DAY 7 -- YURIMAGUAS AND RIO HUALLAGA

It can´t be day seven already, can it?

I wake before 8 and find a bug on my bed that looks like one I´ve seen in a drawing by Albrecht Durer. I´m glad I didn´t find it till I´m fully awake and out of bed.

BEETLE BY DURER (above), AND BY MICK

Hotel El Naranjo has a fine restaurant, clean, bustling, and open to the street below. A hotel employee approaches me as I breakfast in order to introduce me to a shy young man dressed in a school uniform. He is studying foreign languages at the Universidad Nacional de la Amazonia Peruana here in Yurimaguas. Ordinarily, he would be teaching English to kindergarten children as part of his curriculum, but the kids had an activity this morning. And so he is free until sometime this afternoon, and he would like the opportunity to speak English with me.

The student's name is Anthony Zaraleta Maiceno. I learn much from him while having my breakfast at Hostal El Naranjo, and later on a walk to the Rio Huallaga waterfront.

I understand that Anthony is from a poor background. Certainly he is not from a professional, middle-class background. I think that he never knew his father. But he will graduate next year from university, on his way to achieving his goal of becoming a professional. In his case, he is likely to become a language teacher.


I learn that his university program consists of 10 terms or sessions, like our semesters or quarters. He will graduate next year. The cost of one session is 78 soles (about $25 USD), but his academic performance qualifies him to attend university for 25 soles (about $8 USD) per term. And still, Anthony does not have money for books; instead, he copies pages from his classmates' books. I ask him if he would like some English books and he just lit up with the thought of the possibility.


I told Anthony that I wanted to go back to the Rio Huallaga waterfront and invited him to go along with me. Of course he would like to do that.


The two of us walk a couple of blocks to what might be thought of as a light commercial port. This is not where a turista would be likely to catch a ride down the river, but you could. No, this is where impoverished Peruvians load and unload themselves and their goods from open boats powered by what appear to be a lawnmower motor connected to a driveshaft of seven feet (2+ m) that can be lifted or dropped into the water as needed.







The boats are loaded with people. Some of the people carry large containers of fruit. Others may carry chickens, legs tied together, on their laps.


A large pig is unloaded and brought up from the river to sidewalk level 10 feet (3 m) above the river. The pig is squealing so loud you could hear it on the plaza. Two men have the pig on its side and I truly believed they were about to behead it on the spot. Anthony seems disgusted but says I should go closer and take pictures. I do, and am both appalled and fascinated. Soon the pig is on its feet and being led off, relieved but not as relieved as Iwas. Its slaughter is postponed for now.

YOUNG UNIVERSITY STUDENT, ANTHONY ZARALETA MAICENO

There is a tiny plaza above the river from which you can observe all this activity. A contemporary sculpture of a worker bearing a large bunch of bananas (platanos) is placed centrally on the plaza. It's a beautiful day with just a few clouds, hot and humid and still as Arkansas in August.


Anthony and I stop for a cold drink which turns out to be a grande-size orange soda (1.8 liter, or 1/2 gallon). Then I must really do some Internet business before embarking on the boat later this afternoon.


I do a poor--or maybe a great--job or ordering lunch at Hostal El Naranjo. 'Poor' in the sense that I must not have communicated very well since what I'm served does not resemble what I thought I ordered; 'great' in the sense that the large bowl of soup, large fruit salad, and side dish of meat, rice and vegetables were indeed delicious.



I had parted ways with Anthony at the Internet site. He knew I would be back at the hostal in order to pack up to leave. He returns and asks permission to sit at my table. I ask if he'd do me the favor of helping me eat the bounty set before me, and he gladly accepts.


I had agreed to meet Cesar at Hostal El Naranja at 2 p.m. (You remember Cesar? the tout? Possibly "cuidado" or danderous? I had asked around about him and didn't find anything sinister. He simply insinuates himself with a tourist, provides every service, and expects an appropriate propina (tip) for his efforts.) Sure enough, he pops into the hostal dining room at 1.30 p.m. to see if I'm there, then returns for me at 2 p.m.


I bid goodbye to Anthony, then Cesar and I load into a motocar for the short ride to where the Eduardo III is tied up. Yesterday Cesar had told me the boat would leave at 3 p.m. despite its signboard which posted a time of 1 p.m. for the boat's departure from Yurimaguas.



