28 Mar-3 Apr 2015 – Cyclones in Colombia (1 of 2)
Reluctantly extricating ourselves from the Ecuadorian jungle, we found ourselves in a non-lulling state of head-loll as the bus buckarooed its way back to the concrete jungle, Quito. Seated near to a pair of young males, I overheard a similarly aged girl sat adjacent pipe up: “Sorry, I’ve got to ask: why’ve you got a broom with you?”
“Oh ya, this is so fun-ny” in between hyena-like laughter, as though caught out by his own hilarity, “I’ve literally just bought it so that my friend Will, here, will have to carry it around where ever he goes. Crazy I know but not as crazy as Will. Ya, Will bought a parrot and gave it to his friend Mark at the start of his round the world tour. He’s had to carry it around with him the whole time, and get this: smuggle it across borders by putting it in the fridge on the back of buses! I know, hil-ari-ous!” The girl burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. I turned the volume up on my David Attenborough audio book—being back astride Pearl couldn’t come quick enough.
As cyclones in Colombia, due primarily to the last ferry crossing the Darien Gap to Panama ending for the foreseeable, we had to roar up the road like conquistadors. And faced only four scanty weeks in which to do so. Entering Colombia all guns blazing—stiflingly hot—the first thing we encountered was guns and riders. So many of each but one whose nose was poised pointing down, while the other was razz-tazzing around like a sniffer dog. Thumbs up from virtually every armed soldier was the order of the day—a reassuring state of civil rest, where security remains an issue on occasion in the southern portion of the country. So far, so calm.
That is, until I was rudely bumped by a local on his 125cc, flinging me forward haphazardly in a drunkard fashion up a hill. Easy chap. Keep your eyes ahead, would you, dear? No matter, my thoughts were elsewhere: the heavy presence of the military didn’t stop me pondering if we were already wandering on ground unwelcome. Good work either way fellas (although fellas might be stretching it; most hadn’t yet broken into that deeper octave range), and gracias for watching our backs against any unsavoury acts from guerrillas or armed bandits.
Go figure: Colombia’s reputation isn’t exactly speculative. Neil Bennion in his book Dancing Feat neatly summarised—and I barely summarise his words—that it started with one of those long, drawn-out internal conflicts back in the mid-60s, with its root in La Violencia—a period known as The Violence in the 1940s. The death toll over fifteen years reached an estimated 300,000, came to an end around 1958. What started as brutal, politically aggravated vengeance became the norm until Colombia was drowning in its own blood. An agreement was eventually struck between two political parties but the shadow of that era still looms, not least in the form of armed groups that emerged thereafter.
Bennion continues to explain that it’s not just the FARCs (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) that seem to elicit all the media’s attention, they’re just one of many militants across three main divisions: “left-wing groups (known as guerrillas), right-wing groups (known as paramilitaries) and government forces. Together they’ve been involved in a special citizen-twatting competition, with the first two also showing a predilection for terrorism, kidnapping and drug trafficking. And whilst in recent times the guerrillas have very much been pushed back to the margins of the country, all the entities are still very much alive and present in the belly of Colombia.” Days after riding out of the coffee zone that is Cali and its neighbouring areas, it was reported that a FARC group had shot ten soldiers there. Good grief. I’d heard of a Colombian guy recently commenting “After 200 years we’re still uncivilised. We haven’t learnt to value our freedom and all that we’ve been given.”
Thanks to Lady Luck, we only fell victim to a phenomenon that troubles various South American countries—arroyos—street rivers. Part way up Colombia, we rode into a town treading water in a torrent of rain having sought out shelter for the night: a love hotel in Tuluá moments before. Eyeball-sized rivulets of rain streaming down aside, what the pair of us couldn’t stop staring at all evening was the main attraction, right above our heads.
Lightning bounced around inside the purple belly of a bank of dark clouds as thunder billowed deeply in our ears. Talk about electric. Loving the love hotel—the entire bathroom was on display in the corner of an open plan bedroom—there goes any mystery in one’s relationship. Still, such gaudy establishments always offer a perfect place for not only couples eager to consummate their premarital relationship, folks having a fling and needing a little discretion but foremost, motorcycle overlanders in daily requirement of secure parking. Boom! Forget third base, that’s a home run.
Although Colombia’s reputation is far from remedied, the country is undergoing some serious amelioration. For the first time in a long time, tourist revenue has overtaken the income generated from coffee export. What’s more, the drug cartels were largely disbanded in the late ‘90s. Even so, Bennion informs “where big efforts have had some success, in the bigger, international picture there is still an ongoing problem of the ‘balloon effect’. This is where you squeeze it in one place and it grows bigger somewhere else.”
While the khaki-clad boys had our backs on Colombian turf, we watched the backs of beefy but immobile iguanas on asphalted turf—suddenly coming into view a little faster than felt comfortable at 50 miles per hour. Magnetised to the warmth of the sun-baked road, I slammed on the brakes a flurry of times and swerved in order to avoid elongating these already lengthy reptiles. The novelty of arboreal lizards frequenting roads rather than trees soon passed—the choked carriageways comprise such a spectrum of road users—undertaking becomes a sucking-your-backside-up-through-your-heart necessity.
Munching miles, we ploughed bottom up through Colombia; impossible to miss an inordinate number of low flying vultures and the odd pair of kites overhead. As well, the prevalence of deforestation and low-lying cane toads—the former being an utter disservice to the latter. We were half way up the country and the security detail all but disappeared. It was one of those rare occasions where an absence of evidence is actually valid evidence, where lack of guns spelled a more peaceful place. I didn’t exactly need to be reminded to stay off ground uninvited—this was Colombia..!
A flying visit meant we managed to see little and less of Medellín, although listening to Lucy, our hostel owner of Grand Hostel flung us right into her past hell. Tearing up, Lucy briefly touched upon her first boyfriend’s merciless death, his life executed by guerrillas for greenbacks. She went onto relay the story of a well-known wealthy family—employing 2,000 employees in their company—whose figurehead, the father got kidnapped. The eldest son arranged a non-negotiable exchange of his father held hostage, for himself. Or no money thereafter. The kidnappers agreed, surrendered the father and took the son captive. Within the next six months after the exchange, the family, including third cousins removed all left Colombia—many to the States.
The son beforehand, had organised his own hefty and private army to enter the jungle once his family could be deemed at a safe distance, and attempt his no-guarantee-getting-out-alive rescue. There must be a God; the mission was a success—no family member was murdered nor a cent paid to the captors. Around 80 guerrillas were killed. Business operations ceased and proceeds were distributed to the family and ex-employees. This was one of a handful of happy-ish endings. People have not forgotten, nor will they ever be likely to forgive.
NB: Special thanks goes to Neil Bennion, author of Dancing Feat whose un-put-downable account of Colombia added meaningful value to my experience of the country. Top stuff!
12-27 Mar 2015 – A walk on the wild side: Wild thing, I think I, I think I love ya! (4 of 4)
In Luis’ back garden one bright morning, he randomly brought out a couple of snakes he’d caught for identification and study purposes, before releasing them back to where he’d scooped them up. For God’s sake, let me take hold of one. Had I been body-snatched? On the brink of flinging it away from me in a trajectory as far as one could manage with pipe-cleaner arms, I held onto my teetering nerve along with the writhing creature. To calm myself, I called it Sally; now a ‘she’, I noticed Sally possessed the temperament of a purring pussy cat; and wasn’t actually writhing at all; rather, lay quite still in my hands. She didn’t even have teeth.
