The Bottom Of All This: July 2010

So. Since Ian's arrival in Lima on July 5th, the days have been full, and finding a moment to sit at computer has been even more of a challenge than usual. Let me catch you up quickly.

After having summitted Chimborazo back in June, I made a point of laying low for a couple weeks, in part to compensate for all the money I'd blown on two climb trips, and in part because I was straight-up exhausted. Once I was feeling healthy enough to travel again, however, I started by coasting slowly down through southern Ecuador, pausing here for a night, there for two nights, etc. My only real concern was making it into Lima in time to meet Ian at the airport.

Despite my relaxed schedule and retiree lifestyle, I still managed to fall ill with one of the worst cases of traveller's tummy I'd ever experienced. It couldn't have come at a better time schedule-wise, I suppose, for I didn't have much to do, and so could afford to hole-up and nurse myself for a few days. Not the most glamorous part of my trip, I can tell you, but by the time I was ready to move into northern Peru, I was feeling better and so decided to make for the little beach town of Huanchaco to see the Pacific coast again after so long. It was low-season there, and the streets were empty for the most part, so I basically had the place to myself for some four nights or so. Highlights included relaxing walks along the beach, blissful afternoon naps, and late night sea-side, beef-heart-kebabs hot off the grill.

I left Huanchaco on an overnight bus that put me in Lima the morning before Ian's arrival, and took a dormitory room full of Japanese tourists to rest up. I slept deep into the day before deciding to rise and have a wander about the downtown area. I managed to scout out a few good places to eat and maybe grab a beer. I also found the main post office, where I sent a couple parcels off, and asked around some about the chapest way to get out to the airport. By this time, I was almost through my illness, but that felt like quite enough for one day, thank you very much. I hit the sheets again and did my best to rest up in preparation for Ian's arrival the following day.

His flight arrived around 10 PM, and I cabbed it out to meet him, armed with a few hand-made signs to grab his attention. A short wait among the throng of other hopefuls, and there he was. It was good to see him again, and we laughed and talked all the way back into town. It was well past midnight by the time we arrived at our hotel, checked in, and realized we felt a bit like having a beer. I led us down the vacant streets of uptown Lima, to one of the little spots I'd made note of the day before, and we sat and caught ourselves up over a few. I hadn't had a beer in a many weeks, nor had I had the chance to flap my gums with an old friend in this way, and I revelled in the chance to do both. It was a grand pleasure, and our first night wound up being a bit of a late one.

Ian and I had spoken some about travel plans prior to his arrival, and one of the things that had intrigued us most about Peru, was the opportunity to visit the famed city of Iquitos. Tucked away in the northeastern armpit of the country, deep in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, Iquitos bears the unique distinction of being the largest city in the world unreachable by road. It would take a bit of a struggle to get there, and would involve quite a good deal of backtracking, but we were both tempted by the prospect of a multi-day boat journey up the Ucayali River, a major offshoot of the Amazon. We had heard that riverboats to Iquitos were sometimes few and far-between, and so decided to spend only a few nights in Lima before setting out to Pucallpa, the jungleside city from which we hoped to catch our ship.

Our first full day in Lima, we roamed about the downtown core, scoping out the sights and sounds of the big city. One particularly memorable highlight was a tour through one of the larger, more famous churches in town - the Monasterio De San Francisco. Once a Franciscan monastery, this ancient stone building is now home to an incredibly beautiful old library - apparently one of the most significant stores of religious tomes in Latin America - roomfuls of ancient colonial artwork, and an amazing set of catacombs, housing the dusty skeletal remains of some 70,000 individuals!

Quite a thing to walk down the low-ceilinged brick tunnels of these dark catacombs, and breath in the dust and dinge of the old bones. But as we walked on, one immediately noticed that the many thoussandes of bones we saw were made up almost entirely of thigh bones and skulls. Where were all the other bits, we asked? Hands? Ribs? Vertebrae? Left untreated, we were told, most of the bones in the human body quickly deteriorate; only the thickest, most durable parts - i.e. the thigh bones and skulls - remain for any serious length of time. We paused to consider the peculiar fact that someday the last remaining trace of my material existence might be my forehead and femurs. Funny thing, life.

