DAY 12 -- LIMA TO WICHITA

I was seated on this flight from Lima to Miami next to a Peruvian—actually Japanese-Peruvian—woman in her late forties. Gina has lived in Japan for 15 years with her husband who is a pastor for an organization ministering to South Americans living in Japan. A pretty small niche, right? Well, I'm surprised when Gina tells me that there are approximately 350,000 Peruvians living in Japan.

Once, she said, more than 100 years ago, Japanese came to Peru for a better life. Now, Japan is a rich country and Peru is very poor. How can a country that was in ruins 60 years ago (Japan) be so prosperous now, and another country (Peru), that has not suffered any such devastating military defeat, be in such economic shambles? I don’t know, and neither does Gina.

We talk about family. We talk about where I’ve been in South America and in Peru. She asks how much I’ve spent on my trip of more than 10 days. She can hardly believe it when I estimate that I have spent a total of $700 USD for bus, boat, and air transportation; lodging and food; tours; and Internet and phone expenses. I believe that Gina says she spent around $3,000 USD in four weeks and never left Lima.

Now here’s an interesting bit of information, perhaps not all that useful unless you happen to find yourself in or around Tarapoto, Peru, but interesting nonetheless. Gina makes me promise—Promise!—that I will never, ever drink a beverage that is a specialty of the Tarapoto region. The drink is prepared from yucca. I ate yucca on the trip; it wasn’t great, but no harm done. Well, there’s a bit more to be said about the preparation of this brew. First, the starchy yucca plant is fed to young children. After an appropriate period of time, they are induced to vomit their stomach contents into a vessel. That, uh, material is the basis for the drink. It is, I assume, subject to a filtering and distillation process before finally serving to guests. Gina, my word is my bond…I won’t be drinking any of this brew. Never, ever.

Gina has been visiting her extended family in Peru. Now she’s returning to Tokyo and her family via Miami and New York. It’s 3 a.m. or so when we share photos taken in Peru. She’s very interested in pictures taken on my jungle excursion. Not long after those, though, she can fight sleep no longer.

The seat next to me opposite of Gina is empty, but still the minimal pitch (amount of space between one seat and the seat in front of it) affords me no comfortable personal configuration. At best I may have had a total of an hour’s sleep during the flight.

American Airlines flight 918 arrives in Miami right on time at 6 a.m. Clearing customs [where an agent good naturedly--and loudly--proclaims when he sees me: "Thank God, somebody older than me!"], reclaiming bags, checking-in for the flights to Atlanta and on to Wichita, and clearing security takes most of the time prior to the scheduled 8 a.m. departure time. Air Tran provides me boarding passes—with seat assignments for both flights!—at the ticket counter. This is the best indication a standby passenger can have that he will indeed be able to board his flights with a minimum of angst. Nothing is certain, but I should arrive in Wichita about 12:15 p.m., a little over 12 hours since leaving Lima. Heck, I’ve spent 12 hours in the Dallas airport just waiting for a flight I can get on.

I want a pastry and coffee before leaving MIA. I’ll have to charge them. For the record, I arrived back in the United States with $3 USD plus three Peruvian nuevo soles (worth less than $1 USD) in my pockets. A few dollars, a bag of dirty clothes, and experiences I wouldn’t trade for $10,000.

DAY 11 -- TARAPOTO TO LIMA

Early morning street scene from balcony, Hotel la Mansion, Tarapoto

The sounds of motocar traffic and pedestrians on the street below awakens me from an actual nightmare related to my work for the FAA. It’s 7 a.m. and it’s raining. I prepare a bit for my departure later today, then go downstairs for a motocar to take me here and there around centro Tarapoto.

My young driver, Segundo, also drove me around a bit last night. He takes me looking for an embroidered patch, the translation of which has always escaped me. It’s not the easiest thing, to explain the concept of “embroidered patch,” if you don’t have one handy to point at. The search is a failure.

I need to change some large Peruvian bills for something smaller. The banks aren’t open, but the casinos are. We go to one named after that gambling mecca, Fargo, to change a 50-soles note for something smaller. It is difficult to buy anything with currency larger than a 20-soles note (about $7 USD), and many services (street vendors, motocar drivers, etc.) can’t handle those. So, when you leave a cambio automatico (ATM) with a pocketful of 100-soles bills, you don’t necessarily have any money that can be readily spent other than at your lodging or perhaps a restaurant. When I leave Casino Fargo weighted down with 50 soles in the form of coins, airport security 100 miles (160 km) away could detect my every move.

I jingled my way back by Real Grill for a very nice breakfast of juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, rice, and some of Tarapoto's renowned coffee. Afterwards I enter a collection of fairly cheesy shops, purchasing some trinkets to take back home.

Small shop inside a 'mall', Tarapoto

The airline Star Peru has an office on a corner of the plaza where I check on flights to Lima. They have one flight a day—at 3:55 p.m.—but they indicate that there are no seats available. The young man helping me suddenly jumps up, goes to the back room to talk to a supervisor, and comes back with the good news that I can, indeed, purchase a ticket. It’s less than $90 USD including taxes, so really I’m paying only about $50 USD more than my ZED (airline discount) fare. I snatch the opportunity immediately.

I run into Wendy near the plaza. [She is the young American traveling with her husband who shared a ride with me yesterday from Yurimaguas to Tarapoto.] She thinks that the five of us who made the trip yesterday seem to be the only foreigners in the city.

I spend an hour on the Internet, shower once more at my hotel, and have Segundo take me to the airport on his motocar as we’d arranged earlier. Star Peru requires that you check-in two hours prior to your flight, and the flight is two hours late. Do the math: I have four hours to kill at the airport, and not a minute is wasted.

On the road to the airport, Tarapoto;

(below) airport buildings and control tower

I stop at a little shop selling regional specialties—liquers, mermeladas (preserves), coffee—to take home as well as other items to consume on the spot. A pretty twenty-something woman is pouring samples of ten different alcoholic beverages, products of Tarapoto. I soon spot Alan and Guy, the Aussies who have seemingly shared a parallel universe with me since I jumped onto the Eduardo IV in Lagunas. The three of us have a great time sampling first one, then another of the drinks. I purchase two bottles to bring home.

Behind the shop’s counter a precocious teenager makes change, wraps items, clearly enjoying talking with someone exotic. I stick around trying this and that. I taste some local honey, buy some coffee to take home, and order the very unlikely drink called maiz morado.

