Happy quacking anniversary
17 hours ago
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Fragility of the Amazon
"For his dissertation he and a partner had registered all of the higher plants found in a hectare of jungle. The number was enormous. But what was most interesting to me was that for many of the plants there was only one example in that hectare. That, to me, explained the frailty of the Amazon more than anything else could. If, for instance, we had to walk nearly an hour to reach a Banisteriopsis caapi - ayahuasca - vine, then it was probably the only example of that vine for a couple of miles in any direction. Imagine if instead of an ayahuasca vine, that was a particular type of fruit-bearing tree whose fruit was the food of a particular species of monkey. If someone cut that tree down, that monkey would have no reason to enter those several square miles any longer, and would change its feeding route. In turn, the insects that fed on the waste produced by that monkey would no longer be found there, nor would the animals that depended on those insects for food. And if that particular tree only occurred any three miles for some reason, and if each were cut down over a 20-mile area, there would probably be no seeds dropped by those monkeys to ever propagate that tree in that area again. So the ants that fed off its bark, the monkey that its fruit, the insects that ate the droppings, the animal that ate the insects, and so forth, would all be seriously affected." (Peter Gorman, Ayahuasca in My Blood, 160-161)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I Tried to Get High
I tried to get high in the Amazon jungle. More specifically, I tried to acid trip on
ayahuasca. Ayahuasca, or “soul vine,” is a medicine used by the people of the
Amazonia. Its main ingredient is the ayahuasca vine, but it also consists of the barks of several other trees including capirona (firewood tree), catahua, lupuna (kapok tree), uchú sanango, and the leaves of chacruna. Amazonian people believe that illnesses are caused by negative energy in the spirit world such as el mal ojo (“the evil eye”) and brujería (witchcraft or spells). Ayahuasca is not your typical Western medicine. People visit a curandero (healer) who prepares and then administers the medicine during a special night ceremony. Often they ask him to find the causes of illnesses while under the influence of the drug. Everyone drinks the pungent brew. It causes la purga (“the purge”), a physical cleansing, in other words, vomiting and often diarrhea. Then they start hallucinating and seeing visions. They see psychadelic colors, the kind that you associate with the ’70s and LSD. Many people use ayahuasca for the visions, to discover truths about themselves. They see past lives and replay sins committed in their current lives. They travel with animals, visit distant friends and relatives, and hear voices. I wanted to drink ayahuasca. I wanted visions.
First, my guide had to find a shaman. He came back with his 21 year-old neighbor.
Great, I was going to have a kid as my shaman. I was reassured when I learned that he
was the grandson of the great Julio Jerena, a renowned ayahuasca healer. The morning
of the ceremony, we went on a mission to collect the ingredients for the ayahuasca.
We used a machete to cut the bark from a capirona and other trees. My shaman looked
like the strong man at the circus as he scaled the thick ayahuasca vine with a machete in his mouth, searching for a good piece to cut. Once back the campsite, he put the ingredients in a large pot along with several gallons of water and placed them over the fire. As he worked, he sopla-d (blew) the mixture with mapacho (hand-rolled cigarette) smoke to ward off bad spirits and cleanse the pot of negative energy. After several hours, he strained the mixture using an old shirt. Then he set it back on the fire and let it boil again. Several hour later he repeated the procedure. At 4 PM, eight hours after he started, the mixture was ready. Out of 20 liters of water, only half a liter was left.
The ceremony began at 8 PM. The shaman chanted icaros (songs composed for the ceremony) over the ayahuasca and then passed us each ¼ cup. I only remember some of the words: “Buena medicina, buena medicina/ Legitima medicina/ Legitimo doctorcito…Dominando la ciencia oculta…Llamando a los espíritus/ Llamando a los demonios/ Mágica blanca, mágica verde, mágica roja, mágica negra” (“Good medicine, good medicine/ Legitimate medicine/ Legitimate little doctor…Dominating the occult science…Calling the spirits/ Calling the demons/ White magic, green magic, red magic, black magic.” He sure invited everyone to join in the ceremony! The man next to me drank and then gagged from the foul taste. I, on the other hand, had little trouble swallowing my portion. The shaman drank, turned off the lights, and we waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. No lights, no colors, just pitch black.