Later, in the afternoon, we caught a taxi into Miraflores - one of the more posh sides of town - and wandered the beautiful, paved promenades overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific some 40 meters below. Paragliders sailed along in tandem above us, riding the gentle updrafts rising from the cliff face, just low enough for us to hear their faint cries of terror and delight. As the sun set, we again found ourselves plagued by thirst, and cut back into the bustling downtown to find a watering hole.

We quickly located a swank little place (the kind with fancy ripple-cut cheeses and spicy sausage sliced on the diagonal) where they sold beer at decent prices, and sidled up to the bar for a few. It was small and quaint, but full, and it would be misleading to say we didn't stand out some, among the older clientele of winding-down business folk, and well-dressed young uptowners. What did it matter to us, I was just pleased to see Ian interacting with some laid-back Peruanos and brushing up on his Spanish. He'd taken a semester or two back in cegep, but was pretty much relying on body language at this point.

I was more than a little surprised, therefore, when I returned from a bathroom trip and found him immersed in what seemed to be intense conversation with the pleasant looking young Peruvian woman seated next to him. I ribbed him about wasting no time in getting to know the locals, and he informed me that it had been her, in fact - Marina, her name - who had chatted him up, and actually seemed quite keen to know more about him. The only problem was that at this point, Ian could scarcely order a beer in Spanish, let alone make interesting conversation - wouldn't I act as translator for a minute here? I gave Marina the eyeball to make sure she wasn't some kind of con, and finding myself unable to discern any overt nastiness about her, I consented, and set myself to the actually quite enjoyable task of making the two of them clear to one another.

It was clear that she was interested in my new travel mate, and I confess to having played this up some in my new role as hermes/cupid. While their blossoming love - too strong to be hindered by something as petty as a language barrier - was something of a gag at first, it quickly became clear that Marina was not fooling around. Moreover, she seemed earnest and sincere in her attention and interest. Ian and I were getting kind of hungry, however, and so rose to leave in search of a bite to eat for supper. When it became apparent that our parting ways with Marina might prove slightly problematic, however, I - still feeling a little mischievous - suggested we might take her along. She beamed at this Idea, but Ian, now growing aware that this might be a somewhat sticky situation to get out of, gave me a bit of a glare, and off we went. And that is how we came to find ourselves seated to a hearty supper of roasted chicken con papas fritas, and a lone doe-eyed Peruana.

We ate, slightly buzzed, and I did my best to keep a straight face as I translated Marina's stready stream of interview questions - What do you like in a woman? etc. What could Ian do? We were trapped at table now, attempting to have a civilized meal. He answered honestly, doing his best to breath through the thick atmosphere of affection surrounding him. I fall in love fast - she told me, her face wholesome and sincere, turning to Ian and again flashing him the love-eyes. He would meet the gaze of the smitten girl at his elbow, for moments at a time, and then turn to me for some kind of help or advice. My attention would of course always be momentarily diverted at such instants, either by flagging down a waiter, or admiring some of the art hung in the place. But truth be told, it was getting harder and harder for me to conceal the fact that I thought this was a quite hilarious situation. And moreover, I knew we had to get out of here somehow, eventually.

So, when supper was finished, I suggested we all might head back to the bar for a final beer, before we head home - Ian and I were getting tired, and had a big day of travel tomorrow after all. I looked directly at Marina as I said the latter. She seemed to get the picture. Back at the bar, and keenly aware of our intentions to head home, Marina's initiative redoubled in earnest. At this point, it had become undeniably clear that she was out for Ian, and by the time we we had finished our drinks and were ready to go, she was urging him to let her return to the hotel with us on the other side of town - they could take a separate room, she said.

The cards had finally been laid, and what had until then been something of a light-hearted situation came swiftly to a head. Playfully amorous chit-chat with a girl you just met in a country you just arrived in the day before is one thing, but taking her to bed is quite another. Ever the gentleman, Ian managed to find a few warm words to ease our parting, and planted a soft one on Marina's cheek while I donned my coat. I offered a polite goodbye, and we made our escape. Five more mintues in there, and I'd have been translating wedding vows, for sure. We flagged a cab and headed back to our hotel.