Minutes later, I happily handed Sally back to Luis. I’d just done something that had terrified me. Relinquishing irrational fear is a process and I suppose I’d undergone the necessary-evil start of one. If nothing else, I remained unruffled on the proceeding night walks. And wasn’t it Elizabeth Gilbert that said, “The point is not for you to do something that’s never been done before. The point is for you to do something you’ve never done before.” I headed off back to my cabin feeling satisfaction rather than smugness. You betcha!
Stepping foot into the Amazon rainforest by day is a world apart from its overpoweringly exotic experience at night. In dappled daylight, you are entering: a pharmacy and DIY first-aid kit; a carpenter’s dream and house-builder’s heaven; a birth control clinic and beauty parlour. As a starter for ten. It’s the Genie’s bottle inside Aladdin’s Cave. I was too human to absorb the significance of everything engulfing me but tried to drink in the enrapturing benefits of it all. Starting with smearing an anti-wrinkle tree sap around my eyes, upon which Jason assured me took a day off.
The sap of one tree for instance is used to cure diarrhoea while the potent sap of another would do more than bung up your business; it would anesthetise, or in greater quantities kill as a component in a poisoned dart. Luis had to use something approaching ‘the knowledge’ in order to avoid getting us all heinously lost, especially penetrating the swampland. We later encountered a tiger vine, which when a negligible sized nugget is cut away, boiled down to a treacle like oil and drunk, relieves symptoms of asthma. Whoa!
Next up, a tenant-loathing tree grabbed my attention when I learned that it sheds its ‘skin’ every year or so, in order to cast off anything parasitic—clinging on for a free ride. The natives refer to it a selfish tree, although I preferred to think it was ‘survival-chic’. I meandered a little further along the snaking forest floor and met a walking tree. Sounds like a scene from Lord of the Rings meets a scene out of Avatar—what a profound message-invoking movie that was—but this tree was literally capable of upheaval, putting down new roots and moving 20 centimetres about every 20 years. Por qué? To remain in an optimum position, alive and kicking. Well, it’s more of a snail-paced walker. Knock me sideways; utterly dumbfounded. What Jason and I wouldn’t do to become Luis’ lifelong apprentices.
We stuck our fingers on the latex sap of a rubber tree, observing from where the material of our wellington boots and ponchos had derived. The jungle canopies alone give adequate protection from showers. A tiny cut made by Luis into an inconspicuous tree oozed a strong anti-malaria sap—one where the smallest of smears spread on the crease of your arms at the elbow and cheeks—the places where you sweat first—combined to emit the most potent smell, apparently; an aroma that mosquitoes loathe and will keep their distance for hours on end. Armed with rain gear, repellent and rubber boots along with my Girl Guide approach, I really needn’t have bothered.
Luis pointed to a tree bearing an exotic orange coloured fruit—its vitamin C levels tenfold that of an orange and one that can be fermented to produce a rather energising beverage. If you can’t be a good Girl Guide and glug a little too much of the enticing ‘Red Bull and vodka’ jungle equivalent, you may end up needing the tree rich in a substance capable of preventing the prospect of pregnancy. Indeed, there’s no morning after pill here but guess where the chemical properties of said birth control capsule comes from? Amazing, ya.
If you are a good Girl Guide or Boy Scout, you might not fancy getting gazebo’ed in the jungle with your fellow foresters. Then why not snap a twig from a scrawny branch off another particular tree, light up the end and enjoy a soothing smoke on a long, somewhat-skinnier-than-average ‘cigar’. No nasties inhaled either—beats the non-nicotine out of those faux Parker Pen cigarettes. And keeps any biting blighters at bay to boot!
Upon side-stepping around a city of termite houses, we eventually noticed that they were always constructed on the west side of the forest. Why’s that then? Because when it rains here, precipitation always comes from the east. Did you know that the exterior of their habitats also incorporate ridged drainage systems, which allow any rainfall to neatly drain off and divert away from the material holding their live-in premises together. Talk about enterprising engineers and award-winning architects for ingenuity.
On an arbitrary note, I clocked columns upon columns of leaf cutter ants, all on their global deforestation programme. They crossed the trail, carrying dismembered plants from one side to the other, despite there being plenty of plants on the side they were already on. The reason for this I am yet to become enlightened. Every so often I’d spot a lost ant away from the colony; like a line dancer looking for a line.
Although the snuggery of Siona Lodge was more untouched by tourism—the Caiman lodge in our second week was the landing spot for backpackers—attracted by the mixture of low cost and authenticity. A shock to the system having left the sunny exuberance of Luis and four other like-minded jungle-adoring explorers, compared to around 30 kids and 10 others all chomping at the bit for a piece of jungle pie. Come now, let’s have you all jump aboard the motorised canoe and tootle back from whence you came. Not that I was suffering from a bout of fellow-outsiders-ruining-my-authentic-experience annoyance or anything.
Plus, I’ve never been sold on the idea of modern-day ‘adventure tourism’. For me, adventures should involve chewing your way through undergrowth with your bare teeth, dodging jaguars and patching up wounds with a spider monkey. Going on well-established tours several times daily, led by guides who cater for all your needs is only as ‘out there’ as going to a job interview wearing a loud tie.
“Mira”, pointed David, our new naturalist guide at Caiman Lodge bringing me back to where I should be. Look. A load of yellow-handed titty monkeys. Arrr, wow—haven’t seen those before. See Lisa, stop being prissy because all’s good again. It always was. Just look where you are! The two of us were given free rein with our own personal guide, away from the masses and the rigidity of schedules, plus a second week in the Amazon for free in exchange for some professional shots and a little aerial footage. Which kept us just about on budget despite being where we were…right oh, I’ll stop being a ginger whinger.
A canopy tower from the Caiman Lodge, at 25 metres tall gave us access to a different perspective, showing us secret gardens of jungle life from the treetops—impossible to see from the understory—standing like a sentinel guarding the fruits of the forest. It facilitated travel through different levels of the rainforest and emerged us on top of the canopy. Caiman Lodge was growing on me fast.
David had to depart so hanging out with Vin, perhaps one of the Caiman Lodge’s most knowledgeable and enthusiastic guides took over and us deep into the Amazon. By means of a slightly leaky, slow-going paddle canoe. The experience that greeted us was worth the wait. While we watched tropical birds and chatted like monkeys for hours, Vin had a 101 stories—all filled with firsthand knowledge of indigenous peoples throughout South America, their shaman culture, the forest and rural life. What it is and what it can be. I felt at ease and content, full of peace around the guy.
The Amazon has to be one of the most exuberant places on Earth, a place some people still get to call home. Upon entering a native village Puerto Bolivar one day, I got to glimpse a life so simple, so achingly beautiful that I couldn’t stop staring: a laughing child waving at a canoe, a shawl-clad woman gracefully throwing grain to her hens. A breathless charm. Each little thatched lodge we passed, nestling amongst its banana palms, drenched in sunlight, was a vision of Eden. A vision of happiness I wanted to keep. Surrounded by the Amazon’s wreath of wildlife, I was beginning to think…Could we stay right here; til the end of time; til the Earth stops turning? The forest was starting to get at something very deep in me.