As I stared into the darkness, I began to imagine that the lighter spaces where the sky showed in between the trees were a jaguar’s eyes staring at me. They began to spin. They turned into three diamonds and spun back and forth like a screensaver. I knew it wasn’t the ayahuasca, it was just my mind playing tricks on me out of the pure boredom of staring into blackness for too long. I kept on closing my eyes, hoping that when I opened them my world would explode into bright colors. I hoped for yellows and greens, maybe oranges and reds.
Two hours passed by. My world remained black other the occasional shooting star or exploding light. The shaman continued to sing his icaros and shake his shacapa (leaf-rattle). “Cristhian,” I whispered, “no veo nada” (“I don’t see anything”). “What is your name?” he asked me. “Pooja.” “Come here,” he said, beckoning me to the space in front of his feet. He shook his shacapa over my head and prayed for the spirits to give me clear visions, “Buena mariación/ Claros visions…” I returned to my seat and waited another 30 minutes. “Would you like to drink more?” he finally asked. Hell yeah. I wasn’t leaving until I saw something.
The second cup was much more vile than the first. I could barely keep it down. The urge to vomit came upon me so suddenly that I didn’t even make it off the porch. Reaching the railing, I threw up a second and third time. Of course, most of what I threw up was water because I hadn’t been allowed to touch food since breakfast. In my daze, I imagined that my bile was bright yellow, yellow like the salsa of papa a la huancaina. I lay back down. The world remained black.
At 11:30, the shaman lit a candle thus ending the ceremony. The man next to me, who had also drank, was pleasantly high. He was singing. I was not a little disappointed. As I stumbled off the porch and to my room, I felt drunk (at least what I can imagine being drunk feels like). I walked as if I’d put on the beer goggles from my tenth-grade drivers’ education class. I continued to feel sick to my stomach and visualized brief explosions of light, it took me an hour to fall asleep.
Neither the shaman nor my guide’s parents spoke over breakfast the next morning, I assumed because they didn’t want to mention the previous night’s failure. I was only too happy to shovel beans and rice, fried plantains, avocado salad, oatmeal, and fruit salad into my mouth. No one said anything until my guide walked in, sat down, and commented, “Pooja es muy fuerte” (“Pooja is very strong”). He told me that he didn’t drink because “You didn’t last for five minutes with the sapo. I thought, ‘This [the ayahuasca] is going to get her good.” His father cut in saying that on some people, who are far and few between, ayahuasca has no effect. However, some of those people, the sapo nearly kills them. “Tienes un espiritú raro,” (“You have a rare spirit”) he remarked. It could’ve also been because it was first time. The second time could be different. I don’t know whether I’ll ever have the chance to try ayahuasca again, but I honestly would like to. I want to see yellows and greens.
The ayahuasca vine
The shaman preparing the brew
Ayahuasca cooking
The shaman tackling the ayahuasca vine
What people see when they're on ayahuasca
What people see when they're on ayahuasca
ayahuasca. Ayahuasca, or “soul vine,” is a medicine used by the people of the
Amazonia. Its main ingredient is the ayahuasca vine, but it also consists of the barks of several other trees including capirona (firewood tree), catahua, lupuna (kapok tree), uchú sanango, and the leaves of chacruna. Amazonian people believe that illnesses are caused by negative energy in the spirit world such as el mal ojo (“the evil eye”) and brujería (witchcraft or spells). Ayahuasca is not your typical Western medicine. People visit a curandero (healer) who prepares and then administers the medicine during a special night ceremony. Often they ask him to find the causes of illnesses while under the influence of the drug. Everyone drinks the pungent brew. It causes la purga (“the purge”), a physical cleansing, in other words, vomiting and often diarrhea. Then they start hallucinating and seeing visions. They see psychadelic colors, the kind that you associate with the ’70s and LSD. Many people use ayahuasca for the visions, to discover truths about themselves. They see past lives and replay sins committed in their current lives. They travel with animals, visit distant friends and relatives, and hear voices. I wanted to drink ayahuasca. I wanted visions.
First, my guide had to find a shaman. He came back with his 21 year-old neighbor.
Great, I was going to have a kid as my shaman. I was reassured when I learned that he
was the grandson of the great Julio Jerena, a renowned ayahuasca healer. The morning
of the ceremony, we went on a mission to collect the ingredients for the ayahuasca.
