to the ground. Men walk up and down these planks carrying impossible loads of boxes, barrels, and clusters of bananas on their shoulders and backs.

Most of these boats make the journey to places like Pucallpa and Yurimaguas to the south. But I'm looking for the Cabo Pantoja - named for Pantoja, the last village on the Napo just before the border with Ecuador. I make my way along the length of the port to see if the Cabo Pantoja happens to be here.

With no luck, I stop to talk to a guy standing at the base of one boat observing the unloading of caged roosters and chickens.

"Hey, do you know if the Cabo Pantoja is in or if it will be soon?" I ask him.
"Cabo Pantoja?"

He surveys the long line of boats for a moment.

"I dunno, best ask someone over at the offices," he says pointing to the line of buildings at the edge of the port.

I make my way carefully over the slope toward the offices - trying to avoid muddy sinkholes and the trash strewn everywhere. I find the main information office and a man standing outside the door with a clipboard. I ask him about my boat. He looks behind him and into the office.

"Um, Ricardo isn't here. Cabo Pantoja?"
"Yeah."
"I think you'll have to go to the other port."
"Where is that?" I ask.

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

"Back up the road about a kilometer. Not far."
"Ok, you're sure it leaves from there?" I ask.
"Almost positive."
"Ok, thanks."

Grumbling, I hop into another motocarro and we head to the smaller Iquitos port.

The motocarrista turns off the main road and down a narrow and bumpy dirt road lined on both sides with warehouses full of countless piles of bananas, crates, barrels, and bags of grain.

A guy in his mid-twenties stands at the side talking to someone. He looks up and sees me. He runs after the motocarro and jumps onto the luggage rack on the rear of the vehicle. He pokes his head into the carriage and taps me on the arm.

"Speak Spanish?" he asks me.
"Yep."
"Where are you going? Pucallpa?"
"No, to the border. Pantoja."
"Oh. Which boat? Cabo?"
"Yeah, you know anything about it?"
"Yeah, it left four days ago."
"Crap. Ok well it leaves from this port, right?"
"No, no. It leaves from Masusa."
"Well that's what I thought, but they told me to come here."
"No way, it leaves from Masusa. Trust me, I know the captain."

Hearing our conversation, the driver stops the motocarro to see if he need bother going on.

"Well, ok," I say. "Do you happen to know who I need to talk to about getting on?"
"Just talk to the captain when it gets back. It should be here by..." he pauses to think. "Saturday or so."

Today is Tuesday.

"But it won't leave again for a few days after that," he goes on. "So you should go down there on Monday or so and find out."
"Bueno," I sigh. "Ok, man. Thanks for your help."
"Good luck!"

He hops off the back of the motocarro and darts into one of the warehouses.

The driver turns his head to the side. "So where are we going?"
"Internet cafe in the main plaza."

May as well check my email over and over for a week.

-

In an attempt to not spend too much money, I spend most days writing with the hotel room fan on full blast. Sometimes I just roam the streets of Iquitos with no clear destination or purpose. Stages of the day are broken up with cold showers to momentarily alleviate any potential heat stroke.

In the evenings, when the sun sets and the temperature becomes bearable, I sit on the curb in front of the hotel and watch people and motocarros go by.

The night shift at the hotel is worked by a guy in his early twenties named Jonathan. He invariably joins me on the curb and we talk for hours on end.

Jonathan's education is basic, and he knows little about the world outside of this region. Intensely curious about the United States and Europe, he asks an endless series of questions about life in these exotic places. I do my best to convey the image of work, society, economy, suburban houses with two cars, and anything else he cares to know about.

In exchange, Jonathan reveals himself to be an endless supply of stories about the jungle. He is from a small settlement deep in the rain forest along the banks of the Napo. He tells tales of close escapes from crocodiles, black boa constrictors, and river whirlpools. He tells tales of those who did not escape.

"Do you have jungle in Oklahoma?" he asks.
"Well we have forests," I reply. "But nothing like the jungle."
"Is it dangerous, too?"
"Not like here," I laugh. "We have snakes, but most aren't poisonous. In the northern parts of the country there are bears that might attack, but it isn't too common. The only thing you really worry about is getting lost."
"Oh," he says thoughtfully. The idea of wandering around in nature without the imminent threat of death is alien to him.

"Do you have lots of fruit?" he asks.
"Sure, but not like here."
"Apples?"
"Yeah, we grow them everywhere."
"Oranges?"
"Yep."
"Mangos?"
"Yeah, but they're crap."
"Guaraná?"
"Forget it."
"Suri?" he smiles.
"What's that?"
"Worms!"

He explains how, every few weeks when he goes home to visit, he and his brother-in-law go into the jungle to cut down a small tree. A month or so later, they return to the dead trunk and split it with a machete. Inside are scores of little white, caterpillar-like worms. They put the worms into a bag and take them back to the house where they are fried in oil with a bit of salt.