A stillness settled over the lake as dusk grew closer. A hand pointed at 9 o’clock from the bow and I led my eyes in said direction. A fully matured boa coiled itself serenely around a low tree branch, at eye-line with us in the canoe. Like the snake, I was unable to blink. I watched the silken surface of a small inlet below, broken only by brown and gold leaves that fluttered onto it from nearby trees. My life it seemed, had been transformed, the scales fallen from my eyes. I idly scooped up some water and let it aimlessly trickle through my fingers. How on Mother Earth would we leave this place? They say endings are usually laced with regret while beginnings are sprinkled with hope. We glided close to the bearded shores of the creek to get a more intimate look at this limbless reptile. She was a boa beauty, embossed with a flawless and bewitching skin.
The Amazon’s orchestra of indigenous organisms—comprises en ensemble so large in one given location—is, well, beyond wild. The air is permanently alive with cicadas; in harmony with a pacifying symphony of tropical birdsong, which paints the air with colour; magnified by growls from the howler monkeys; and a bit of base from the bull frogs. Mentally spent from over-stimulation with cravings for more—despite holding in a myriad set of visuals—is how one will leave the Amazon. Because fortunately, your filters will be forgotten. We lived, breathed, ate and slept at becoming one with nature; my umbilical cord connecting with the roots of the jungle so profoundly, I felt an energy like no other.
The hauntingly beautiful power that Pachamama—Mother Earth had over us was simply a given. Not to mention almost tangible forces at all levels: whether furrowed deep in the understory, forging ahead on the forest floor or reining over all high in the treetops—we absorbed an assembly of colours, sounds, scents and the most captivating creatures on Earth. A chance to perceive life ancestral of Pachamama and forest nature; it’s all here in the lungs of the planet. Yet in the face of wanting to feast our eyes on it all, we only saw a finger monkey’s breadth of it.
12-27 Mar 2015 – A walk on the wild side: Stepping into The Jungle Book (3 of 4)
The morning greeted us to the near-imperceptible flap of a long nosed bat and gentle flurry of notes from Luis’ panpipes, our breakfast call. The previous evening’s brown scorpion—stuck to our shower curtain like a brooch—had scuttled off. Into a small wooden canoe we climbed, clasped a paddle and off the three of us went into the watery wild. Clouds haunted the surface water as we forged our way through the creases and folds of the forest’s labrinth of watery highways . A distinct and rapid tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap ensued. I had no idea that a woodpecker’s tongue is curled around the back of the head between the skull and skin—or that a thick, spongy bone buffers its brain—befitting a lifetime’s worth of hardcore boring with its chisel-like bill. Now there’s a bird that can’t turn around to its partner and say, ‘Sorry darling. I’ve got a headache.”
A rarely sighted ringed woodpecker appeared to have fed well that morning; the strong sun was welcome; its young were long gone from the year’s nest. He was happy to perch on an old gnarled cedar and cock a bright eye at the curious comings and goings below.
A troop of mocha brown woolly monkeys, including a pregnant mama seated on the mid branches in the tree tops, stared intently at us—wondering what we’d do next. Their prehensile tails facilitate the movement and dexterity of a fifth hand, and boast such Olympian level agility, I was simply awed by their ‘blink and you’d miss’ nimble movements. I sharply turned low and left, it’s a challenge to stay focused on one species when there’s always something else vying for your attention—like the pygmy kingfisher—swooping down over the water. Or a three-metre pink river dolphin coming up momentarily for a bubbly breather.
Monkey business doesn’t even begin to do the capuchins justice. A family of these intrepidly clever capuchins were lured into our lodge—taking their name from a cap of hair on the head which has the appearance of a cowl. We watched the interplay of hierarchical power cascading; the alpha male exerting his dominance over his young, successfully intercepting any banana swung their way. Others relented early on and took to snoozing on a branch, at an arm’s throw from us. Probably one of the closest displays of fiery jungle life, for which we had the ‘right-place-at-the-right-time’ fortune of seeing.
The yellow rumped Cacique bird was something else altogether. Jet black and mustard in plummage, the male in particular comes prepped with an innate talent to imitate the calls and cries of other species. Multilingual, it can lucidly shriek: “Shove off mate, you’re encroaching my crib!” The male is also adept in assuming an overarching role of leadership. The champion of delegation but a chauvinistic taskmaster, the male will often have up to ten wives with which to crack the whip. Its raucous squawks are reverberated—purely to coerce the females to tirelessly labour in retrieving threads for nest-building. Once the belligerent vertebrate deems sufficient material has been gathered, it screams some more for its married-to minions to start construction work. So many required nests in fact, this little dictator is able to oversee and implement the perfect decoy for its predator, the toucan. Only one centralised nest will contain all of the Cacique’s precious eggs (don’t think they belong to the female counterparts), concealed by a massive clutch of empty nests. Aggressive tyranny but an effective ‘Survival of the fittest’ result all the same.
A seemingly sedate spectacled caiman came to the water’s edge now and again, lured by Luis’ ‘educational purposes’ bits of bread. Those beefy reptiles can emulate a floating log better than a floating log. I was told a true story about a native woman who’d encountered a particularly aggressive caiman—seconds away from taking her. Without hesitation, she hoisted her spear-sharpened canoe paddle and plunged it into the soft spot on his head before he could steal the claws of victory. As menacing as the reputations preceded such crocodilians, the one metres away from our cabin was as placid as Playdough. Despite being terrorised by biting insects in bloody hot pursuit of it; I would’ve been on the brink of madness.
The older I get, the more fascinated by birds I become. Courtesy of the vivacious jay, another screeching bird, sounds a call so piercing that Luis frequently makes use of them. He finds the origin of their terrorising signals—emitted to deter whatever has walked into its territory uninvited—as failsafe indicators as to where there is something else worth seeing. Cue an unassuming baby boa constrictor that had slithered inadvertently into the jay’s patch. While pouring over the intricate pattern of the snake, Luis recalled upon seeing an owl once, all but skinned alive by the jays; bird of prey feathers fluttering in the air akin to a kid’s pillow fight at their first slumber party. Don’t violate the terms of a vivacious jay, you will come off worse..!
When we clocked various pods of pink river dolphin, you can’t help but state, “They’re not pink.” Marvellous observation, Miss Morris, there’s no flies on you. That’ll be my jungle-strength repellant. Indeed, they’re grey. Their skin only turns a rosy shade of pink when—just in the same vein as people—they become flushed from frolicking, fornicating and other forms of excitement. They also have the ability to turn their heads 360 degrees to optimise intake of the nutrient rich soup in which they swim, but never sleep. Their constant need to breath every five minutes or so means it’s impossible to take even a siesta. How they’re not pathologically tired is beyond me.
I beg your pardon, back to birds. Amid the rare orchids, bromeliads and bamboo cane, hanging vines and shrubs all worked together to protect the ‘broken branch tree’ bird, the potoo. Nocturnal, this stealth creature by day is so heavily camouflaged that it took our group the best part of 20 minutes to all spot it; perched upright in a tree next to, well, several broken branches. Equally as challenging to clock is the pocket monkey—a pygmy marmoset—about the size of a mouse engorged on too much cheese. It’s roughly the length of your little finger, weighs about 100 grams and mayhaps the most adorable creature I’ve laid eyes on. The mother always gives birth to twins twice a year but when she does, the parental care is shared between the troop. Tough love in the jungle; I guess that’s nature—poor little mites, I mean monkeys.