We used a machete to cut the bark from a capirona and other trees. My shaman looked
like the strong man at the circus as he scaled the thick ayahuasca vine with a machete in his mouth, searching for a good piece to cut. Once back the campsite, he put the ingredients in a large pot along with several gallons of water and placed them over the fire. As he worked, he sopla-d (blew) the mixture with mapacho (hand-rolled cigarette) smoke to ward off bad spirits and cleanse the pot of negative energy. After several hours, he strained the mixture using an old shirt. Then he set it back on the fire and let it boil again. Several hour later he repeated the procedure. At 4 PM, eight hours after he started, the mixture was ready. Out of 20 liters of water, only half a liter was left.
The ceremony began at 8 PM. The shaman chanted icaros (songs composed for the ceremony) over the ayahuasca and then passed us each ¼ cup. I only remember some of the words: “Buena medicina, buena medicina/ Legitima medicina/ Legitimo doctorcito…Dominando la ciencia oculta…Llamando a los espíritus/ Llamando a los demonios/ Mágica blanca, mágica verde, mágica roja, mágica negra” (“Good medicine, good medicine/ Legitimate medicine/ Legitimate little doctor…Dominating the occult science…Calling the spirits/ Calling the demons/ White magic, green magic, red magic, black magic.” He sure invited everyone to join in the ceremony! The man next to me drank and then gagged from the foul taste. I, on the other hand, had little trouble swallowing my portion. The shaman drank, turned off the lights, and we waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. No lights, no colors, just pitch black.
As I stared into the darkness, I began to imagine that the lighter spaces where the sky showed in between the trees were a jaguar’s eyes staring at me. They began to spin. They turned into three diamonds and spun back and forth like a screensaver. I knew it wasn’t the ayahuasca, it was just my mind playing tricks on me out of the pure boredom of staring into blackness for too long. I kept on closing my eyes, hoping that when I opened them my world would explode into bright colors. I hoped for yellows and greens, maybe oranges and reds.
Two hours passed by. My world remained black other the occasional shooting star or exploding light. The shaman continued to sing his icaros and shake his shacapa (leaf-rattle). “Cristhian,” I whispered, “no veo nada” (“I don’t see anything”). “What is your name?” he asked me. “Pooja.” “Come here,” he said, beckoning me to the space in front of his feet. He shook his shacapa over my head and prayed for the spirits to give me clear visions, “Buena mariación/ Claros visions…” I returned to my seat and waited another 30 minutes. “Would you like to drink more?” he finally asked. Hell yeah. I wasn’t leaving until I saw something.
The second cup was much more vile than the first. I could barely keep it down. The urge to vomit came upon me so suddenly that I didn’t even make it off the porch. Reaching the railing, I threw up a second and third time. Of course, most of what I threw up was water because I hadn’t been allowed to touch food since breakfast. In my daze, I imagined that my bile was bright yellow, yellow like the salsa of papa a la huancaina. I lay back down. The world remained black.
At 11:30, the shaman lit a candle thus ending the ceremony. The man next to me, who had also drank, was pleasantly high. He was singing. I was not a little disappointed. As I stumbled off the porch and to my room, I felt drunk (at least what I can imagine being drunk feels like). I walked as if I’d put on the beer goggles from my tenth-grade drivers’ education class. I continued to feel sick to my stomach and visualized brief explosions of light, it took me an hour to fall asleep.
Neither the shaman nor my guide’s parents spoke over breakfast the next morning, I assumed because they didn’t want to mention the previous night’s failure. I was only too happy to shovel beans and rice, fried plantains, avocado salad, oatmeal, and fruit salad into my mouth. No one said anything until my guide walked in, sat down, and commented, “Pooja es muy fuerte” (“Pooja is very strong”). He told me that he didn’t drink because “You didn’t last for five minutes with the sapo. I thought, ‘This [the ayahuasca] is going to get her good.” His father cut in saying that on some people, who are far and few between, ayahuasca has no effect. However, some of those people, the sapo nearly kills them. “Tienes un espiritú raro,” (“You have a rare spirit”) he remarked. It could’ve also been because it was first time. The second time could be different. I don’t know whether I’ll ever have the chance to try ayahuasca again, but I honestly would like to. I want to see yellows and greens.
The ayahuasca vine
The shaman preparing the brew
Ayahuasca cooking
The shaman tackling the ayahuasca vine
What people see when they're on ayahuasca
What people see when they're on ayahuasca
It’s Not Easy Being Green (or Becoming a Frog)
When I first heard about el sapo I thought, “What kind of crazy person would try that?” Now I know, me. Sapo is a medicine used by the Matses tribe in the Peruvian Amazon. It supposedly sharpens the senses and increase stamina making the Matses people who use it better hunters. Sapo is the sweat of the giant monkey tree frog, which the Matses people collect by catching a frog, tying its legs to four posts, making it nervous, and then scraping off its sweat before releasing the unharmed, but no doubt petrified, animal (unfortunately, I did not get to see this part as my guide had a pre-collected sample available on a stick).* I wanted to try sapo because I thought that it would help me “see” the animals in the jungle better.