"And then you just eat them?" I ask.
"Yep."
"That's disgusting, Jon."
"No they're delicious! Tastes just like chicken."
"So why don't you just eat chicken?"
He gives an enthusiastic shake of his head. "Ah, because these are so much better! There is a restaurant around here that has them if you want to try."
"Mmm...we'll see."

-

Not content to sit around and wait until Monday, I head back to Masusa on Saturday afternoon to see if the boat has come in. The scene is the same as before, which includes the absence of the Cabo Pantoja.

This time,. there is a man seated at a desk in the information office. I walk in and ask him if he knows anything about the boat. He consults a printout pinned to a bulletin board on the wall next to him.

"Should be in on Monday morning sometime," he says.
"Any idea what time?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Hard to say. But it will definitely be here Monday."
"And when will it leave again?"
"Also hard to say. Three days. Sometimes four. Depends on when they have enough cargo loaded."

-

On Monday afternoon, I head back to the dock.

I hand three soles to the motocarrista. The taxi bill for this ongoing and fruitless research is starting to pile up. Not really expecting any good news, I walk down to the boats and am relieved to see a new one.

The Cabo Pantoja is a three-level river barge painted in sky blue. The lower deck is fitted with a large, steel lattice topped with wooden boards for extra storage space. Barrels and crates are scattered around on top. An iron staircase leads from each level up to the next. Slightly higher and at the front of the third level is a small control room - presumably where the captain steers the boat. Just below its window is the name of the vessel painted in a somewhat whimsical font: 'CABO PANTOJA'.

Like an ant colony, the boat is alive with people darting back and forth in all directions. I stand at the base of the boarding plank and wait while several men trot up into the boat carrying large sacks of grain. Once clear, I walk up the plank and onto the deck.

Seated on a pile of crates under the lattice are four or five guys in tank tops and shorts talking. I ask one of them if he knows who I should talk to about getting passage to Pantoja. They all respond simultaneously - pointing into the interior of the boat and telling me to talk to the captain. I thank them and squeeze past the continuous flow of people and into the lower storage room.

To the right, a small card table has been set up. Behind it sits a heavy-set, balding man in his late forties. A large ledger is open before him on the table - full of lists of cargo, names, and destinations. Standing on either side of the man behind the table are two younger guys with their arms folded over their chests. They occasionally point down to the ledger to make comments and reminders. The captain's advisory board.

An older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a baseball cap stands facing the captain. The four men discuss a deal to transport one thing or another - at times bending over the ledger to clarify figures and prices. I lean against the door of a private sleeping cabin and wait patiently for them to conduct their business.

When the older man leaves, the captain sighs and scratches at the side of his head.

"Ok, sixty liters of cooking oil. Just make sure they get it here before tomorrow afternoon."

He jots a few things into the ledger. When done, he looks up at me.

"Hi. What can I do for you?"
"Buenas," I say walking forward to the table. "I was hoping to get a ride to Pantoja. You still have room for passengers?"
"Always!"
"Ok," I say looking at the ledger. "Do I need to buy a ticket or anything? Reservation?"
"Nope, just come ready to go. Try and get here four or five hours before we leave so you can get a good spot for your hammock. You have a hammock, right?"
"Yeah. When do you leave?"
"Thursday night at around 9."
"Ok," I say. "Sounds good."
"Where are you from?" he asks.
"United States."
"Ok, paisanos then!"
"We're all American," I grin, making a vague and hopefully understood reference to the concept of Panamerica.
The captain laughs loudly and holds out his hand for me to shake. "That's right paisano! We'll see you Thursday."

I head back down the wobbly plank and up the hill to find a motocarro back to the center.

Three more soles killed. Three more days to kill.

-

One night while Jonathan and I sit on the curb talking, Magaly - the girl who works at the agency - walks up the street after closing the office. She talks to Jonathan for a moment about work and looks at me.

"I'm getting worried about you," she says.
"Why?"
"You must be bored sitting here every day waiting for that stupid boat."
"Well," I reply. "Not as bored as I will be once I'm sitting on the stupid boat."
"You're not still eating at Ari's every day, are you?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest.
"No. Luis is gone now, so I've spread my wings and found a few chifa places," I say, pointing up the street.
"Ugh, chifa. You haven't been to Huasaí?"
"Don't think so. What's that?"
"One of the best places around here. Great food typical of Loreto."

Loreto is the region of which Iquitos is the capital.

"Are you free for lunch tomorrow?" she asks.

I raise my eyebrows to suggest the obvious answer to the question.

"Ok, ok," she laughs. "Be here at around one tomorrow. I'll take you there."
"Fair enough."