Now, I want to make a point of stressing that at no time throughout the evening - even when suggesting the evening's shack-up - did Marina ever lose her poise or pleasantness. On the contrary, she maintained a calmness that made for a startling combination with her incredible forwardness. This strange mixture of traits, along with her age - she was only 22, afterall - seemed to Ian and I, remarkable. How could one explain it? I had heard all the stories of gringo-hunting temptresses, but Marina hardly seemed to fit that description.

As translator, I can vouch for the fact that at no time was she ever anything but perfectly polite and sincere. She was not sloppy and predatory, but composed and straight-talking. Her demeanor was not libidinal, but tender. As we made our way out the door, she seemed more sad than anything, and possessed the air of one bidding a lover fairwell at the train-station. If not broken, her heart surely seemed to have been badly bruised. But could someone really fall in love so fast?

Like me, Ian had also spent some six months or so travelling in India the year before, where men and women alike would look at you sideways for so much as sitting next to a young woman, let alone chatting her up. And here, a casual chat over beers had led to the earnest suggestion of sex from a seemingly sincere young woman. Such a thing would surely be considered a rarity in our comparatively prudish culture. Imagine it - a classy, self-aware young lady, taking up the company of two strange men, promptly falling for one of them, joining them for supper, and then trying to pry loose her new inamorata and take him to bed.

Assuming that we were not simply mistaken about her intentions, and that she was not, in fact, really just some incredible deceptive actress whose sole aim was to dupe and rob us, the best sense I am able to make of this misadventure, and other similar situations, is that they are indicative of a real and palpable cultural difference. That is, that people of Latin descent and upbringing are, or tend to be, particularly amorous folk. Put otherwise, they're a culture of lovers, to draw dangerously near to a common stereotype. But stereotypes, while obviously flawed and often unfair, don't come from nowhere.

A few random examples might help substantiate this claim.

1. Every Latin American city of any size has a downtown riddled with dance halls and malt shops, all overrun with swooners of all ages.

2. The second question anyone ever asks you, after, Where are you from? is invariably: Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?

3. Spraypainted confessions of adoration - Te amo Jasmine! and the like - adorn the walls of every side alleyway and bathroom stall.

4. Every other song on the radio is about lost love or fiery new passion - Mi corazon! Mi vida! Receurda me! Te amo!

5. The plazas of every city are full of lip-locked youth, and every little cafe has at least one corner table occupied by a teary-eyed young woman seated alone.

The tender slough and jagged debris of love are scattered everywhere you look. I do not think I am exaggerating. That same evening in the bar in Miraflores, in between bouts of translating, I had the priviledge of speaking with an intriguing man in a well-cut suit about various matters related to his work and business. As the night wore on, our talk progressed, as tends to happen, to more serious topics - love, happiness, and the like - and at one point he paused to ask me if I'd like to guess his age. An odd question, I thought, but I took at crack at it anyway - 45 I said. He laughed a good laugh, and told me, with a smile, that he was 81 years old. I didn't believe him, but had to bite my tongue when he pulled out his identification to confirm.

Did I know how he maintained his youth? he asked me. Exercise? I guessed. Nope. Women. Women, he said again - that's the key to longevity, happiness, and everything else desireable in life, really.The moment you stop thinking about women, you may as well be dead - to hell with you, he told me. It's the backbone of everything else in life, he reason for being, the fuel, of all other worldly endeavor.

True, there may be nothing particularly Latin about this view - one would not be surprised to find such words leaping off the tongue of many a man in many a bar the world over at 11PM on a Saturday night. My point in telling you this story is only to say that virtually every time I find myself in a position to receive a few words of wisdom from Latin gentlemen, it unfailingly exhibits this kind of bent. Even older women are quick to point out that young men such as ourselves ought not be without a woman on our arms. A culture of lovers, I repeat, right down to little Marina.

At any rate, it was, I think, this love-infused way of being - so different from the one we grow up with in the cold white North - that threw Ian for a loop that fateful night in Miraflores, and the reason our evening was, I suspect, such a peculiar experience for everyone involved.