The morning of my introduction to sapo, I was terrified. I had been forewarned by my guide that sapo was “Fuerte, muy fuerte. Pero pasa después de 30-40 minutos,” (“strong, very strong. But it passes after 30, 40 minutes”). What was I doing here? Here I was, a vegetarian from Virginia, being inducted into an age-old medicine used by Amazonian hunters for centuries. What was I expected to do, become the frog? I sat anxiously in the kitchen watching my guide eat breakfast (I wasn’t allowed to eat anything as sapo would mostly likely force me to throw it up) and whittle a stick with a machete. I grew more nervous watching his father walk around me with a smoldering log, while my guide “prepared” the sapo (he spat on the stick and then vigorously rubbed the resin and substance into a paste). He then stuck a small stick into the faggot, setting it on fire before burning me with it three times. After scraping away the skin, he applied the paste. My skin already stung from the burns, but the moment the “medicine” touched my body, my heart started to race. I felt it beating hard in my chest as a current raced through my body. All of a sudden, I found myself lying on the floor without knowing how I got there. I felt my hosts place a cold towel on my forehead and lemon halves on my temples. I sat up and proceeded to throw up, twice. My entire body convulsed and I repeated, “Oh god, oh god.” My guide poured a pitcher of water over my head and had me lie down. Twenty minutes later, I felt well enough to stand and eat.
Later in the day, during our jungle walk, we spotted hoatzin, horned screamers, monkeys, a three-toed sloth, and alligator, tapir, capybara, and jaguar tracks. My guide’s father told me that I saw many animals because sapo brings luck. I don’t know about that, but I know that I sweated loads more than my companions. I also felt more alert to the sights and sounds of the jungle than I did previously. I felt the presence of the monkeys way before my guide spotted them. I didn’t try hunting, but I successfully stabbed a fish with a spear. We cut the fish up into small pieces with a machete and then used it as bait to catch piranhas. How’s that for the power of the sapo? Excuse me, I have to go, I feel a croak coming on.
*In his book Ayahuasca in My Blood, Peter Gorman says, “In large doses, the intense sweating it causes could make a Matses hunter ‘invisible’ to poor-sighted but acute-smelling jungle animals by temporarily eliminating the human odor. In studies by the University of Rome, sapo would found to have bio-active proteins, meaning that the body believes it has produced them and reacts accordingly.
El sapo
Nervous but excited
I'm smiling because I thought the burning was going to be the worst part
My guide applying the paste
In pain
It got pretty intense
The morning of my introduction to sapo, I was terrified. I had been forewarned by my guide that sapo was “Fuerte, muy fuerte. Pero pasa después de 30-40 minutos,” (“strong, very strong. But it passes after 30, 40 minutes”). What was I doing here? Here I was, a vegetarian from Virginia, being inducted into an age-old medicine used by Amazonian hunters for centuries. What was I expected to do, become the frog? I sat anxiously in the kitchen watching my guide eat breakfast (I wasn’t allowed to eat anything as sapo would mostly likely force me to throw it up) and whittle a stick with a machete. I grew more nervous watching his father walk around me with a smoldering log, while my guide “prepared” the sapo (he spat on the stick and then vigorously rubbed the resin and substance into a paste). He then stuck a small stick into the faggot, setting it on fire before burning me with it three times. After scraping away the skin, he applied the paste. My skin already stung from the burns, but the moment the “medicine” touched my body, my heart started to race. I felt it beating hard in my chest as a current raced through my body. All of a sudden, I found myself lying on the floor without knowing how I got there. I felt my hosts place a cold towel on my forehead and lemon halves on my temples. I sat up and proceeded to throw up, twice. My entire body convulsed and I repeated, “Oh god, oh god.” My guide poured a pitcher of water over my head and had me lie down. Twenty minutes later, I felt well enough to stand and eat.