Huasaí turns out to be as good as Magaly promised - loaded with all sorts of regional specialties. So we make a habit of going to different places so that I can try what is on offer in the city.

Magaly is an anomaly in Iquitos. The agency and hotel are owned by a German guy who is only in country one or two months out of the year. Having recognized her intelligence, responsibility, and organization, he has effectively placed her in charge of both businesses in his absence. This is virtually unheard of in a part of Perú that is overrun by a nauseatingly sexist attitude. The fact that she is only 21 years old makes it all the more astonishing. I could have sworn I was talking to someone my age.

Anyway, between her and Jonathan, my downtime in Iquitos is made enjoyable by good company.

-

Thursday.

Pack up.

Farewell.

Motocarro. Masusa.

Cabo Pantoja.

The boat is much less crowded than before. Only a few people are buzzing around busy with various tasks. The captain is no longer at the makeshift desk. He is replaced by one of his advisory board members. He looks up at me.

"Yeah?" he asks.
"You're leaving today, right?"
"Nope," he says. "Still not enough cargo."
"Uh huh."
"Come back Saturday. We'll definitely leave then."
"Uh huh."

Motocarro. Hotel.

Greetings.

Unpack.

Stare at ceiling.

Out of Iquitos

Saturday again.

Pack up again.

Farewell again.

Motocarro again. Masusa again.

The anthill of the Cabo Pantoja is alive once again. This time, dozens of women and children add to the buzz of scurrying conversation.

Once on the deck, I run across the captain.

"Hey paisano, you made it!" he says. "Go ahead and head up to the second or third deck."
"Don't I need to pay first?" I ask.
"Nah, we'll take care of that later. Just go find a good spot before they're all gone."

I hoist myself and everything I own up the stairs to the third deck and into the cabin where I will be living for the next six days. It is a large, empty room that is wide enough for two rows of hammocks that stretch all the way to the back of the boat. The cabin is about half-full and passengers are busy tying their hammocks to a steel bar that runs along the center of the ceiling and to the outer edge of the vessel. The space in between the two rows where the hammocks meet is piled with duffle bags, boxes, and suitcases. Several children run around playing tag and peering over the railing of the open walls to the water below.

I pick a relatively empty spot near the front of the starboard side of the cabin and nestle my packs in next to the rest of the luggage. I unpack my hammock and begin to string it up. I'm no boy scout, and do my best to tie the nylon cords around the cylindrical steel beams in double knots.

Satisfied that I won't crash onto the grungy metal cabin floor in the middle of the night, I take a drink of water, kick off my flip-flops, and climb into the hammock.

Iquitos is not a particularly dangerous place, but it is loaded with thieves and pick-pockets. The port is especially notorious for people taking advantage of all the hustle and bustle on these cargo boats. Take your eye off your stuff for one minute while in port, and you might not ever see it again. So I lie in the hammock with my feet toward the center so that I can watch my packs as people move around.

Just four hours to go.

By around seven in the evening, the cabin is mostly full of hammocks.

The space to my left is still wide open. Immediately to my right, two little girls are sharing a hammock. They are about eight or nine years old, and lie in opposite directions next to each other. In the hammock next to them is who I assume to be their mother cradling a toddler in her arms.

The two girls have noticed me. The side of their hammock is pulled up - hiding them from view. They are sitting up to face each other and are whispering and giggling. A moment later. I see four small fingers grasp the side of the hammock and slowly pull it down. The brown eyes of the girl sitting nearest me peers over the cloth at me. She then disappears behind the hammock again. More whispering. The little hand pulls the side down again and the brown eyes peek over.

This time I turn my head and smile at the girl. The eyes widen, and she darts back down again with a short squeal of surprise.

I'm very likely the first gringo they've ever seen.

Half an hour later, three guys come up the stairs and walk over and set their stuff down in the space to my left. They nod a greeting to me and we chat while they string up their hammocks. They are soldiers from Lima that are stationed at one of the bases near the border.

While they organize their things, a little animal somewhere at the back of my mind begins to whimper and growl. I look up. I've been talking to two soldiers. But three men walked over from the stairs.

I look down and see my large pack where I put it. The smaller pack should be just to the left of it. But one of the soldiers' duffle bags is blocking the view. I sit up straight to look behind it. The small pack is gone.

I stand up and begin rummaging through the pile of bags that has accumulated between the hammock rows. It isn't here.

"Are there just two of you?" I ask one of the soldiers.
"Yeah, why?"
"One of my bags is gone."

They help me search, but it isn't here.

Son...of a bitch.

I know what happened. The third guy behind the soldiers was using them as a distraction to nab something. With the duffle bag placed in view of my pack, it was easy enough to grab it and walk away to leave anyone assuming he was just another passenger.