Our guide Luis had a crop of dark hair, and that sunny indigenous skin I was seeing so much of in the jungle. He was quite short with a solidity of body, without actually being fat. Passion oozes from this guy’s pores. Never to raise a false alarm, spotting wildlife that shows almost imperceptible movement is his forte and seeking out anything stealth is his speciality. I guessed half the time he instinctively just knew where things lived. He’s a living Crocodile Dundee—indulging his daily soft spot for snakes while paralleling the passion of Steve Erwin’s fixation with wildlife. But far less gun ho and far more trained by his tribal father at grassroots, the textbook and in the field. Numerous bouts of malaria, Dengue Fever, stings from bullet ants, bites of spiders and snakes—including one from a viper, has left him with quite the battle-scarred set of limbs. Not to mention an impenetrable immunity from all the venom and neurotoxins having coursed his veins. Always a silver lining.
Our ‘Man of the Forest’—seems more fitting than ‘Luis’—grew up practically naked in the jungle. (Remember it is 99.9 per cent humidity there, give the guy some slack(s). Offer him a pair and he’d probably deferentially decline; unless they were light weight and quick drying.) And was blessed with the teachings from his father of the Shuar tribe and mother from the Kichwa clan, which was pretty controversial to marry across different kinfolk once upon a time. When Luis’ father taught him to fish for example, he showed him where to locate a particular tree sap—along with all the other purposeful trees—with a soap-like substance, collect just enough to release into fishy waters, which subsequently gives fish a light gill-irritation bringing them to the surface in order to seek richer oxygenated air. Up the fish poke, and landing the catch of the day is easier than shooting fish in a barrel. What enviable if not invaluable local knowledge.
Luis’ father, and I forever digress—in the winter of his days—was persecuted for participation in ‘head-shrinking’. It’s an ancient ritual that among other less savoury and more gruesome purposes, preserves the human spirit once the body has deceased. This is achieved by shriveling the removed skin of a human head, treating it in a conserving concoction, and keeping it close to the living so they may continue to live in close proximity. I can’t help my morbid curiousity around this and would love to see an example in the withered flesh.
To complete the kudos and credentials, Luis is fluent in both of his parents’ native languages, plus a third picked up as a child. Then he naturally adapted to Spanish, saw the benefit of speaking English and is self-taught in German. I’d also add there isn’t a species in the Amazon that he doesn’t know in Latin to boot. After retiring as an instructor in the army for five years, and amongst being headhunted to guide for various National Geographic projects, Luis has been a naturalist for 17 years. A résumé with which David Attenborough would be hard pressed to beat, eh David? “When you come back to the jungle, I invite you to come and stay in my village, with my family. And then we go into the forest looking for snakes!” were Luis’ parting words to us. Man alive, I’m looking forward to that invitation.
The penis fish or vagina fish, depending on your preference, is an aquatic species that comes with a fathomlessly ghastly purpose. Its humble beginnings start as a small catfish, but is capable of instinctively entering almost any orifice where there’s sustenance. Including any human male or female waist deep in water having a pee, or menstruating, respectively, via the genitalia. Why the catfish-in-hell would it wish to do that? Simply, to tear through tissue until locating its favourite dish, your blood. The creature will grow at an astounding rate, striving for maturity at around 14 centimetres and won’t stop devouring your fortifying lifeblood until it does. These things commonly swim around the the white waters of the Amazon, but by no means are contained to such areas. I went for a ‘refreshing dip’ on a few occasions in black water but each time wondered ‘What if…’ Don’t think about it—the probability remained low. It’s the caimans or piranhas that are going to smart.
One of the highlights was a day trek—deep in the rainforest. As I squeezed through the thicket of jungle, a police bird’s siren put me on high alert from the outset. Relaaax, your adrenaline levels are spiking already. Luis piped up, “Don’t fall off the slippery log now Lisa, it’s waist deep swamp water below you.” Oh look, an army of bullet ants, akin to a viper’s neurotoxins. I’ll just side-step around those bad boys. When Luis got bitten by one in his teens, his father collected a few of the culprit ants, mashed up their backsides into an organic pulp, which made the perfect anti-venom. Boom! The excruciating pain fades away. Other ants—known as ‘Take-your-clothes-off’ ants—are still used by the people of the forest when their dogs for example, become languid. They place them in a biting nest of these blighters, which does rather more than energise the dog; it just about keeps it on its toes for the rest of time. The indigenous must really loathe laziness.
Talk about balance. Pachamama—Mother Earth is all about control, hasn’t she always been? Spiders for example produce prolific numbers, which is wonderful from the arachnid perspective but there are only so many predators of the spider—they simply can’t keep up. It’s not unusual for a spider to produce a clutch of around 1,200 babies. Cue the fungi-curbing. The ‘zombie fungus’—cordicep—chooses a creature, in this case a spider as the host; plays mind games with it; and convinces the arachnid to move to an optimum spot in which the fungus can thrive. The fungus can then relax and concentrate on devouring its host, tasty too, and start to sprout vine-like appendages from the inside-out. Seems quite fun-gusizing for the cordicep. It leaves the corpse caked in a crystalline powder of white dust. Thank fungus there are those in the forest.
Back in our canoe, we all leaned comfortably on the backrests. I gazed up and let the Amazon wash over me. Lowering my eyes from the skies rife with birdlife and with the sharp eyes of Luis, led us to the tail of a yellow crowned brush tailed rat. A hermit in the hole of a tree trunk. Rodents out here can grow up to 20 kilograms. What?! The same afternoon gave us an intimate encounter with a tamandua anteater, seen only annually. These mammals have a 20 centimetre long tongue in which to suck up their preferred dish of insects like a lemon slurpy. And don’t get me started on the power of an anteater’s enzymes.
Low and behold, we caught sight of a two-fingered sloth, inverted for the best vantage of spotting its predator, a harpy eagle. Conversely, we later saw a three-fingered sloth seated upright in a meditating Bhudda position, peacefully slanting its head from side to side keeping a beady lookout. The quintessential couch potato of the rainforest. As precocial as sloths are—practically independent from birth—they do in fact have a symbiotic relationship with the sloth moth and algae. The sloth descends from its tree once a week to defecate, providing a breeding ground for moths that live in the animals’ fur and nutritious gardens of algae that supplement the sloths’ diet, the latter of which camouflages the sloth’s fur from its predators. What an nourishing exchange.
Darkness crept across the wide expanses and intimate lights started breaking out within the lodges. That evening, the lights started to come on in my head when we sat laughing with Luis. Having witnessed one of nature’s greatest shows—my heart was suddenly penetrated by unexpected joy. I felt a sudden wild and unfamiliar happiness. The person I loved was with me. The effects of alcohol gave this a Spielbergian radiance, as if we were sitting at our own movie, awaiting the final scene and credits. A sunset of brilliant colours and patterns played off the few clouds that had waited in the wings to become central actors in this unique presentation. I’m a rich woman, I thought to myself, in all the ways that mattered.