Later in the day, during our jungle walk, we spotted hoatzin, horned screamers, monkeys, a three-toed sloth, and alligator, tapir, capybara, and jaguar tracks. My guide’s father told me that I saw many animals because sapo brings luck. I don’t know about that, but I know that I sweated loads more than my companions. I also felt more alert to the sights and sounds of the jungle than I did previously. I felt the presence of the monkeys way before my guide spotted them. I didn’t try hunting, but I successfully stabbed a fish with a spear. We cut the fish up into small pieces with a machete and then used it as bait to catch piranhas. How’s that for the power of the sapo? Excuse me, I have to go, I feel a croak coming on.
*In his book Ayahuasca in My Blood, Peter Gorman says, “In large doses, the intense sweating it causes could make a Matses hunter ‘invisible’ to poor-sighted but acute-smelling jungle animals by temporarily eliminating the human odor. In studies by the University of Rome, sapo would found to have bio-active proteins, meaning that the body believes it has produced them and reacts accordingly.
El sapo
Nervous but excited
I'm smiling because I thought the burning was going to be the worst part
My guide applying the paste
In pain
It got pretty intense
I Dream of India
As a lifelong traveler (I've been traveling since I was in the womb), I've come to associate different places with smells, noises, feelings. India is one of the places with the strongest associations for me. When my grandmother returns from India and opens her suitcases, I inhale deeply and think, "It smells like India." I can't describe the smell, some sort of sweet perfume particular to India. Other smells often remind me of India, including dust, urine, and jasmine.
I was thinking about this recently when in Taropoto and Yurimaguas, entrances to the Peruvian jungle. Everything reminded me of India. Every morning I awoke to motorcycle traffic, noise, and intense heat. It even smelled like India. And I was filled with a desire to visit India, despite the fact that I recently visited it in July. I crave India.
Do you associate smells or other sensations with countries?
I was thinking about this recently when in Taropoto and Yurimaguas, entrances to the Peruvian jungle. Everything reminded me of India. Every morning I awoke to motorcycle traffic, noise, and intense heat. It even smelled like India. And I was filled with a desire to visit India, despite the fact that I recently visited it in July. I crave India.
Do you associate smells or other sensations with countries?
Rolling, Rolling, Rolling Up the River
As I lay on a hammock on a boat floating up Río Mañon, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Is this normal?” On the one hand, this is something I’ve dreamed of my whole life. On the other, it’s a crazy premise: “Let’s go on a three-day boat ride in a shitty boat and try to have a good time.” You might think I’m exaggerating. I’m not. This was no luxury ship, folks. The lancha, or ship, had two decks, both of which were chock-full of hammocks. Swinging side-to-side in my hammock, I would bump into my neighbor. There were too few bathrooms for the approximately 200 passengers and it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that they made my latrine in Paraguay look nice. I was particularly worried as my stomach hadn’t been doing so well (probably a combination of eating at markets and 5-sole-menu places where I drank the juices).
The upper deck was unenclosed but thankfully had a roof to protect us from the intense sun, allowing breeze from the river to fan us. Of course, there’s not much breeze when your boat only moves at 10 MPH. From our hammocks, we could watch the jungle banks passing by. A few times, we heard squawking and spotted a flock of parrots flying up from the tree tops.
The second day passed much as the first, full of reading and amacar-ing (“to hammock oneself,” yes, Spanish has a verb for that). The grand adventure of the day occurred when the boat stopped at the town of Santa Rita. The Argentine hippies, having devoted the whole day to weaving bracelets and smoking weed, decided to divert themselves by practicing juggling. Unfortunatley, one ball rolled off the upper deck of the boat and into the water. The Argentine luckily was sober enough to ignore his friend’s cries of “!Tirate!” (“Throw yourself in!”). Seeing this, one boy from Santa Rita ran down to the water and jumped into a boat. He didn’t even have an oar; he had to paddle with his feet. As the whole town looked on from the shore, a second boat, this one with a motor, joined the search-and-rescue mission. To the delight of the crowd of passengers on the boat and on-lookers onshore, the second boat returned triumphantly with the pink ball captured. The Argentine thanked the boat driver with a bracelet and then proceeded to drop the ball…Don’t worry, he caught it this time.
In the evening, the colors of the setting sun were intensified by the immense gray clouds. The wind picked up, threatening to throw our things overboard, and it started to pour. We ran for shelter, forgetting that we were on a boat. The only protection it could offer us was a plastic curtain and a leaky roof. I lay in my hammock journaling, as water dripped on me. The storm quickly picked up strength and speed and transformed from a welcome source of cooling air into a freezing, terrorizing rain. Large drops of water rolled down from the ceiling, soaking me. I hid inside my hammock, but it did little to protect me. A fellow Peruvian passenger had a br4illiant solution to stop the leaks: he placed life jackets over the holes in the roof to absorb the rain. I passed the night alternatively sweating from the heat and humidity and shivering from the waves of cold washing over me.