As we arrive at the boat, Eduardo III is busily being loaded with commodities to be carried downstream. Every ounce of cargo is carried onboard the back of laborers. Four or five heavy bags at a time are unloaded from trucks parked above the river's edge and balanced on a worker's back. Two hundred pounds, maybe 250 pounds (100 kg or more) of goods are carried down to the boat by one man, then unloaded and stacked.


Other men carry cages of live chickens, perhaps a dozen cages stacked two or three levels high, waste pouring out of the bottom cages and down the laborers' backs. The laborers bearing the chickens fashion plastic sheets to cover their backs, affording some protection from the urea dripping from the cages at the price of increasing their discomfort. Remember, its probably 90 degrees Fahrenheit (around 30 degrees Centigrade) and 80% humidity.









The cargo hold is absolutely packed with pallets of rice and salt, bottled drinks, and chicken cages stacked to the ceiling. To say that there is a stench in the air is to not do justice to the scene.

Cesar takes me up some stairs, past the middle deck where there are mostly Peruvians traveling at some lesser cost, and on up to the top deck. Good as his word, Cesar had installed my hammock next to the young French travelers—Marzon, Pierre and Laurent—who, ironically, had been at Kuelap the day I went and remembered seeing me there. (Two other travelers, a young couple from Wyoming, had also been at the site that same day.) I pay Cesar the agreed upon propina of 40 soles ($13 USD), and I feel that he was worth every bit of it. Para mi, el no es cuidado.


I have been warned repeatedly to carefully watch my things. My fellow travelers agree that we each will help to keep an eye on the others' things. It's good to be wary--and in fact I've cabled my large bag to a stationary object--but I have seen nothing very threatening to this point.

A young family comes up to our deck from the one below. The mother sings softly to her young daughter. I try to engage the interest of the little girl, who is less than two years old, about the age of my granddaughter Madi. Little Amelie Christie enchants me and my French friends with her charm and beauty.

Cesar knew yesterday that the boat would never meet its posted departure time of 1 p.m., that it would never go anywhere before 3 p.m. at least. Around 4 p.m., the three French travelers plus Lucilla, a young French woman traveling alone, ask me to join them at the bar/restaurant only 100 feet (30 m) away. I wish I had the name of the place as it has to be one of the great venues for a drink anywhere on the planet.

The bar actually juts out over the river. It's completely open at its sides and is protected from sun and rain by a thatched roof. The five of us drink cervezas till the sun sets on the other side of the river, watching flycatchers swoop characteristically chasing insects, then land close by to enjoy their catch. We keep our eyes on Eduardo III, knowing that it wasn't going anywhere as long as laborers kept bearing their loads down to the boat. Sunset, the river, cerveza, and a table shared with four friendly French travelers...what better venue for lighting up my first cigarette in 25 years?

We all go back to the boat about 6 p.m., thinking that we’ll leave soon. Laurent runs back and forth from our hammocks to the captain (or jefe of some sort) to check on our departure time. Not so fast! We still have to load cattle!

(From left to right) Young French travelers: Marzon, Lucilla, Pierre, and Laurent

A makeshift corral has been erected at the front of the boat, constructed of rough wood planking to a height of eight feet (two-three meters). More than twenty cattle (vacas) were loaded onto an area that did not allow them any space whatever to change position. I can’t imagine how the livestock could possibly eat or drink, and I never actually saw them being fed or watered. I don’t know how long they will be on the boat, but the first place they can possibly be unloaded is 12 hours away. They’re likely enroute to someplace near Iquitos, about three days away.

Up on our deck, we wait. The young travelers share their warm Sangria and snack mix with me. Finally, at 8 o’clock p.m.—seven hours after its posted departure time—Eduardo III departs its berth in Yurimaguas. One hundred yards (90 m) away we pull out into the strong current of Rio Huallaga for the journey to Lagunas and beyond.

It's very pleasant once we are on our way and the air is moving past us. We all apply insect repellant although there really is no significant problem. The stench of our cargo mixes with the unmistakable odor of marijuana smoke. Everyone is in their hammock, gently swinging.

My GPS indicates Lagunas to be 57 miles (90 km) away, on a straight line, when we pull away from Yurimaguas. Our elevation is less than 500 feet (160 m) MSL, a figure I find surprising given our great distance from the Atlantic Ocean. When I check our speed, it is about 10 mph (16 kmh).

It is moonless as we begin. The sky is startelingly clear; stars, planets, and the Milky Way fill the sky. I can think of no more exotic experience than this.

Soon I will take to my hammock, swaying, and fall asleep to the steady sound of the powerful engine below.