12-27 Mar 2015 – A walk on the wild side: Our short jaunt in the jungle (2 of 4)
Do you ever let your mind wander to a place just out of reach? Have you seen the fossils of extinct creatures in museums and wondered what they were really like? Have you been teased by thoughts of what our human ancestors might have seen when they first came to South America—creatures now gone from memory, represented only by the hardiest fossil record? Many have fallen into extinction but some remain. In great tracts of primeval forest, still chiefly untouched by human hands, life teems in myriad varieties, millions of nooks and crannies filled with specialised life forms, known and unknown, awaiting our curious glance. I could only begin to wonder how many weird creatures—with whom we share their fragile planet—I’d get to intimately glance. I wanted to see them all! An unattainably romantic ambition but heading into the Amazon, I was going to give it a damn good try.
An earthy dirt track led us out of Peru onto an eventual paved-ish road, squeezing past umpteen more soggy mud-stricken and rock-riddled landslides along the way. Taking a part of Peru with me was easy; dirt was ingrained on my skin speckling me with a face full of au naturel ‘beauty’ spots. A long border crossing at La Balsa and an increasingly sore day in the saddle contoured us around the rough green fabric of the mountains, with a town gently coming into focus on its hem.
Arrr, the Ecuadorian utopia that was Vilcabamba; a rural idyll after spending all morning up to our maracas in mud—sloshing through Ecuador’s quaggy roads under construction, around every cruddy corner. Oh my Yin-Yang, where were we? No more rough-shack villeras—shanty towns scurrying up the mountainside. Or an ebb and flow of people selling ropey food and liquid sugar in their faded sombrero shaded, plastic table and chaired open-air cafes. Goodbye cholesterol palace of heated display cabinets containing twice and thrice deep-fried everything, hello actual sustenance. Even the searing heat had mostly gone, tamed by the elevation.
Instead, we were greeted by a crisply painted plaza bedecked with colonial buildings—some in an elegant state of decline, while others had been spruced up into bohemian bars and bustling little eateries, rurally decorated. The odd tienda neatly displayed its handicrafts, organic super-food produce and local wares. Through the gaps between the mountains, in the patches of blue sky, wisps of clouds painted graceful swirls. The sun was in free fall towards the town, glinting off the swept streets and anointing the place with a golden glow. The gleam of cut lime green grass added further to this pristine clean enclave. Feeling a year’s worth of muck and grime in my tramp-blackened body and motorcycle gear—the latter of which hadn’t seen soap for over a year—I took my thousand-wear-grey riding suit straight to the launderette and me to get washed.
Tantalising on all the senses—all three and a half of mine anyway from having a zero sense of smell and a weak sense of taste—Vilcabamba boasted a deep sense of good healthy living amongst a bubbly boho community. I overheard one woman walking her dog on a string remark to her friend, “Ooh I just ad-ore talking about bowel movements, it’s fascinating. Seriously, I could talk shit all day.” Appreciating that they should fly out like a neat loaf perhaps more than most, I was hooked and hadn’t even kicked the side-stand down. The view out was one of peaceful treetops, and the soundtrack played the uplifting twitter of tropical birds. Even our Hostal Taranza didn’t cost us several arms and legs, although you’ll be falling over places that will if you do visit.
Upon a disinclined departure, I couldn’t help thinking we’d chanced upon a standalone sparkling gem of a place, contrary to so many garbage-infested places prevalent in Peru. But no—after the sudden shockwave of Vilcabamba receding in our mirrors—for the next few hours, I clocked a handful of cheery lads hanging off the back of a waste disposal truck, big bottle banks in the proceeding towns, bold road signs alerting folks to ‘Keep Ecuador clean’ and a complete lack of trash. How can one country get it so wrong and an adjoining one so right? Oh, and fuel set us back 25 pence per litre, equivalent to $1.40 USD for a gallon. Ecuador was definitely going to agree with us both.
Having donned the LBNs (little black numbers) for the rainy season’s drizzly ride ahead, a second shock horror ensued: this time Jason’s rear suspension decided to expire like a campfire at dawn. He pogo-sticked his way for 235 miles from Vilcabamba to Alausi on his two-wheeled bouncy castle. If it’s not one thing, it’s your BMW shock—clearly not designed to cope with long term adventure riding. My vantage from behind though was comedy gold; a bobbing-to-some-hip-hop-beat-Cadillac on two tyres instead of four. Shouldn’t joke, no it wasn’t funny. Just the ups and downs of motorcycle travel…stop it, Lisa.
Through a straightforward road system of remarkably calm and considerate traffic, my die-hard survival instincts kicked in all the same; expecting the worst upon entering Quito. As a tendril of anxiety took leave from my soul, I had to entirely reprogramme the ‘inner-anarchist’ part of my brain. Eerily quiet in the Sunday silence—courteous buses(!), truck drivers and 4x4s were all giving way to me—pre-empting a change in their direction with indicators(!), and all without honking the horn. Not even once. It was steady; unspectacular; fine. My Zen was rapidly restored in turn equilibrating a mental inner balance. And I could have sworn my body all but exploded into beams of sunlight.
Bikes safely stowed in Hostel Zentrum courtesy of its two attentive German owners, we packed only the essentials: rum and repellant, a fresh razor (I’ve been mistaken for a redheaded primate before) and our remaining store of English teabags. The overnight bus—from Quito to Lago Agrio—was a rampaging old boar of a vehicle with an imposing snout and grille. It looked like it should be foraging wildly in the Amazon’s undergrowth rather than roaming the streets. The vehicle snarled into life, reversed out of its berth and our journey began. Our short-range rural beast and then an old banger of a minibus took us to the start of our jolly in the jungle at the Cuyabeno River.
“WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE!”, blared through my head, courtesy of Guns and Roses the moment we stepped into our motorised canoe. Down in the river bottom, the barest hint of green whiskered the banks of the Cuyabeno. At only six metres deep, it looked more like an abyss of beef stock gravy made dark and glossy by the nutrients infused by the soil and tannins released from the decomposing leaves. Every drop was from rainwater, which fascinated me; it dries up completely come the dry season in parts, forcing certain lodges to fall into abeyance.
As intrepid if not clueless voyeurs, we canoed our way down an Ecuadorian affluent of the Amazon Basin. Following the tropical vegetation for three hours down river familiarised us to the powerful clay-coloured current of the Basin’s mighty headwater. It’s a place, if there ever was one, where everything is always more than you could ever expect it to be.
The warm breeze whipped at my clothes and ruffled my hair; I looked up and there was a snake bird. Not because it seizes snakes, but because of its long slender neck. Oh my goodness, “Look over there!”. It was a squirrel monkey with a white painted face—nimbly hanging from a ceiba tree. The show turned into a circus of monkeys clowning around—swinging acrobatically from tail to branch, just for the fun of it. Just because they can. It didn’t take long to realise the opportunity cost of looking at one creature to the forfeit of missing another. I needed more eyes, and quick.
The squirrel monkeys often follow the capuchins, another primate perhaps a shade more skilled at seeking out provisions than they are. With a keen sense of where to go to stave off hunger, the capuchin monkeys don’t seem to mind at all they have a scrounging set of followers. Good for them, it’s not always a ‘Dog eat dog’ world.
Furiously pushing food into their faces while eyeing us up, these squirrel monkeys took—oh, what was that? Something akin to your Nana’s bulbous shopping bag, or your Grandad’s old sock—suspended from the end of a tree branch. Strategically high up but still hidden from terrestrial (ground-dwelling), arboreal (tree-dwelling) and aerial predators—for the most part. A filigree weaver bird’s nest, wow.