Around 4 Am the third day, we passed by Nauta, a town which marks the beginning of the Río Amazonas. Other than that, the third day was marked by a desperate urge to off the boat. I was not the only one who felt that way. As we neared shore, a bull broke through the wooden fence that contained it and swam toward freedom. I was tempted to do the same. It had been three days since I’d last showered and my supply of bottled water was nearly out. The brown sewage that surrounded the boat (aka the Amazon River) wasn’t an appealing option to bathe in. The phrase “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” came to my mind.
We finally arrived at Iquitos, the largest city in the world that cannot be reached by land. It is only accessible by boat and plane. When we arrived, I spotted “cruise” ships (the South American version in any case) anchored at the port with air conditioning and individual cabins. “Psshaah,”I thought to myself. “They missed a true Amazonian river adventure!”
A lancha similar to the one I rode on:
The bottom deck, a storage deck for beverages, bananas, and bulls:
Relaxing in my hammock:
The lower deck was much more crowded:
Vendors entered the boat at every port:
Boats on the river:
The pink ball rescued!
A crowd of onlookers watches:
The upper deck was unenclosed but thankfully had a roof to protect us from the intense sun, allowing breeze from the river to fan us. Of course, there’s not much breeze when your boat only moves at 10 MPH. From our hammocks, we could watch the jungle banks passing by. A few times, we heard squawking and spotted a flock of parrots flying up from the tree tops.
The second day passed much as the first, full of reading and amacar-ing (“to hammock oneself,” yes, Spanish has a verb for that). The grand adventure of the day occurred when the boat stopped at the town of Santa Rita. The Argentine hippies, having devoted the whole day to weaving bracelets and smoking weed, decided to divert themselves by practicing juggling. Unfortunatley, one ball rolled off the upper deck of the boat and into the water. The Argentine luckily was sober enough to ignore his friend’s cries of “!Tirate!” (“Throw yourself in!”). Seeing this, one boy from Santa Rita ran down to the water and jumped into a boat. He didn’t even have an oar; he had to paddle with his feet. As the whole town looked on from the shore, a second boat, this one with a motor, joined the search-and-rescue mission. To the delight of the crowd of passengers on the boat and on-lookers onshore, the second boat returned triumphantly with the pink ball captured. The Argentine thanked the boat driver with a bracelet and then proceeded to drop the ball…Don’t worry, he caught it this time.
In the evening, the colors of the setting sun were intensified by the immense gray clouds. The wind picked up, threatening to throw our things overboard, and it started to pour. We ran for shelter, forgetting that we were on a boat. The only protection it could offer us was a plastic curtain and a leaky roof. I lay in my hammock journaling, as water dripped on me. The storm quickly picked up strength and speed and transformed from a welcome source of cooling air into a freezing, terrorizing rain. Large drops of water rolled down from the ceiling, soaking me. I hid inside my hammock, but it did little to protect me. A fellow Peruvian passenger had a br4illiant solution to stop the leaks: he placed life jackets over the holes in the roof to absorb the rain. I passed the night alternatively sweating from the heat and humidity and shivering from the waves of cold washing over me.
Around 4 Am the third day, we passed by Nauta, a town which marks the beginning of the Río Amazonas. Other than that, the third day was marked by a desperate urge to off the boat. I was not the only one who felt that way. As we neared shore, a bull broke through the wooden fence that contained it and swam toward freedom. I was tempted to do the same. It had been three days since I’d last showered and my supply of bottled water was nearly out. The brown sewage that surrounded the boat (aka the Amazon River) wasn’t an appealing option to bathe in. The phrase “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” came to my mind.
We finally arrived at Iquitos, the largest city in the world that cannot be reached by land. It is only accessible by boat and plane. When we arrived, I spotted “cruise” ships (the South American version in any case) anchored at the port with air conditioning and individual cabins. “Psshaah,”I thought to myself. “They missed a true Amazonian river adventure!”
A lancha similar to the one I rode on:
The bottom deck, a storage deck for beverages, bananas, and bulls:
Relaxing in my hammock:
The lower deck was much more crowded:
Vendors entered the boat at every port:
Boats on the river:
The pink ball rescued!
A crowd of onlookers watches:
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