Maiz morado is a cold beverage made from a variety of purple corn—corn!—that gives it a grape juice-like appearance. A woman on the plane ride back to Miami told me that maiz morado contains a bit of lemon and sugar in addition to the purple corn base. It’s good!

I go outside and sit on the steps in front of the terminal. A young, fresh-faced woman in her early twenties is sitting there as well. Felicity is very British, very religious, and has just come out of rural northern Peru having served—if I recall correctly—several months at an orphanage.

I’m interested in volunteering one day in some capacity—social or environmental—and I asked Felicity about the sponsor of the project where she worked. King’s Care, she tells me, is a British social outreach program serving impoverished areas worldwide.

Back inside again, I place some calls to the U.S. These are very easy and inexpensive to make from the call centers seen virtually everywhere in Peru. I touch base with Barb at school, then try to contact someone at my employer’s in Wichita to discuss my work (or non-work) situation—I’m scheduled to work tonight and clearly won’t be there.

At the airport shop where I’d already spent an hour of time, I talk with a counselor of some kind who travels regularly to outlying regions of the country in her job for the government of Peru. Madeleine is 37, just the age of my own daughters. Barely 5 feet (1.6 m) in height, she is dark featured, handsome, and looks every bit the intense mid-career professional behind her frameless eyeglasses.

Madeleine has some elementary English learning materials with her which we look through with the two shop girls. She’d like to join her sister in the Los Angeles area within a few years, hoping to improve her family’s lives and opportunities. We continue to talk in the gate area while waiting for the flight to arrive. It finally does, of course, and the Star Peru flight to Lima departs at 6 p.m., two hours late.

The late-thirtyish woman seated next to me looks like a good bet to be English-speaking. She is. Susan is a born-again Christian who has dedicated the past 15 years of her life to serving the underprivileged in Central America, Africa, and now—for the past seven years—in Peru.

I ask, and she tries to explain where she lives, telling me that it’s 140 km (85 miles) north of Tarapoto via a difficult road. I try to recall what roads there are north of Tarapoto other than Highway 8A, and can’t think of any. I tell Susan that I’d been north of Tarapoto to the outpost river town of Yurimaguas, and asked where she worked in relation to it. “That’s it!,” she said, unbelieving that she was seated next to someone who knew where her mission was, and understood a little about how desperately it was needed. She said that I knew more about what she did, and where, than anyone in her own family with the exception of her mother who, at the ages of 75 and 80, had twice endured the arduous journey to Yurimaguas to visit her daughter.

Susan is from Michigan. She dropped out of college following her spiritual re-birth, choosing to take an active role in social service—and, I assume, evangelism—in impoverished areas.

She is on her way today to meet a volunteer team of medical professionals flying into Lima from the United States to assist at her mission for a time. We talk about her work. I ask about the laborers loading the Eduardo boats in Yurimaguas, whether she had seen them carrying loads of caged chickens onto the boats, liquid waste pouring out of the cages and down the men’s backs. She said that she’d been on the Eduardo line boats to look around them, but had never witnessed what I described. [My account of the brutal conditions endured by the laborers can be found in Day 7 of this narrative.]

Susan took a little time to talk about the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village in Dearborn, Michigan, just west of Detroit. She clearly considered this an excellent, interesting attraction.

There was a group of perhaps 15 U.S. doctors aboard the flight from Tarapoto to Lima, beginning their journey back home. They were boisterous, in high spirits at the end of their mission somewhere in northern Peru. Susan was naturally interested in talking with some of these men, professionals who might well have contacts that could benefit her work in the future. I changed seats with one of those contacts—a young Peruvian physician—so that the two women could talk about shared interests for the remainder of the flight.

This is a good point to offer an observation. On board this flight from Tarapoto to Lima is an American woman who is devoting her whole life to service in the world’s impoverished regions. She is on her way to meet a team of volunteers—Americans—who will return with her to her mission where they will serve the health needs of impoverished indigenous people. Also on this plane is a team of volunteer physicians returning home following a period of service. They were also Americans. All told, I can account for perhaps 30 people who will be in transit between Lima and Tarapoto today and tomorrow, coming or going to or from volunteer work in truly uncomfortable environs and conditions. Each of those 30 is American.

With the exception of Felicity (the Brit I met in front of the airport in Tarapoto) and her friend who had completed a significant period of work in an orphanage, and Katty, a young German woman who had performed volunteer work helping street kids in Trujillo, I encountered no other outside nationals performing such service. That is not to say there aren’t French or German or Australian teams in significant numbers doing the same sort of work, but it is to say that I didn’t encounter any. I’m convinced that Americans have much to be proud of, perhaps most of all to be proud of the commitment to voluntarism demonstrated by some of our fellow citizens. As Americans, we may be far more negative about ourselves than other nationals are of us.

I spent a significant amount of time during this trip with young travelers from Germany, Australia, France and Switzerland and I never heard one negative word about America or Americans. And I was listening, expecting to encounter criticism. Many Peruvians, with whom I spent the most time, would in fact like to be Americans one day. I must also say that I heard not one solitary word about U.S. politics or policy, foreign or domestic…none spoken to me, none overheard. That truly surprised me.

It’s only about an hour’s flight from Tarapoto to Lima. I claimed my bag and was at the American Airlines ticket counter before it opened at 8 p.m. I checked-in as a standby passenger for the flight to Miami but could not go to the gate until all ticketed customers had been processed. I was finally cleared to go to the gate area to await the 11:30 p.m. scheduled departure. I stopped for something to eat, shopped a bit, thought about going into the duty-free shop, but didn’t. Good thing! I barely cleared customs and security, ran to the gate hearing “final call for American Airlines flight 918 to Miami,” hearing my name being called over the airport P.A. system. I made it, but just barely.

Inside the terminal, Lima, Peru: Families and friends attend arrivals and departures in great numbers

DAY 10 -- YURIMAGUAS TO TARAPOTO

Early morning on Rio Huallaga

near Yurimaguas, Peru

I wake about 4 a.m., swaying in my hammock on the upper deck of the Eduardo IV, proceeding upstream on Rio Huallaga towards Yurimaguas, Peru. Roosters are crowing on the deck below. Sometimes I can just make out the passing jungle (selva), sometimes it seems we’re in fog or smoke. It’s interesting to observe the boat’s bridge as we churn our way south on the river. There does not appear to be any electronic navigation gear onboard, but I suppose there must be at least some kind of depth indicator. I think that we’re navigating based upon the crew’s knowledge of the river aided by frequent scanning of our course with a high-intensity light. Once we put in at a small island on the river and unload a man and his native canoe. How this spot was found, in utter darkness, is amazing. That was the only stop we made on the 13-hour trip from Lagunas to Yurimaguas.