Fluttering by—diverting my attention yet again goes a Morpho butterfly, shimmering its iridescent cobalt blue wings—as big as a pair of man’s hands. Supersized was going to be the common denominator here, my fourth and a half Spidy sense could feel it. Paul, our Quito-based tour operator of Carpe DM located just inside Secret Garden Hostel had exclaimed on top, “If you don’t like your experience with naturalist Luis Torres I’ve assigned to you, I will personally refund every cent.” Money-mouthed convictions that strong coupled with scores of raving Trip Advisor reviews of this Luis, and having spent 6 minutes in the jungle, I had an incline we were onto a win-win.
Dumping our bags was the sum total of ‘Getting settled into jungle life’. Done. Siona Lodge was a handmade thatched-roofed snuggery. Adorned with rustic detailing, it struck the perfect cord of traditional: bamboo furniture and locally weaved hammocks, a learning station for all the species awaiting us in the thick of the Amazon and fully enclosed mosquito nets enmeshing our four poster bed from any overly curious creatures. In a wooden cabin on stilts—in the event of flooding—the white fluffy towels and en suite added that little bit of luxury on top.
Dawn spilled through a labyrinth of trees: ferns, ancient kapoks, palms and strangler figs endemic from Cuyabeno were the ones I’d started to recognise. I awoke wide-eyed at a golden veil of light that fell over me and washed by the drowning noises of the forest—crickets, monkeys and birdsong. The dew silvered the spiders’ webs that draped the lodge’s wild garden. I sucked in a deep breath of the damp, moist air. We’re talking 99.9 per cent humidity, so quite humid.
Wafting away a pair of carefree wasps with stingers the size of nails, our first canoe outing ventured us into the heart of the Cuyabeno River, sandwiched by jungle dripping with creepers. A damp mist still hung in the air reducing peripheral visibility and softening the edges of everything making the place look like an indistinct fragment of memory. At a stone’s throw, we spotted a pair of blue and yellow macaws and a rookery of the gregarious Greater Anis. More affectionately known as ‘the cook’ birds who make the sound of gurgling water on the boil. The Hoatzin ‘Stink bird’ is also ten a penny in the Amazon; their meat is renowned to be repulsive but their eggs scrumptious.
Our night walk took us—and by us I mean me more than Jason—to an intense level. Even though my enthusiasm dial was turned to high and I was assuredly in the mood, my ability to relax in a state of mindful awareness was stymied by some unfounded anxiety. Mayhaps because it was my first night in the jungle, my image tank was getting full and I felt a little overwhelmed by it all. We donned the jungle-strength, tan-removing deet and armed with cameras and rubber boots, ventured out in pitch blackness on foot into the forest. An eerie prickle fluttered up my back—knowing all too well poisonous creatures, paralyzing creepy crawlies with neurotoxins squirting out from giving a misconstrued, furtive glance —come alive at night to play. And hunt. And mess with your melon.
Man, I needed to grow a backbone at that moment. A small thread of panic stitched my chest, I was on edge albeit tingling with raised-hair-on-the-nape-of-my-neck excitement. I soon succumbed to a series of less-than-ladylike flavoured gasps with each brush of hanging vines and plants sweeping around my head, neck and shoulders. Every other tree root seemed to writhe and slither in the shadows cast from erratic beams of torchlight—appearing moistened and snake-like underfoot. To the chorus of the bull frog and rhythm of the cane toad’s ‘ribbet’, we stepped deeper into the black wilderness, a sea of tiny eyes glistening back in the illumination of our headtorches. So far, so nuts.
Arachnidphobics would not last a minute here. Into battle I went, pressing on amidst a constant veneer of adrenaline-induced moisture on the skin. I found myself wiping my hands on my trousers, a reflex when the jungle is sweeping over your shoulders every second with goodness knows what crawling down your back. Every few feet and we were side-stepping around big, furry bird eating spiders, sociable tarantulas, aquatic walk-on-water wolf spiders and tailless whip scorpions whose name pleases me no end. I loved the golden silk orb weavers whose webs were so strong, had you fallen from a height on one, you would probably just sproing right back up and land softly into its deadly trap. Their spun silks are actually used for fishing line and police apparel up in Columbia. Who knew?
The spiders, as venomous as they can get, like the unassuming banana spider—capable of taking a grown man down in minutes—were placid, happy to keep themselves to themselves, industriously working on catching their next meal. It was only when Luis started skillfully grabbing snakes that made my heart start to jump around my chest like a flea on a hot rock. Flying insects darted through the evening dusk in hot pursuit, buzzing in glittering dances around us. They landed on my clammy face, attracted by the beam of my lumens until I was on the brink of madness. Just turn it off! Better, so much better. But then I couldn’t see where the bullet ants were headed—they’ll give you a nasty nip. Equivalent to being shot by all firsthand accounts…whoa! Go figure with a name like that.
I burst out from the foliage and into the open. The understory of our night walk ended on finding a rainbow boa constrictor taking comfort beneath someone’s cabin, which was elbow-jostlingly popular. Luis debriefed us as we poured over the species safely behind laminated plastic we’d seen that day. He’s the kind of guy that thrives from his cultural heritage and biodiverse back doorstep. I was buzzing off his buzz, like an emphatic bee. The guy dropped all pretense and unexpectedly launched into a great roaring chuckle every now and again. Certainly when I happened to explain what trumping meant. I love it when someone’s laugh is funnier than the joke.
I closed my eyes for a few minutes, barely swinging in a hammock and allowing the last effects of dusk to disappear for the night. Digesting and processing my first encounter with the forest. When I opened my eyes, the night sky was so powerful that I all but experienced vertigo. It felt like I was falling up into space, the stars racing toward me as if to embrace me. I lay down to gaze in wonder at the Milky Way, stunning and intense when undiminished by the pollution of city lights. It was a vastness calling to be gazed up into, making me feel small but comfortable with myself.
Lifting my hands imagining that I could reach out and pluck diamonds, one by one, off a velvet black sky. Shooting stars would occasionally blaze a brief trail across the night blackness. I lay as quietly as I could, allowing the immensity of space and scattered light to dwarf me. Stillness fell like a silk shawl as I lost myself to the starry night. The night’s quiet asserted itself once more.
12-27 Mar 2015 – A walk on the wild side: Setting the scene (1 of 4)
Background information
Terrain
Much of Amazonia is surprisingly easy to traverse. The rivers are your highways, and most of the land is flat or has a gently rolling topography. Low hills rise in some places, but these are climbable. Ravines along the intermittent streams are more of a challenge; most are spanned by slippery, narrow fallen trees in varying degrees of decomposition.
Cuyabeno reserve, our home for ten days is close to 600,000 hectares—Ecuador’s second largest region in the Amazon Basin to Yasuni’s 900,000 hectares—27,300 of which belong to the tribal communities. These are the ancestral lands of five indigenous groups: Siona, Secoya, Cofan, Kichwa and Shuar. We’d be venturing only into primary forest on ‘terra firma’—high ground that isn’t subject to seasonal flooding with frequent wellied-walks and canoe paddles through stagnant swamplands, flat forest of black and white water, and swamps of herbs and palm. Bring it on.
Conservation
Faced with the ongoing obliteration of the world’s tropical rainforest, Cuyabeno’s lodges believe it’s imperative to reach their visitors, share and promote a deep respect, and foremost spawn a wider awareness about the natural areas left that are biologically as rich as the Amazon. Not to mention its importance played in the rest of the world.
