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 k
nowledge 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 tel
ls 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
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
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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 m
otioned 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!
Early in my trip I had quite a Tower of Babel-sort of misunderstanding. An old man m
otioned 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!
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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 Pong
o 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.
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.
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.
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