Pilot house of the Eduardo IV

Cesar the Tout meets me on the dock

My old amigo, Cesar, was at the dock meeting the boat. He remembered me from a couple of days ago and was quick to grab my bag. I had to slow him down since I’ve joined up with four other travelers who also want to go to Tarapoto. I ask Cesar to quote a price for the collectivo from here to there for the five of us. He tells me it will be 250 soles (about $80 USD), a figure I know will not be acceptable to my young companions—Wendy and Kristian from the U.S., and Alan and Guy from Australia.


Friendly Peruvians wave goodbye

Wendy (foreground, with backpack) and Kristian (center, in hat and sunglasses)

The two Americans are no naifs. They have been traveling in South America for months and both are fluent in Spanish. They and the two Aussies stand on one corner, surrounded by drivers and motocars, trucks, and native Peruvians just off the boat. They are perhaps negotiating the price, but certainly are trying to come to a decision on whether they want to be packed—the five of us—in a small sedan for three hours. All the time the price of the ride is dropping.

Miguel, like Cesar, is a tout on the scene, acting as an intermediary between the collectivo driver and me. (Miguel happens to be the brother-in-law of Manuel, the ESTYPEL tour manager in Lagunas. Miguel knew that I would be coming off the boat here, tipped off, no doubt, by Manuel.) He quickly approached me once I hit the shore.

Cesar has forsaken me, ceding my care to the capable hands of Miguel. The latter quotes me rock bottom, final prices for the trip to Tarapoto. The cost now is less than half the price quoted at the dock. I have an interest in getting at least two of the four young travelers to join me, and soon. Finally, they overcome whatever objections they may have had to the cost of the trip or the cramped space afforded us in the small sedan. A final charge of 120 soles ($40 USD) is agreed upon to take the five of us 75 miles (125 km) over the dicey road to Tarapoto. We’re finally packed into the collectivo and are on our way around 7 a.m.


Chaotic scene near boat dock, Yurimaguas, Peru

-------------------------------------------

I’ve found the Peruvian people to be friendly and photogenic. In the south and east of the country, around Cusco, many people dressed in native garb and led animals in order to earn a small amount of money to be photographed. The Peruvians I encountered in the north and east of the country were altogether different. They would often ask me to photograph them, and not to earn a propina.

Early in my trip I had quite a Tower of Babel-sort of misunderstanding. An old man motioned me to come over and photograph him and his family. I was more than happy to do that, of course. Each of us was killing time, waiting for our rides to take us out of Tarapoto.

When I was done taking pictures, I turned to leave. The old man started talking about dineros (money). Uh-oh, I guess I was scammed into paying him something in order to photograph the family. I reached into my pocket for some coins; at the same time the old man was pulling coins from his own pocket, to make change for me I thought. It took a moment for us to understand that each of us was expecting to pay the other—me for the privilege of photographing his family, him to be photographed. Go figure!

----------------------------------------

Hwy 8A to Tarapoto on the outskirts of Yurimaguas

Wendy and Kristian, my young American friends sharing the ride, sit up front in the collectivo, talking non-stop with the chofer (driver) in Spanish. The road outside Yurimaguas is great, as I mentioned in a previous day’s narrative. It’s quite smooth enough to write in my journal. I’m bemused knowing just how bad the road will be for the final 1/3 of the ride. Thank God it’s another beautiful day; I don’t know what the road conditions would be following a significant rainfall.

It occurs to me that I haven’t seen an airplane, with the possible exception of possibly hearing a small single-engine plane, since I left Trujillo a week ago. Several of the cities I’ve passed through (Chiclayo, Tarapoto) have regular commercial service, but I simply have not seen anything flying.

At 8:30 a.m. our progress is stopped dead its tracks at the little town of Pongo de Mainique. Road construction is halting traffic for an unknown length of time, but certainly for hours. This should make my attempt to get home as scheduled even more interesting…

A sign of trouble ahead...

I spent my last two soles (67 cents USD) for a bottle of water last night while onboard the Eduardo IV enroute to Yurimaguas on Rio Huallaga; I have no Peruvian money and only about $30 USD to my name. Kristian and Wendy are kind enough to loan me 50 soles ($16 USD) till we get to Tarapoto where I can access some cash. I can at least buy something to eat or drink while we’re here.

I remember that I have bought nothing, nada, nunca for anyone back home while I’ve been on this trip. Time has really not allowed any shopping, and I’ve not encountered any of the usual stands where indigenous craftsmen sell their wares. I mostly want to take something back for Barb’s (my wife, a teacher) school kids and for my grandchildren. I find some little, individually wrapped mints that are made in Peru. That will have to be it, at least till I get to the duty free shop. I also have the presence of mind to purchase some socks so that I don’t disgrace myself again in the TSA conga lines I will navigate on the way home.

I step into a nice little café on the highway here in Pongo called, interestingly, Don Chino Tang Restaurant. I explain what I want—scrambled eggs with cheese and a side order of rice. (I’m a long way from a restaurant serving hash browns, believe me.) The owner brings out a fresh piece of cheese, cuts a bit off for me to taste, and asks if it’s OK. It was. Clearly my order was not the usual for this establishment, but they prepare the items as requested and serve the entrée garnished with avocado, tomatoes, and cucumber slices. They don’t seem to have fresh orange juice. Instead, I order a liter (33 ounces) container of a mixed fruit nectar.

The manager-owner sits down and talks with me for an hour-and-a-half. He brings his daughter to the table as well. She’s pretty, shy, only 16, and she’ll be going to New York in January to study and to live with her aunt.

Restaurant owner Cuarto Angel Tang Ushinahua and his daughter, Dolly

Cuarto Angel Tang Ushinahua is the owner’s name. He’s proud to point out his Chinese heritage (note the ‘Tang’ surname and the name of the restaurant: Don Chino Tang). I see the name ‘Tang’ inscribed on a 40-year old plaque on a municipal building. Some faces, too, if you look closely reflect an Asian influence.