What was in it? As a precaution, I wrapped the laptop in plastic and put it into the large pack. So that's ok. I've got my passport and my wallet in my pocket, so that's ok.

But four liters of bottled water for the six-day trip - gone. Bread and cans of tuna as a supplemental food source - gone. The external hard drive with backup copies of all my photos - gone. The utility knife that was a gift from my step-dad - gone. Flashlight - gone.

Most of these things are trivial or replaceable. I can buy bottled water at one of the larger villages on the Napo when we stop. Meals are provided with the trip, so I won't starve. The hard drive is expensive, but I still have all the photos on my laptop. I would definitely like the knife back in order to exact revenge on the jackass that has done this to me. I don't believe in violence - I just want to carve "hijo de puta" into the cockroach's useless little forehead for all to see. A little justice - Zorro style.

The problem is the $800 camera that was also in the pack - gone. It, too, is replaceable. But I loved that camera. And how can I finish this thing without it?

My legs twitch to run downstairs and catch the guy. But it's been well over five minutes. The cockroach is long gone - useless but not entirely stupid.

I wait for the rage to well up. But it doesn't come. I'm just numb.

I wait to feel disgusted with myself for letting it happen. But I'm just numb. The fact is I've never been robbed in my life. I was doing so much better than most people I know until now.

I stand there in dumbfounded confusion trying to think of what I could possibly do to resolve this situation. A teenaged boy then enters the cabin and looks around. Spotting what must be the only gringo in the entire port, he makes his way over to me.

"Hey mister!" he says. "They stole your bag!"
"Yeah," I say, rubbing my forehead in disgust. "Yeah, I know."

Now the rage comes. My vision takes on a red tint that mixes with the orange of the setting sun. The kid goes on talking, but all bilingual abilities are temporarily out of service as my mind tries to mop up the radioactive waste of anger. He is saying something about 'he is downstairs'. Well of course the cockroach is downstairs. he's in the back of a motocarro and going through my stuff to see what he got.

"What?" I ask.
"He has your bag downstairs. The captain!"

Just then, another kid comes into the cabin with my pack slung over one shoulder. The first kid points to him.

"The captain recognized that it was yours and stopped the guy on the way out."
"No way." I say, snapping out of it.

The teenager hands the pack over to me. I slap him on the shoulder.

"Thanks guys, I really owe you one."
"No problem," he says, and they head back downstairs.

I plop down into my hammock and do a quick check. All there. Not one thing missing.

I set the pack next to the soldier's duffle bag in plain view, and lie back with my crime virginity still intact. I then promptly plummet right back into an equally acute but opposite state of shock as before - the shock of luck.

-

By 10:00, the cabin has reached full capacity. The sun is long gone and the only light comes from three or four incandescent light bulbs hanging from various parts of the ceiling. Everyone is in their hammocks - packed in side by side like sardines. Several people are murmuring softly over bottles of Inca Kola and empanadas. Others are snoring already. To my right, the two little girls are fast asleep, each with their arms wrapped around the legs of the other. The soldier to my left has a small laptop resting on his torso. He and his companion watch video clips on the bright LCD screen.

The barge's diesel engine has been running since 9:00 when we were supposed to leave. But apparently not everything is quite ready.

Finally, the hull of the boat shudders as the engine revs up and we begin to slowly back out of the port. Careful not to wake the girls, I slip out of my hammock and duck out to the open deck of the bow to watch as we slide by the neighboring vessels. Once clear of the port, we take a turn to the left and cruise downstream a bit. The lights of Iquitos create a dull dome of luminescence in the purple, overcast night sky. On the opposite bank of the river, the impenetrable black silhouette of the jungle stretches forever in either direction.

Iquitos is a city of around 400,000 people. But from this vantage point, it is just another humble village - on the brink of being swallowed by an ancient and unloving organic empire.

A rusty skiff motors up alongside us. I look down and watch a crew of workers begin loading large barrels onto the lower deck. All the while they joke, jeer, and laugh at each other.

One of the crew members stands next to me and watches, too.

"What are they loading?" I ask him.
"Fuel," he replies. "They load the barrels out here away from the port in case...you know."

Right. Boom.

After about ten minutes, all the barrels have been loaded. Behind me in the control room, a walkie-talkie crackles with a voice from somewhere. Captain Paisano picks it up, presses the toggle, and responds.

"Ya, listo."

The skiff's motor roars and the boat pulls away to head back to the fueling station. Deeper and louder, the cargo boat's engine answers the challenge and we begin to turn left again to do an about face and head upstream toward the Napo. The glow of Iquitos slowly fades from view behind us as the Cabo Pantoja turns toward the blinding blackness of the jungle.

---

Photos

Searching for Pink Dolphins
The dolphins were shy that day