So anyway, we left Lima for Pucallpa the next day, on a grueling 24-hour bus ride that cut northeastward up and over the Andean range into Peru's sizable portion of the Amazon rainforest. 24 hours is a long time to sit in a chair, and we quickly set to chatting to pass the time. Again I revelled in the opportunity to talk and talk and talk about all kinds of matters. Several months of solo travel had left me more than primed for a little conversation. I am quite certain that everyone around us thought we were crazy. Talking and singing and arguing and laughing like lunatics for hours on end - and well into the night.

We had opted for a slightly cheaper bus, and so knew we'd be in for a hell of a trip. It was a rough ride - the roads were quite bad in parts - and it was all we could do to squeeze in a few hours of sleep here and there. The scenery however, was beautiful once the sun came out, and we craned our necks to see as much of the beautiful mountains as we could. Sweaty, thirsty, and sore all over, we finally arrived in Pucallpa early the following day, and snagged a rickshaw into the town center where we found a cheapie double room, showered up, and rested a while before setting out to find food.

I don't know if it was the fact that we had missed our chance to sit and drink the night before - being as we were, stuck on the grueling overnight bus ride - or if it was the incredible deals on beer in Pucallpa (four 650ml bottles for 10 Nuevo Soles, that is, roughly USD$3), but after downing another hearty meal of rotisserie chicken con papas fritas, we wandered into one of the shabby little sidestreet watering-holes and set ourselves to business. It was a delightfully unpretentious place full of delightfully unpretentious - and impressively drunk - individuals, mostly men, excepting the portly, wide-smiling woman who ran the place - Mama Cerveza we came to call her, after she "forgot" to charge us for a couple of the many bottles of beer we consumed that night.

At any rate, we drank and spoke and drank and spoke like veterans, laughing and joking with the various salespeople wandering the streets - the five year old trying to part with his stuffed sloth, the fat old man with his single shabby statue of an educated owl, complete with mortorboard and diploma - and the drinks kept coming. By the time the place was ready to close, the once-raucous crowd had dwindled down to the two of us, Owl Man, and a couple of other scragglers who'd stopped to sit and laugh with the foreigners. And of course, Mama Cerveza, who, having finished with the night's clean up, had come to join us on the front steps as well. By this time both Ian and I were pretty much through with drinking, and so bid our gang of merry-makers a muy bueno noche and stumbled off through the vacant early-morning streets of Pucallpa, and home to bed.

The following day, the first order of business was breakfast. How do you feed a hangover in Peru, we asked ourselves? Fruit? Too fibrous. Coffee? Too acidic. Eggs? Too rubbery. Meat? Yeah that felt right, but what kind? Beef? Chicken? Fish. Ah yes - ceviche. So we downed a couple platefulls of delicious dorado cured with lemon juice and nabbed a rickshaw down to the docks to find ourselves a boat up to Iquitos. I say docks, but really there were no docks to speak of, only a muddy stretch of shoreline where the boats all decided to park and tie up. We hopped out and wandered down to the shore to ask about rates.

The boats that make the four to five day journey up-river to Iquitos were impressive vehicles. Some four stories tall, they were made for both cargo, and passengers, with one story devoted entirely to hammock space. Most had a few smallish two-bunk cabins available, but the prices for those were a touch high, and the hammock-thing looked like more fun besides. I had purchased myself a sturdy hammock some months ago back in Guatemala, but Ian, having just arrived, was forced to buy one of the little nylon jobbies for sale on board, which we hung up to hold our place while we returned to our hotel and gathered our things. The boat, we were told would be leaving around noon, so we would have to hurry if we wanted to make it.

Once back at the hotel we quickly packed as the sky darkened outside. It looked like we were going to get a good little downpour. By the time we were all set and ready to go in the foyer, it was coming down in buckets - Amazon rains are no joke - and the idea of taking a ten-minute rickshaw ride down to the river was pretty much out of the question - we and all our gear would have been well soaked-through. Even running across the street to buy some water left me sopping. But our boat is leaving any minute! we explained to anyone who would listen. Thankfully, one kindly young hotel worker did, and darted off to find us someone willing to drive a couple soaking foreigners down to the riverside. We loaded up his shabby car and headed out, our hotel worker in tow to give directions.