I see my traveling companions, Wendy and Kristian, walking by on the other side of the highway through Pongo. I call to them, inviting them to join us, to talk to Cuatro Angel and his daughter, Dolly. We’re soon served a pitcher of refresco, the juice of a regional fruit called taperiba.

While I’m sitting here I learn that the road may be closed till 7 p.m.! That’s another seven or eight hours! I take some photos of the father and daughter, then ask for the bill. The total for everything I had for breakfast, and including the shared pitcher of refresco (which may simply be shared gratis with guests), came to eight soles (about $2.50 USD). Next time you’re in Pongo de Mainique, Peru, consider stopping at Don Chino Tang, un buen ristorante…you won’t need an address (direccion) to find it.

At this point it’s past noon. We’ve killed three hours of our indefinite stop for road construction on the highway to Tarapoto. I see an Internet business; now I can get word back home regarding my status: I’m fine, but delayed. But not so fast! There are eight PC stations, but there are no working lines out of Pongo, so I won’t be sending any emails while I’m waiting out the delay.

Street Scenes, Pongo

(Left top) Collectivo driver and pet mono (monkey); (Left bottom) Moving cattle (vacas) down main thoroughfare; (Top center) Idle man on side street; (Right) Painted sign outside hardware store (ferreteria)

I wander down to the river, then an afternoon shower has me looking for shelter. My Aussie mates—Alan and Guy—are sitting at a bar. I join them. A young Scot lad, none too happy with his lot being delayed indefinitely in a small Peruvian town on the edge of the jungle, is hustling a young Swedish girl who is traveling alone. The Scot drops F-bombs, loud and frequent, with astounding imagination and vigor. I’m reminded that I haven’t heard a profane word (surely merde does not count, does it?) in over a week. I take solace in the fact that he’s not representing my country.

I sit down to review my latest photos, to eliminate some from my camera’s disk. Soon there are young kids gathered around me to catch a glimpse of the pictures. And then some older folks join the onlookers.

I'm sitting on a chair in the bar/restaurant. The large open window to the street is filled with young and old faces. They seem interested in pictures from the jungle trip--pictures of birds and monkeys and sloths, butterflies and a snake. I'm done deleting photos, but my audience wants to keep looking. I show them a grueling number of pictures, all the way back to my first day in Peru. I take photos of the onlookers themselves, and they take delight in seeing themselves instantly on the camera's display screen.

A middle-aged man, Virgilio, has been one of the most interested of the onlookers. He stays behind to talk after the show. He asks if I want to go look at the river, down to where a suspension bridge crosses to a less hectic barrio of Pongo.

We go down to the riverside. I see a large concentration of sensitive rose, a plant that closes its leaves rapidly after being touched. Virgilio seems fascinated, repeating the process process time and again. I think my mother and grandmother, who probably closed a thousand sensitive roses in their time, would have approved. [It's interesting to me that a week after this day in Pongo, while cutting grass at my cabin in Arkansas, I discovered several patches of sensitive rose in the yard that I had not previously known were there.]

On a walk to the river with Virgilio (above); at the suspension bridge (left); the view back towards Pongo from beneath the bridge (right)

On our walk Virgilio and I watch some bureaucratic learning process at a deadly hot and humid municipal building, then return to the bar/restaturant that we'd left an hour previously. The two Aussies are still there, playing cards and chess. Two Peruvian university students come in and are soon invited to sit with Virgilio and me. One of the students, Mariela, is naturally outgoing and comely, and she wants very much to practice her English. Her friend, Karina, is shy and has to be cajoled into taking a seat at the table.


We order a drink, a pitcher of refresco like I'd had several hours ago at the Don Chino Tang Restaurant across the highway. The four of us pour the cold juice of the taperiba fruit into our glasses. Salud!

University students Mariela (left) and Karina

The students have to leave. It seems to be a ritual to exchange e-mail addresses, which we do. Mariela asks to see the journal that I have been writing in and leaves the sweetest note...

17/05/07

My name is Mariela.

I will that always me remember.

Send me photos for remember.

I will always remember your smile.

Your friend

Mariela
________
Peru

Leaving, I ask for the check. Although I had sat in the restaurant for two or three hours and not purchased a single thing but the drink, the middle-aged woman running the establishment would not hear of me paying anything for the pitcher of refresco. I don't know if this is traditional hospitality conferred on every visitor, or was offered because of our group's inclusion of the standersby in our conversations and activities.

We had seen a sign earlier advertising three large, cold Pilsen beers for 10 soles ($3 USD). We--Alan and Guy, Wendy (Kristian is off somewhere walking, I think), and I--meet up there and the four of us, joined in a bit by Kristian, while away a couple of hours over several more than the initial three cervezas. We talk about cricket; American- and Aussie-rules football; tornadoes and cyclones; global warming and a new Michael Crichton novel; and, of course, travel. These four young people at my table have certainly been around. If the "over/under" for the number of countries stamped in each of their passports is established at 15, put your money on the "over."

Dusk is settling in. We eat some of the bar/restaurant's hearty fare, then depart back to our collectivo.

There is a hint of excitement in the air. Perhaps we'll be allowed onto the highway at 6 rather than 7. We load up, drive a quarter-mile (400 meters), stop and get out. It's not long, though, and we're on our way.

Our vehicle is third or fourth in the long procession behind the lead car, a situation no self-respecting chofer is going to readily accept. Even though there is no passing the lead car, it seems very important for each driver to attempt improving their relative positions. Given the state of the vehicles themselves, as well as the scrum-like mass of them positioned only inches from each other as we start off from Pongo, I cannot help but be reminded of that staple fairground event--Demolition Derby!

Wendy and Kristian are relatively quiet up front, but my Aussie mates in back clearly find our driver's aggressive techniques to be disquieting at best, if not downright terrifying. I know that the road will get substantially worse. This is probably the one bit of travel knowledge I have over my four co-riders. Alan actually yells at the driver to slow down when he begins to overtake another car on a blind curve.

The size of some of the buses and trucks that negotiate this road is astonishing, though they do not attempt to keep up with the autos. I spend the entire trip considering whether to go directly to the airport once in Tarapoto--reeking personally and toting a bag of moldering clothes--and trying to get back onto my schedule, connecting to an overnight flight out of Lima to Miami. Even as we see the broad expanse of lights of Tarapoto far below us, I have not decided what to do.

