Jungle Book

First I’m going to pull out all my brushes, take a good look at them, and then throw ‘em overboard.  Next, I’m going to open the paint cans, shove my hand in to get warmed up, and then I´m going to Jackson Pollock all over the place.  So if I lose you along the way, that’s okay, because I’ve lost myself as well; just look out for the big picture and try to avoid the hammocks.

Iquitos is a flytrap of a city in Northern Peru.  There are two ways to get there: boat or plane;  there are no roads to Iquitos because it’s surrounded by jungle.  When you exit the airport 120 to 145 eager ´´moto´´ drivers will great you, try to guide you to their ´´motos, ´´ and quote you prices that would make an Arabian sheik gawk.  You’ll stand firm that a ride should cost 6 soles, a little under 2 dollars, and hop into the shaky hybrid-motorcycle-chariot of a vehicle.  Because no one seems to know/care about traffic rules, you’ll weave with 6 or 7 other drivers in and out of two lanes to your destination; if the fumes don’t get you stoned you might be anxious.

But Iquitos is just the corner of this canvass, no more than a stepping stone to the virgin Amazonian Jungle that lies 200km southwest in the Pacaya Samiria Reserve.  While I usually like to hike without guides, I have two boundaries: 1) high altitude climbing (it’s good to have a guide in this context) and 2) the jungle (I just don’t know where to begin).  So I found a small eco tourist outfit, ´´You’ll take a boat this evening, arrive there tomorrow morning, late, and then you’ll take another boat an hour into the reserve where you’ll meet Don Manuel and your guides.  Tell him I say hi.´´

I really don’t know what I was expecting, but in hindsight it’s better not to have expectations.  So when I arrived at the port, or rather spot where the ferries wedged themselves between each other and the eroding river bank, I was a little surprised…but hey, I’m not in Kansas.  It took me three boats and three planks to find my ferry and when I did I walked up to the second level (mistake 1) and immediately drifted back to my kindergarten days  when I first started to learn about slavery and slave ships, because this ship was packed with screaming people, food, and other unrecognizable odors and sounds.  I navigated my way towards the back (mistake 2) and found the hammock that had been reserved for me.  At that moment, I didn’t realize it, but the engine room was only a few feet away, the bathrooms a few feet on top of that, and above my head hung an exposed light bulb that couldn’t be turned off.

The instant I wedged myself into the hammock (which was touching three other people by necessity) I began to sweat profusely.  And when the bum rush occurred just seconds later for the few scattered life jackets, I sweated some more.  ´´False alarm,´´ my neighbor told me.  We hadn’t even left the “port” yet.

By 10:00 that evening things had settled down: people were nestled in their hanging beds and happily spilling rice and other delectables.  But I wasn’t as content: I was drenched and nauseated so I made my way through the jungle of the masses and stepped outside.  Damn, why hadn’t I thought of this sooner and why hadn’t I brought my jacket?  After a quick back in and back out I decided to curl up on the deck next to the captain’s room.  Ha. The captain’s room, or rather the captain’s cubby, where the captain drove the ship with no radio, no charts, no gps, no radar, nothing except his spotlight that he thrust into the darkness every couple of minutes.  My head was facing the railing and I could make out the name of ship, ´´EDUARDO VII.´´ What happened to the other Eduardos?  It didn’t matter.  I got up and peed through the D.

24 difficult hours later I arrived at San Martin Pishcado.  Counter to the prevailing notions that jungle people either run around topless and breastfeeding, or shooting at birds with bamboo rods, the people of San Martin dressed in jeans and t-shirts and went about doing ´´normal´´ things that ´´normal´´ people do.  They were fixing their houses (which had palm thatch roofs with expert carpentry inside….all without the use of nails), cutting their lawns (by use of machete), and building boats (with skilled and beautiful craftsmanship).  I was introduced to Carlos and Roland, my guides for the following few days, and it was decided that we would go camping at three o’clock the next afternoon.

Here’s the thing, I’ve been to the Bronx Zoo, seen the Amazon exhibit, heard the birds, looked at the snakes, smelled the dampness, and just about fallen asleep at the end.  I’m not quite sure what Jungle Book fantasy I was living in, but this didn’t quite prepare me for the real thing.  It didn’t quite prepare me to walk into the exhibits and discover that there’s no glass, no painted backgrounds, and no end.  Before we left I was under the impression that we might set out from town, in about an hour find a nice open spot, set up a campsite, do a little casual cooking, and then follow a sign that might read ´´Jaguar’s pool 3km this-a-way.´´  Ehh, not quite.

After a 3 hour boat ride in a hollowed out canoe with a makeshift lawnmower engine fashioned with a 10ft pipe for a prop shaft, the adventure would just be beginning.  Soon thereafter, Carlos, who was at the head of the canoe, would tip his head, and Roland, who was in the back, would turn the boat towards what had at first been pleasant, but distant scenery.  When we got close, Roland killed the engine, swung it into the canoe, and handed me an oar. Carlos picked up a machete, and we began to penetrate the jungle.

The first thing that struck me about the interior was the difference in light; the canopy swallows everything.  The next thing that caught my attention was its stillness, akin to a taught guitar string waiting to be plucked or cut, waiting for an event, any event, to release the tension.  Even though Carlos hacked away (with swings that make ching ching sound you hear in the movies) at fallen trees and shrubbery, vines still managed to feel us out like fingers testing for plumpness.  After 2 more hours of navigation, the sun was low, and we finally stumbled across upon the first piece of dry land at dusk.  We beached the canoe, and the guides immediately disappeared into the jungle with their machetes.  As I unloaded the boat the mosquitoes came out to greet me in swarms.  When Carlos and Roland returned with seven precisely cut saplings to build the shelter, I couldn’t stop slapping myself.  Apparently, Amazonian mosquitoes don’t give a Patagonian shit about DEET.

At around 9:00pm we got back into the canoe to see wildlife.  Roland started to make a sound that landed itself somewhere on the spectrum of constipation and a really good Saturday night.  Ha-ha, I thought.  ´´It’s for crocodiles´´ Sigh.

Greetings,

Simon

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Greetings Simon,
I just stumbled across your jottings and loved the read. I took this same trip two years ago and had a great time. But oooh those mosquitos! Great photos too. Thank you!

October 19th, 2009

Francesca

YES. Love the prose Simon.

August 20th, 2009

Sophie