A few moments later, we arrived and stepped out into the arms of dozens of local folks all arguing over who would get to help us carry our luggage down the muddy embankment to our vessel. We paid our mickey-mouse taxi man, tipped our hotel assistant handsomely for helping to get us there on time, and selected a couple of porters to carry some of our plastic-wrapped goods down to the boat. Without any docks, the rain had turned the already muddy slope down to the river into a veritable slip and slide, and we did our best not to fall, our boots sinking four inches deep here, and gliding across firmer patches of soil there.

Rivers of rainwater passed beneath our feet as we cut switchbacks across the steepening hill, our clothes now dripping wet. Our boat, it seemed, had since pulled in its gangplank and backed away from the shore, such that we now had to double back around and board another ship, from which we were able to cross onto yet another, and then sidle along the outer part of the deck, dangling precipitously over the river, before making the final small leap onto our proper ship's foredeck.

All smiles and dribbles we climbed the two small sets of stairs up to the public area and nodded to the grinning Peruanos as we sought out our reserved area, dropped our things and had a good laugh at ourselves. We made it! And just on time too, it seemed. Soaked to the skin, but elated, we tipped our porter a few too many soles, and set ourselves to the happy business of drying off and setting up shop. Some few minutes later, after we'd paid our fares, sorted our belongings, and were pretty much ready for the departing to begin, we asked around about the delay, and were told that actually, the boat was expected to leave around 5PM or so, some three hours from now.

About this time, the pounding rain also began to subside, the sun slowly emerged, and what had only moments ago seemed like a triumphant arrival just-in-the-nick-of-time, began to look more like a crazed-and-unnecessary-dash through a violent-but-momentary deluge. Had we decided to wait-out the rain in Pucallpa - sat, perhaps, for a relaxing coffee - we'd have been able to pay far less for an open-air rickshaw ride, doled out fewer soaking wet tips, and been quite able to walk our perfectly dry selves down to our boat with plenty of time to spare. But such is life, and hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

So we contented ourselves to sit out on deck and watch as the crack team of Peruvian laborers loaded some three dozen Honda motors onto the foredeck by crane, and sang along with the tinny 80's music that blared from the speakers of nearby boats, and a few hours later we were ready to go. Next thing you know we were out on the river, coasting along as the sun slowly set over the Amazon rainforest, the beautiful verdant shoreline hemming-in the cool-grey waters of the Ucayali. It was a calming thing to be swept along thus, and we made light chit-chat with the folks around us. Us? Oh, we're from Canada. No, no, neither of us are married. Yes, Peru is a very beautiful place. I know, I know, we should have girlfriends, yes. And so on, and so on.

There were only a few other foreign tourists on the boat - one young fellow from Switzerland, and a few folks from Domincan republic - so we found ourselves receiving a lot of attention throughout the course of our trip. We would often be chatted up while standing in the food line, or sitting in the restaurant at the rear of the ship, when we could stand the relentless chicken-noodle-blandness of the regulation meals no longer. One old farmer chap with a long wispy beard would make a point of seeking us out at lunchtimes and sit to learn a word or two of English, and have us read passages aloud from his tattered copy of the New Testament.

Those times when we found ourselves alone were also wonderful - four days on a riverboat gives one lots of time to think and talk, and sing and argue and that's just what we did. Often for hours at a time, again, to the great bemusement of those within earshot, I'm sure. We covered a lot of ground those four days - it was a fine time to be traveing. Good health, good weather, good company, decent food, beautiful scenery, and nothing to do but soak it up, and pick away at plans for the future. When it was hot, we would strip down and bask out on deck. When it was rainy, we would retire to the ship's restaurant to play cards and nurse a few beers. It was a good life, to be sure, but let it not be said that life on the river is without it's share of stresses.

The most salient of such stresses, in our experience, had to do with hammocks, specifically, with Ian's newly purchased nylon wonder. Now, Ian had never slept in a hammock before, and was a bit apprehensive about doing it correctly. I'm not exactly an expert, but it had never occured to me that there might be a right way or a wrong way about it - you just get in, and you're in. As a result, my council to him was abrupt and dismissive - just do what feels right, you'll figure it out. You can imagine my reaction therefore, when, early on the first night, as Ian carefully lowered himself into his hammock, doling out his weight in balanced increments, it suddenly gave way beneath him, with an awful, jagged sound of tearing fabric. He turned to me in shock and dismay, and stood immediately to assess the situation.