I mentioned on a previous day's entry that I saw my first angry Peruvian near Lagunas when he was forced off the sidewalk by our motocar. Upon arrival at the outskirts of Tarapoto I find myself in the middle of a near riot. My traveling mates were none too pleased with the long delay in Pongo since it is virtually certain that our driver knew about it in advance. Our chofer did not burnish his image with his overly aggressive driving nor with his unwillingness (or inability) to take us directly to centro Tarapoto. My friends determined that, taking these factors into consideration, payment of only 100 soles would be proferred rather than the amount (120 soles) negotiated at the port in Yurimaguas.

We five travelers stood under a street light at an intersection teeming with traffic and native Peruvians, arguing about the fairness of our payment. Little Wendy, fluent in Spanish and speaking as fast as a Mexican TV game-show announcer, was right in our driver's face. Though I didn't understand exactly what she was saying, I was certain they weren't exchanging e-mail addresses. Our group of five foreigners with bags could not hope to meld into the crowd anonymously, and I least of all because of my age, my height, and, I'm sure, my look of utter bewilderment.

The area where the collectivo stopped was an utter crush of humanity. Motocar drivers reach for your bags, vying for the opportunity to take you into town. Streams of motocars converge to become a river at this point on the edge of Tarapoto. Collectivo drivers and their families are here in great numbers, enjoying the pleasant night air. Surely the sentiments of the scores of people surrounding us are with the driver. He makes his stand: He will accept 120 soles or he'll accept nothing.

The give-and-take goes on for 15 minutes. Wendy, Kristian and I depart the chaos in a motocar. Alan and Guy remain to contend with the situation. The two Aussies are clearly content that, if it's 'nothing' that the driver will accept, 'nothing' it shall be. I learn later that our chofer finally accepted the 100 soles, convinced that otherwise he'd be left high-and-dry with nothing to show for his 12+ hours and 75+ miles (120+ km). Remember: this entire dust-up is over an amount of 20 soles (less than $7 USD), and each of us was accountable for only 1/5 of that amount.

Wendy and Kristian part ways from me at my hotel. I've returned to Hotel la Mansion where I spent the night five days ago, never dreaming that I'd ever be back in Tarapoto. The desk clerks remember me, even remembering which room I had occupied.

I immediately go to an Internet site to let folks at home know that I was indeed OK, and to let a co-worker know that I wouldn't be at work Friday night as planned. I get a fresh supply of Peruvian currency at a cambio automatico (ATM), return to my hotel, shower, insert earplugs for the first time on the trip, and fall into bed.

UPDATE -- MAY 23

I arrived back home Saturday, May19, and was at work that night. Barb had not changed the locks at our home, always a good sign. Our granddaughter, Madi, who is 1-1/2 years old, had changed a bit in appearance and skills in the two weeks since I’d seen her. Like movement of a sloth or the minute hand of a clock, her progress was imperceptible to those who are around her every day, but was noticeable to me.

Mi esposa, Barb, y mi nieta, Madi

Within three days of returning home, I feel that I need to go down to our cabin in Arkansas to attend to it. (The accompanying photo may justify that feeling.) Completion of my narrative is in competition for time with ongoing chores at home in Kansas and in Arkansas, as well as my job at the airport in Wichita. I hope to post days 9 and 10 today, leaving only two days yet to enter on the blog.

Cabin in Arkansas; starting to mow

DAY 9-- RESERVA NACIONAL PACAYA-SAMIRIA TO LAGUNAS TO RIO HUALLAGA

Go on, you can say! Does this shirt make me look fat?

Sunset on Rio Huallaga

I awake about 5:30 a.m. There is the barest tinge of light. The Peruvians are murmuring sleepily among themselves; by 6 a.m. they are out of their beds and actively preparing for the day.

I slept well, but took no chances. An Ambien helped me get beyond the heat and humidity and into a good sleep. Mosquitoes posed no problem under the net. In fact, during the entire day and evening yesterday, there were only minimal insect problems, and those were after dark.

Esteban returns from fishing at 6:30 with a variety of species. He has a piranha, a couple of larger fish, and an electric eel that appears to be three feet (one meter) in length.

There is a separate raised platform, somewhat smaller than the one we’re on, about 50 feet (16 m) from our structure. You can see a large water container on top for a shower (ducha) as well as enclosed toilets (banos). These are not yet functional, but are supposed to be within a month or two.

Meals are prepared. We must be considered two separate groups, the French threesome and me, though we did share the same jungle camp last night. They are served plates of well-fried eggs (huevos) and packets of saltine crackers; my desayuno (breakfast) will not be quite so mundane.

Breakfast scene at Area de Campamento Poza Gloria in Reserva Nacional Pacaya-Samiria

A large pot, perhaps 6 quarts (6 liters) in size, containing an otherworldly looking soup (sopa) is offered for my breakfast. The broth is thinner than pea soup, but about the same color. The container is filled with pieces of fish that were almost certainly caught by Esteban this morning. Only a fish head will do for me, their guest. I know that they would serve me only what they considered to be the best portion of the fish (pescado). I work my fork around the head a bit, searching for an edible portion. Finally, eyeing a fleshy portion of fish in Zorela’s bowl, I ask for just a bit of it. There is yucca cooked in the soup, and virtually tasteless cooked bananas (platanos) are served on the side. I have hot tea and some bread to complement this most unique breakfast (desayuno).


The oldest of the group of three French travelers, a 40-ish man, could be the father, or perhaps mentor, of the young man and woman with him. He is on the staff of a zoo in France and is the only one of the three to speak English. He helps me with identification of some of the birds and animals that I saw yesterday. This morning we watch as flycatchers, kingfishers, and a black-crowned night heron work the waters near our camp called Area de Campamento Poza Gloria.

A fairly large bird has built its nest in a cavity in a snag standing 50 feet (16 m) from our platform. Two chicks plead for food. We wait for the return of the parent almost as impatiently as the chicks. The Frenchman thinks it may be some kind of creeper; Zorela says it is a carpintero.

Some type of carpintero (woodpecker)?

There is something about my name that makes my hosts want to speak it, whether talking to me or amongst themselves. “Te gusta Peru, Senor Meek?” “Donde vive, Senor Meek?” “Que hora es, Senor Meek?”