With a strong focus on conservation in an area with one of the most complex ecosystems, our snuggeries—Siona and Caiman Lodges gave us: electricity created from solar energy and high-efficiency generators; wastewater treatment systems—later recycled back into the ecosystem; and peace of mind that hunting has been voluntarily ceased for well over a decade. A portion of our dollars would also be ploughed back into the forest to continue making good inroads on the sustainable path to eco-tourism. Sounded like a promising starter for ten.
Current climate of primary preservation
Refreshing is how you’ll be pleased to feel when learning that Ecuador—despite only home to two per cent of the Amazon basin—has become champion when it comes to preserving their precious rainforest. Ecuadorian forestry law, best practice and exemplar behaviour is pretty well embedded now: prune, fell, bark, burn or destroy a protected forest tree and you’re looking at a hefty penalty of at least a one to three year prison sentence, and a fine that would hemorrhage most bank accounts.
Of course there wasn’t always zero deforestation in Ecuador—today, the country only lays claim to around 35 per cent of its original share of the Amazon basin. And devastatingly, there’s still several riggs pumping into the reserve’s forest ground for oil, but as always, slowly slowly, save a monkey. Clients come to the Amazon and are either oblivious of what’s going on—choosing to blissfully uphold the romance of the jungle, or are increasingly aware to the current destruction of human hands. May we all proactively pitch our tents in the latter camp.
Sadly, money only knows why the Brazilian government are still paying people to cut down 60 per cent of ‘its’ Amazonia in order to facilitate room to grow more soy—I understand—to feed more pigs in China. Among other inanely unsustainable purposes. Blindsided by the bottomline doesn’t quite portray the imbecility that eradicating habitats and extinguishing species faster than we’ve studied—let alone identified—will have on the ecosystem. Or survival of the human race. And of course the Earth.
Anthropology
An interruption from the constant visuals and vistas of the jungle came from a village visit to ‘Puerto Bolivar’. Handled by the women of the indigenous community gave us an opportunity to learn about the Kichwa culture—participating in a traditional method of preparing yuca (cassava), which is a starchy tuberous root from a native tropical tree—into flour:
Rita, an indigenous woman aged just 41 years old led us into her wild garden. More salt than pepper had crept into her hair and her expression was kindly but revealed a lifetime of hard graft. Interestingly, Rita had long since adapted to wearing lightweight western fabrics—practical quick-drying clothes over a traditionally heavier weave from the forest.
Possessing the skill of a trained sword fighter, Rita took hold of her machete and slashed at the foliage, wildly and skillfully to extract a handful of yuca from the fertile ground. Rich organic soil alien to any pesticide or fungicide. With the Midas touch and an experienced pair of hands, she whipped it into Amazonian pizza bread using time-honoured means and handmade kitchen utensils from the forest. Fascinating to watch, take part in but foremost feast upon for lunch.
Being educated to some of the village’s traditions, still alive today gave me pause for thought: There’s a pressure for women to master the delicate process of preparing yuca in order to heighten their eligibility in securing a husband. Likewise, if the man is unable to triumph in the art of blow-pipe hunting, preparing the poisoned dart in just the right quantities of frog and plant juices in order to cleanly take down a 600 pound tapir—as well as constructing a durable hammock from vine threads—then no resultant wife or “boom boom” (as our naturalist guide so aptly put it), respectively for the husband. Fair enough, it works both ways. Jason was given the blow-pipe and aiming at a papaya from 10 metres away, managed to strike a hole in one. Guess that makes him ripe for the picking…
An illustration of rituals from a shaman in his malloca—a ceremonial house—one afternoon, gave us a small but intriguing window to watch him gain access to a world of good and evil spirits in the practice of divination and healing. I am still pausing for thought about the indisputable power of a shaman—without any firsthand experience. On an arbitary note, I was told that redheads are particularly adept at attracting chaotic forces.
The shaman’s head dress was particularly eye-catching, decorated by the vibrant feathers of a trogan bird. His skinny neck was like cured skin but fabulously adorned in a string of teeth from jaguar and peccary (a skunk pig). Now a priceless family air loom that’s passed down each generation.
No ayahuasca was consumed in a ceremony on that occasion—a vine based hallucinating beverage but an explanation of how a few gulps would set you into a terrific trance and give rise to a profound insight into yourself, and some, was relayed.
Perhaps most curious of all was the story told about the upbringing of the next great shaman, a process that is still happening today. When the unborn child, ‘the one’, is chosen, a group of shamans whisk the wee bairn away upon its arrival into the world to a cave. Away from the community. The mother is allowed to breast feed the baby and father permitted to visit on a weekly basis, although essentially the newborn becomes the responsibility of the shamans.
For the next 19 years, the child is reared and moulded in all the rituals, traditions and ways of a shaman. On its 19th birthday, the late teen is taken out in twilight, in order to experience its first moonlight and through a night of meditation, prepares for their first sunrise. Looking into the eyes of that individual must be a profoundly extraordinary experience, with something not quite present, which ordinarily would be in our eyes, replaced by something else entirely. The mind boggles.
Incidentally, the Yellow Food People is a tribe that still resides somewhere deep in the Amazon jungle. Fully naked, nomadic and dependent on the land. Now here’s the extraordinary part: any interaction whatsoever forced upon them from the outside world has concluded so far in death. They want less than zero to do with the western world; apparently one small group of tourists each paid $30,000 USD to a South American tour operator to get dropped off nearby to the clan. Once they eventually caught up with the tribe, they were all killed on their initial greeting. A clear signal from which to take permanent heed.
6-11 Mar 2015 – Oh Peru, I’m gonna miss you
With Pearl perky and raring to go—now a “shocker-rejuvenated GS” as Johnny Bravo so aptly put it—life became peachy again. Even at 4am when peeling our sleep-sapped bodies out of bed: the prospect of avoiding the unforgiving pandemonium of exiting Lima in its 24/7 rush hour was enough to self-catapult out of bed. But with one thing and another nine, I managed to hit the sack just after midnight the night previous—making my early start about as rude as it can get. Drunk on sleep starvation, I found myself donning my motorcycle boots in just my underwear and all but dropping Pearl in turning her around on a scarred section of road near a bitten kerb, feeling far from sober. I’d not consumed a morsel of anything exciting, I was just beastly tired making it more than disconcerting that my reaction times were less than tickety boo. Another lesson learned.
Freedom flooded my veins having escaped the clutches of Lima—in less than an hour—for the second occasion. Two too many times. Having received an invitation to meet bikers Julio and Ricardo in Trujillo, it made sense to keep tootling all 350 miles on the Pan American to meet their acquaintance. Whether I was feeling it more than usual or the freighters were simply out in full force, the day seemed riddled with the non-stop, won’t-stop blighters.
Big US-style trucks from the old and grizzly to the modern and gleaming, strained and grunted their way with the rest of the traffic. On a dual carriageway that hummed with old sedans, brand new 4x4s and swarms of white estate taxis—caused long convoys and invited the kind of overtaking which is best done with eyes closed. One oncoming curveball chose to pass another on my blind corner—the pair of them adjacent and unwavering in each lane. Both within a hair’s breadth of braking distance for me to swerve onto the hard shoulder in retreat, I decided to ride on there for some time. Out of harm’s heinous way.