A small rip, to be sure, but an unfortunately placed rip, directly in the weightbearing center of the thing. The kind of rip that you know is just waiting for you to try again. I did my best to stifle a laugh, and then realized that the only sensitive thing to do would be to go to sleep immediately. That way, Ian could wake me in the middle of the night, and we could trade off shifts sleeping in my sturdier hammock. While I got down to that business, Ian paced about worriedly staring at his torn hammock and managed to attract the attention of a big-hearted Peruvian passerby, who, noticing his predicament, stopped to give him a hand at stitching it up. Thankfully, this first patch-job was enough to get him through the night.

The following morning, despite the fact that he had made it through the evening without event, Ian was still understandably worried about his hammock's ability to last him through the trip. After a short talk, it was therefore decided, that I ought to take his hammock for the second night, on the premise that I am slightly lighter, and slightly more practiced, and thus presumably slightly more adept at sleeping in hammocks, if such a thing is possible. Evening came and soon enough it was time for me to have a go.

A few small whimpers-of-rips as I climbed in, but once I was settled it felt alright. I gave the thumbs up to Ian, who seemed much more at ease in my Guatemalan beauty, and was soon off to sleep. A few more creaks and whinnies throughout the night kept me just on the cusp of sleep, but I must have dozed off eventually, for I recall waking and feeling more or less rested. Unfortunately, in the haze of morning, I rose a touch carelessly and insodoing, tore Ian's already crippled hammock all to hell again. Well, so much for that. What were we going to do now?

Well, as luck would have it, we had managed to forge friendly bonds with the Swiss fellow on board - Damien, his name - who, upon hearing our tale of woe, generously offered to lend us his hammock in the evenings. He had paid for a cabin, and so was only using his hammock for lounging in the daytime. We heartily accepted, and seeing as how Ian was so comfy in my hammock, I opted to be the one to sleep in Damien's.

Unfortunately, the latter was of the same quality of Ian's, purchased only a day ago from the same hammock-salespeople who flood the ship prior to departure, and to make a long story shorter, I ripped the damn thing that very night. Not badly, but again, badly enough to make one wary about using it a second time. At this point, with the blood of two innocent hammocks on my hands, I decided to take action. I took down both the hammocks, and set to stitching them up myself. It took me the better part of the afternoon, but come suppertime, both Ian and Damien's hammocks were all frankensteined up and ready to go.

That afternoon, I took Ian's hammock for a test-nap, and made it out with little more than a tiny rip. Good. But even so, I thought it would be prudent to sleep the night in Damien's, which hadn't suffered so badly as Ian's and seemed more reliable. That night - our second to last on the boat - passed without incident, but again, I made a slight rip upon rising incautiously in the morning. At this point, I decided I'd better leave Damien's hammock alone, I'd already had to fix it once. For the last night on board, I'd have to sleep in Ian's twice-wounded veteran.

This was not a happy hammock. Even as I entered it yielded along stitch lines, and complained under my weight, but did not give. All through the night, it threatened to yield at my every movement, but still it held. Finally, the sun was up, and I knew we'd made it through. I am about to rise in celbration when suddenly, the tattered thing gives way beneath me, and it's all I can do to grab ahold of nearby hammock lines and pull myself afoot. At this point the hole in Ian's hammock is nearly big enough for one to step through, but that matters little now, for we have arrived in Iquitos - manic jungle metropolis and the end of the line for us. Our bags packed once more, we walked down to the foredeck and crossed the threshold, stepping onto dry land for the first time in days.

It had been my intention to give a full and detailed account of this wonderfully boisterous and sweltering city, perched on the banks of the mighty Amazon river, and of all the various adventures and misadventures we experienced in our relatively short time there - wandering the jungle, encountering local villagers and wildlife, fishing pirhana, and dozing off to the haunting chant of a modern-day Amazonian shaman - but I have since reconsidered on the grounds that it seems more appropriate to leave at least some of the magic of the Amazon where we found it. (Besides, this entry is already growing unwieldy, and if I don't post now, I may never get it off.) In lieu, I offer the following few photos which I hope capture something of our time there.