We depart the camp at 9 a.m. Preparing to leave, Esteban reminds me not to forget my amigo…I had Rodolfo posed on a sign at the camp and would have forgotten him. Then he tells me to be sure to bring my journal—my second-most valued possession after the disk of photos inside my camera—which I would have left on the table where I ate. Now we’re off!

We’ll basically re-trace our yesterday’s route back to Santa Rosa. Esteban will have to paddle against the slight but persistent current. He knows and takes many short-cuts, sometimes only a little wider than our canoe, through the flooded jungle. Only once in perhaps 40 deviations from the main channel do we ever have to retreat because we are unable to get through. The dry season is just at its beginning in mid-May; later, there will be land surface revealed and the short-cuts will no longer be viable, but not yet.

Once we enter a riverine passageway narrower than the canoe. We have to grab branches and pull ourselves along a short distance. I ask Esteban if it ever gets dry here? Yes, from June to September the waters recede back into a more defined rivercourse. Then, too, the land animals return in numbers from higher ground, making the dry season much better for viewing wildlife.

Below are listed some of the animals we saw this morning. Spelling errors likely approach 100% as I merely attempted to spell phonetically, in a second language, names that were provided by my non-English-speaking guia.

>> Garca senita—lighter in color but similar in size and construction to the Great blue heron
>> Pescano—small eagle or hawk that feeds on small monos (monkeys)
>> Polcarijo—brilliant black-and-yellow bird about the size of a robin
>> Colebra—something stirring in the shoreline reeds…a snake? eel? caiman?
>> Carpintero—either a Pileated woodpecker or a very close cousin. This word, ‘carpintero,’ was applied earlier today to an altogether different bird. This is when it occurs to me that ‘carpintero’ is not the name of a specific bird; rather, it is a generic term used for any woodpecker.

(Left) A snake (serpiente), 5 feet (1.5 m) long but harmless to humans; (right) a monkey (mono) in the trees--a frele?

Esteban works hard for three-and-a-half hours to get us back to yesterday’s lunch site. I tell him that I certainly do not need lunch. After a short stop, we’re on our way again.

Esteban senses my interest in seeing and photographing, if possible, any of the fauna that we encounter. He stops and waits patiently when there is a photo opportunity. He has been a great guia (guide) in every way. I’m not sure how the money thing is going to play out when we get back to Lagunas. There is no bank and, even more certainly, there is no ATM. I have no idea if I even have money for the rapido boat to Iquitos. Esteban has earned a nice propina (tip) and I will have to figure some way to provide one--at the end of the trip or, perhaps, even later via correo (mail).

The thought occurs to me that I have no earthly status that merits being powered upstream 10 miles or more by dint of Esteban’s labor. And his station in life is not to be pitied. I think. I believe he enjoys taking tourists into the park, being on the river. He lives a royal life compared to the poor souls I saw loading the Eduardo III prior to its departure from Yurimaguas two days ago. In the Western Hemisphere, perhaps only some Bolivian mine workers could be said to endure such a dire existence as those human beasts of burden bearing unconscionable loads on their backs.

I suppose the fare I paid to ride the Eduardo III passes quickly into the pockets of the same men or company exploiting the laborers. I can’t seem to forget about it.

Esteban leaves the Rio Salmillia, which we’ve been on all day, and paddles up Rio di Billo a short way to Santa Rosa. (A disclaimer: river names are phonetic interpretations of my guide’s conversation in Spanish. Greater accuracy may follow discovery of more detailed maps and the time to research them.) We arrive back at what you would call a ranger station for this entry point into Reserva Nacional Pacaya-Samiria at 2:30 p.m.

My exit from the park is logged, but not before I return an inexpensive ballpoint pen I had borrowed yesterday. The government official closes his office, and he and a young park employee join me, Esteban, and our driver (chofer)—five of us and our gear loaded onto one of the little 3-wheeled motocars—for the ride back to Lagunas. The dirt lane is rutted and muddy. Except for the driver, we all get out a half-dozen times so that the vehicle can be urged through particularly bad stretches of road.

I saw the first angry person (but not the last, as intrepid readers of tomorrow’s narrative will see) I have seen in ten days in Peru. A man pushing a cart took exception to our motocar using the paved sidewalk rather than the parallel rutted road, essentially forcing him off the sidewalk so that we could pass by him. The man was angry but not threatening, and the four young Peruvians driving and riding with me were soon joking loudly about the incident.

I worry my way back to Manuel’s ESTYPEL office in Lagunas. How will I provide a proper tip for Esteban? How will I pay for the rapido to Iquitos? I explain my dilemma to Manuel when we get to town, seeking first to determine what amount would be a proper propina for Esteban? This question evokes good-natured laughter from everyone in the little office/home, including from Esteban himself. A propina of 30 soles ($10 USD) was considered generous without being egregious.

Now, about the trip to Iquitos. That was supposed to be the linchpin of my return to the U.S. I was told about a fast boat, a rapido, that would get me to Iquitos in eight hours or so, plenty of time to get back home for work Friday night as scheduled. What I wasn’t told is that a savvy shopper could purchase one-way airfare from Lima to Auckland for approximately the same amount of money. I was quoted a cost of 1,000 soles (more than $300 USD) to go one-way from Lagunas to Iquitos on the rapido. I don’t think so…

I checked into my options. A boat from the Eduardo line was in Lagunas right now, but it was going to Yurimaguas, the opposite direction from Iquitos and a place I’d left Monday night. The Eduardo boat going downstream to Iquitos would not arrive till after midnight (another 10 hours), and would not arrive in Iquitos till sometime Friday (two days from now). I’m supposed to return to work Friday night, so that option didn’t sound too promising.

I toyed with various scenarios in my head, wondering if a return to Yurimaguas could possibly get me back home on schedule? There are no flights out of Yurimaguas, but LAN Peru and Star Peru do have flights out of Tarapoto. Of course, that would mean getting from Yurimaguas back to Tarapoto over that incredible road I traveled on Sunday. The Eduardo now in port here at Lagunas would get me to Yurimaguas early tomorrow (Thursday) morning. I should be able to get to Tarapoto by noon and the flights to Lima are in the afternoon or evening. This could work…

There is no time to waste. I tell Manuel that I’ve changed my mind: I want to go back to Yurimaguas on the Eduardo boat rather than going to Iquitos via the rapido or the Eduardo. His entire household rallied to my aid. If you read Day 7’s narrative, you may remember that the Eduardo III made its departure from Yurimaguas seven hours later than its posted time.

At Lagunas, for the Eduardo IV going upstream, it was a different story. I’m told by travelers on the boat that it was tied up at the port of Lagunas for only about 15 minutes. I made it up the gangplank and onto the boat perhaps five minutes before it backed out of port and proceeded upstream on Rio Huallaga.. One of the young lads from Manuel’s household had procured a motocar to get us from the office to the waterfront. He followed me onto the boat with my larger bag, carrying it up to the top deck and ensuring that everything was all right.

I still had the hammock that I’d bought for the ride downstream, but didn’t know it; it had been packed deep in my bag by one of the young French travelers as they hurried to get me off the Eduardo III. I rented a hammock for 10 soles ($3.30 USD) and, like a marriage—for better or for worse, I set off on an unknowable course.

I soon meet a young American couple from Hawaii, Wendy and Kristian. Wendy is cute, petite, tan, her pretty face dappled with freckles. Little do I know just now that a feisty, steely pit bull resides inside that Valley-girl persona. Her husband, Kristian, is rail thin. His curly hair tops an intense face and piercing eyes. He has the look of genius about him. I will share many experiences with them over the next couple of days.

Wendy and Kristian have been traveling South America for months, including an extended time living in the Mendoza region of Argentina. They will return to Colorado, Kristian’s home, hoping to find (horrors!) work and a more moderate cost of living than Hawaii’s.

They are going to travel the same route I’ve already done between Yurimaguas and Chachapoyas, so I can give them a bit of information that could prove helpful. We agree to share a taxi from Yurimaguas to Tarapoto since it takes one-half the time of a kombi or bus. Two Aussies—Alan and Guy—may join us as well if we can find a vehicle able to carry the five of us plus our bags.

I take a blessed shower even though I don’t have a towel and have precious few clean clothes. Afterwards I put on my swimming suit that hasn’t been worn yet. I wash my dirty clothes in a sink even though there’s virtually no chance of them drying on this overnight trip. Even so, I fashion some lines from bungee cords and hang the clothes out in the humid air.

Dinner is served to us up on the top deck. Tonight’s fare is very decent deep fried chicken (pollo) and french fries (papas fritas). One of the Aussies shares a bottle of red wine (vino tinto). Kristian and I talk a bit about my experiences at Kuelap and the route from Chachapoyas and Tarapoto.

I need some bottled water in order to brush my teeth. I venture onto the lower deck in search of a bodega (wine room) rumored to be down there, a place I should be able to buy the water. While we may have eight hammocks hanging on the upper deck, there could easily be 100 strung up down here. As you’d expect, the air hangs just a bit more heavily on the lower deck. I hear some travelers speaking fluent English, the sound of it in this location as unexpected to me as bumping into Richard Nixon in Heaven—a possibility, but unlikely. I find the small shop, more like a tienda than a bodega, and am able to purchase a bottle of water with the last two soles (67 cents) that I possess, though I do have a small amount of U.S. currency remaining.

I have a conversation with Alan, one of the Aussies, mostly about travel to Cuba. An earnest looking young student approaches, looking for the chance to practice some of his very limited English.

It is another beautiful night on the river. The sky is cloudless, overflowing with myriad celestial bodies that cannot be observed in other locations overcome with lights and/or pollution. Lightning winks on the horizon in every direction. There is the steady hum of the boat’s engines pushing us upstream at about eight mph (12 kmh).

I prepare for bed and am in my hammock before 10 p.m.

Evening scenes from Eduardo IV,

Rio Huallaga, Peru

DAY 8 -- LAGUNAS AND RESERVA NACIONAL PACAYA-SAMIRIA

Early morning, approaching Lagunas

on the Eduardo III

I wake in my hammock aboard the Eduardo III at 6:30 a.m. somewhere upstream from Lagunas, Peru, on Rio Huallaga. I walk around the boat, from stern to bow, taking in the passing scene. Lucilla, the young French girl traveling solo, joins me for the view and a photo.

A basic breakfast is served those on the upper deck. Soon I’m being told to get my things together so I can disembark. We’re approaching Lagunas.

Main drag, Lagunas, Peru

I am running low on both time and cash, the latter because Hostal El Naranjo in Yurimaguas was not able to access the Visa system and so could not accept my credit card for payment.

Cesar, the tout back in Yurimaguas who had assisted me for parts of two days, assured me that I could make a short trip in Reserva Nacional Pacaya-Samiria from the little river port town of Lagunas. In order to get back on my scheduled itinerary, Cesar said I could take a rapido boat from Lagunas on to Iquitos after a trip into the jungle reserve. I really wanted to get into some fairly deep jungle (selva), and Lagunas is a great place to do that, a much better place than Iquitos which has a half-million inhabitants. So I will get off the boat and try.

Some of Manuel's extended
family outside the office/home

Cesar had contacted someone from the ESTYPEL agency prior to my arrival in Lagunas. (ESTYPEL is the acronym for Empresa de Servicios Turisticos y Protecion Ecologica-Lagunas.) I was met while still onboard the Eduardo III by Juan Manuel Rojas Arevalo, the tour and guide agency manager. Manuel hurried me off the boat and on to the makeshift ESTYPEL office situated in a small building in which he and, likely, his extended family also live. The location of the home/business is Padre Lucero 1345, Lagunas, on the dusty main street of the small town.

Google Earth Map of Lagunas and Locations of Jungle Trip
into the Reserva Nacional Pacaya-Samiria

I contract for a two-day, one-night, jungle experience. I don't have enough soles to pay the cost-160 soles--but Manuel accepts the equivalent amount of $55 USD. On top of this, I know I will be required to pay 60 soles ($20 USD) to enter the park, and round-trip fare from Lagunas to the park via motocar will be 30 soles ($10 USD). [NOTE: The $20 USD to enter the park is valid for the duration of your stay, whether one day or ten.] I figure to have less than $50 USD in cash when I get back to Lagunas late tomorrow. Whether that's enough to get to Iquitos on a rapido is doubtful. We'll see tomorrow, I guess.

Manuel takes down my information at a table in his office, surrounded by family members. I'm served a large breakfast (desayuno) which I don't need since I ate aboard Eduardo III an hour ago. The extended family is very friendly though not a word of English is spoken. I think I amused them when I pointed to a picture on the wall of a local bird, asked its name, and tried to tell them that, at home, we call the bird "kingfisher," acting out the meaning of the two nouns like I was playing a parlor game of charades.

With Manuel at ESTYPEL office

[It may be interesting to know that I'm writing this entry while silently gliding down a river in the Reserva Nacional Pacaya-Samiria. It's raining now. Esteban, my guide (guia), has covered me with an opaque piece of heavy-duty plastic like I was a piece of freight being delivered in his canoe. The rain (lluvia) is beating loudly on the plastic. Every once in a while I dip my hand into the remarkably cool water. The river is not muddy, but is stained dark, perhaps by forest tannins? I've seen similarly stained streams in south-central Minnesota. Ten minutes after it began, the shower has moved on and I emerge from my chrysalis to marvel at my surroundings.]

Pulled in for lunch: Note dark stained color of river water

I am taken to register at a local police station on the edge of town, then back to Manuel's where my guide, Esteban, and I are loaded into a motocar for a three-mile (five km) jaunt to the outpost of Santa Rosa. Situated like a ranger station in one of our national parks, this is a jumping off point where visitors register and make entry payment before embarking on trips into the jungle.



On the road from Lagunas to Santa Rosa





Esteban's open native canoe, like his leaf-shaped paddle, is carved from a single piece of wood. The boat is about 15 feet (5 m) long and is very narrow, perhaps 30 inches (75 cm) in width at its widest point, and rides very low in the water. There are lengths of bamboo lashed together and laid inside the boat for protection from any water that may be present in the bottom. I think that Cliff Long, the best paddler I know, would enjoy watching Esteban propel our craft deftly down the jungle waterway.

Canoeing into the Pacaya-Samiria

I can't help wondering what I'd do in the case of a capsize. The water is flowing but is not rushing by any means. Still, snags happen, and I can't help thinking about what to do with my camera if the boat should begin to overturn. There is actually no dry land to throw my camera or anything else onto. We have been on the river for an hour-and-a-half before arriving at our lunch spot, an area of perhaps 40 square feet (1.5 sq meters), and that small space is the first semi-solid earth we've encountered.

Esteban takes his machete into the selva and comes back with some wood. I don't think I could have lit anything around here with a container of Coleman fuel and a blowtorch. Nevertheless, he gets a fire going, water boiling, and in an hour is serving me the greatest lunch! Rice, eggs, vegetables, maybe a bit of chicken, and seasonings are the main ingredients. This would have been a wonderful meal if it had come out of a restaurant kitchen. Prepared riverside, it's simply remarkable.

Esteban preparing lunch

Right after lunch Esteban takes me upstream about 100 yards (90 m) where we get a great view of some brilliantly colored birds. I call them parrots for now, but reserve the right to assign a more accurate nomenclature later. [A French zoo employee staying at the same camp as I did this night identifies the birds as blue and yellow macaws.]

Blue and yellow macaws at rest (above), and in flight (left)

We saw monkeys (monos) so deep in the foliage that we could neither identify nor photograph them. We stopped once to watch another monkey, identified by the Frenchman as a tamarind, that posed cooperatively for a long while.

Monkey (mono); a tamarind?

We spotted four separate sloths high in the trees being, well, slovenly. They change positions ever so slowly, much like the minute hand of a clock. You never really see them move; look away, though, and then back, and you'll notice that the sloths have changed positions ever so slightly.

A sloth at rest

Esteban sees a small caiman (an alligator-like reptile) drop into the water from a semi-submerged tree branch. He also sees--if I interpret his words correctly--an electric eel, though we can't find it when we go back to look.

We make a particular, and particularly frustrating, effort to photograph one of the brilliantly blue butterflies (or moth, the French zoo employee says) that are frequently seen. The problem is, they are brilliant, almost neon-like, only when flying. When at rest with wings folded, they are a drab brown color with interesting defensive markings.

A butterfly (or moth?) that is brilliant blue in flight (above left), drab brown at rest (below right)

Tree filled with pendulous bird nests


We see and hear other birds, photographing some successfully. Others we simply hear or, at best, glimpse only briefly.

A troupial?

We see a great variety of kingfishers, including the belted kingfisher common at home. Others are not familiar to me. One is smaller than the belted and has an orange or rufous coloring on its breast. Another flies by, robin-size with black-and-white coloring. Large birds launch from trees, very similar in size and appearance to the Great blue heron, but less colorful.



It is 6 p.m. and becoming quite dark when we approach a jungle camp, a platform set up on stilts 10 feet (3 meters) above the present water level. A party of three other tourists are already here with their guides. Esteban and I unload the canoe and climb the ladder up to the open, thatched area of perhaps 650 sq ft (64 sq meters).

Jungle Camp, Area de Campamento Poza Gloria

I immediately set to reviewing my photographs, eliminating many in order to free up some disk space. I soon have a semi-circle of people behind me, looking over my shoulder at the pictures. A native woman who is, I think, an ESTYPEL camp cook, takes particular interest in the pictures. We end up looking at all of my photos taken since I arrived at Pedro Ruiz several days ago.

Dinner at the jungle camp, with Zarela

The woman's name is Zarela (which I linked with my home street, Cyrilla). She seems very interested in communicating as best we can in Spanish. I am brought some hot water and tea, then a simple plate of bony fish fresh from the river. Yucca, a starchy vegetable, is served along with the fish.

I sit by a candle stuck to the top of a water bottle, writing about this unique day. The Peruvians and the French party come and go. Esteban catches a little caiman (about 18 inches--or 45 cm--in length) and brings it up for all to see. [A caiman looks like an alligator to me, which in turn looks like a crocodile...anyway, you get the picture.] Caiman grow to 6 feet (2 meters) or more in length.

Esteban with a caiman

Esteban has set up a bed (cama) for me. It's a thin piece of foam covered with a clean sheet. Each of us has mosquito netting, but nothing can keep out the heat and humidity.

I've waited a long time to try to figure out any conventions that might be being observed regarding personal hygiene and biological necessities. Noting the total absence of facilities, I pee into the river from a corner of the raised platform, assuming that even the most determined candiru isn't likely to swim up a 10-foot (3-meter) stream of urine.

I stink!

I'm getting into bed at 10 p.m., four hours after pure, unremitting darkness fell on our little camp.