We’d been on the road since stupid o’clock and by late morning, the day was beginning to take its toll. Frazzled by lack of sleep, a tangle of traffic and the heat penetrating my damnable motorcycle clothing, we pulled up to a roadside restaurant ‘La Balsa’. Given the warmest of receptions, I was handed a guestbook to sign; a priceless keepsake bursting with memories, photos, small trinkets and home currency of the odd motorcyclist, a colossal number of cyclists, and even an unassisted walker embarking upon a journey from the southernmost tip of South America to England, eventually making it into an around the world ramble. Over 14 years! Imagine how that experience would define you for the rest of your life. Phenomenal man.
After devouring a couple of fruit-filled pancakes and freshly squeezed juice, I thought it was a little strange that the same round of food and beverage was served again. Jason hadn’t blinked before he’d breathed in the second helping. We ordered la quenta but told there was no charge. “Lo siento, itere por favor.” Sorry, repeat that please? That’s right, two-wheeled travellers are given a meal on the house. A stunning service.
Being able to fight it no longer, I quietly lay my filthy face on my hands at the table and micro-seconds before falling into a deep slumber, was gently squeezed by the hand and shown straight to a back room. Home to a lose-me-forever big, comfy bed over which a cross breeze blew through the 32 degree Celsius air. I had died and slept a heavenly hour. A fortifying mango injection and replenishing kip was more than I could have prayed for in that moment. We weren’t always but that afternoon, we were in a fabulous place at a fortunate time. Perhaps there is a God.
Free from mishap—bikes and bodies—we arrived to the coastal town of Trujillo. Look in the right spots and it’s a hotbed of colonial streets and profusion of churches alongside monied apartments, a show of high-end restaurants, sandy beaches and a respectable surf. A deluge of positive attention from passers-by made our last impression of Lima vaporize into the toxic air from whence it came.
Julio invited us to his Paddock Restaurant, furnishing us with the highlights of his tour company Peru Moto Aventuras while we tucked into some tasty nosh. Ricardo wouldn’t let us leave Trujillo without first paying for Jason and me to visit to the Arqueológico de Chan Chan—the world’s largest adobe city made entirely of earth, dating back to 800 AD. The highlight for me was the following morning’s rideout along the seafront, following Ricardo on his rather delectable Ducati and playing ‘Chase me if you can’ with Julio on his step-through scooter. Even Pearl felt like a speed demon but quickly wound her neck in when Ricardo ‘Bad Boy Gone Biker’ roared past.
We kicked the side stands down by the sea to watch surfers take to the cooler waters while savouring yet another treat on Ricardo, a mixed plate of ceviche. It’s a chilled concoction of fish, shrimp and other seafood marinated in a culinary marriage of lime juice, onions, cilantro and chilli peppers. Despite a lengthy preparation time, it took minutes to devour such tastebud divinity.
From Trujillo we took the 10A east and picked up the 3N north to Cajamarca where I pretended to not have seen the policia hailing me to the roadside for a random spot check. Sorry fellas but I didn’t see you, nor had I any Peru-specific SOAT insurance to show them. Onto Celendin for the night. We zipped over the 08B for 90 ‘S’ shaped miles, skirting the contours of the hillside like the hem on a rah rah skirt. This, according to the guidebook is known as Peru’s Road of Death equivalent, whose description requires travellers of this route to have “nerves of steel to brave the hopelessly nerve-wracking” 90 mile mountain route between Celendin and Leymebamba. Mmn.
We set off on a Monday morning expecting the worst and got nothing more than the odd car and minibus or two, having an entire landscape of swashbuckling peaks practically to ourselves. You’d probably need a Valium if you were being transported in a bus along some of the two metre wide roads but on two wheels? It’s dreamy—carving up into the hills, ears popping as you wend up through wispy clouds that drift in from empty space and tease the asphalt. We continued to climb through cloud forests and countryside swathed in a lush quilt of greens.
But this is Peru in the rainy season. And ‘unpredictable’ is Peru’s middle name. The cruisey ride soon turned sour on the exposed approach to the summit; driving rain and gusting wind veered us precariously close to the sheer drop, nerves teetering on the edge around every hairpin. We peaked Abra de Barro Negro (Black Mud Pass) at 3,678 metres, which would have offered us the highest viewing point over the river—were it not for being engulfed in opaque cloud clinging to the hillside. Easy to understand why the road is still accident-prone but then Peru thrives on an element of risk to reward you with an exponentially satisfying thrill. When the clouds parted their prow, there was more than 3.5 vertical kilometres below. Now that’s worth seeing…if it’s not too cloudy!
Leymebamba, a gorgeous little convivial town had an endearingly rustic allure from its cobblestones and legendary friendliness from locals. I coasted through its historic centre at milk wagon speed, smiling at a clutch of juice vendors tending their trolleys of stacked papaya, mango and oranges. I could only admire its frock-like prettiness against a backdrop of mammoth mountains.
A charming, well-mannered woman—owner of La Casona hostel—was receptive to our arrival. Being on the frugal end of a finite budget, she allowed me to bargain a beaut of a rate for her four-star, tastefully decorated lodging; the only place in Leymebamba able to accommodate the bikes. It wasn’t iciness I felt from her, but a kind of steady imperial radiance. At half price, we were duly indebted to this lady. She smiled, and the softness of it built a warmth under my heart.
Lunching at Kenticafe to the humbling sight and distinct thrumming sound of hummingbirds, we spent the remainder of the afternoon at the Mummy Museo oppositie. The mummies were discovered at Laguna de los Cóndores, dating back to the 6th century and are now wrapped in preserving bundles. Well almost—parts of adult, children and newborn skeletons were still exposed for our gruesome viewing pleasure. Those along with their artefacts, including a near-pristine array of elaborate necklaces adorned with lines of knotted strings. Little is known about these artefacts except many were burned by the Incas in fear of them, however, it’s thought that they were actually books as a way of communication amongst those peoples.
Cruising through Chachapoyas, a cloud-forested land belonging to the ‘People of the Clouds’, we wended over the asphalt by a hypnotising mist, moving like dry ice. Stopping at the Marvelous Spatuletail Ecological site took us into a remote forest in northern Peru. It’s the only place on the planet you’ll get to stare at the delicate little Marvellous Spatuletail fluttering from feeder to feeder. In and amongst other species too, such as the: Gould’s Jewelfront, Sparkling Violetear and Golden-tailed Sapphire. A treasure trove of gems and jewels. It’s also a prime site for the viewing of the rare Many-spotted hummingbird and discovery of new species like the Metaltail. An exquisite experience.
Peru is a country with some fairly serious terrain. The place is locked in beauty for the most part and despite its curveballs, which seem only to add to the chase or the thrill, I can’t decide—or mayhaps we’ve just become desensitised—I will forever remain fond of its high highs and all-part-of-the-fun low lows. Alas, it was time to squeeze past a double snafu of a two part landslide at Pedro Ruiz and another, more serious one at San Ignacio crushing four people, haul ourselves out of the wet chocolate cake mix and end Peru with something of a smudged punctuation mark.
24 Feb-5 Mar 2015 – Seeing red, avoiding amber & going for green
In order to rebegin our earth-bound way northward, gin-ger-ly is the way in which I rode Pearl all 230 miles southbound to Lima. Pearl was sporting a newly welded, temporarily repaired rear suspension linkage—albeit with no dampening in place but despite having cause for complaint, held up beautifully on the Pan American highway’s asphalt. Getting me to a place in which we could get her adequately mended—without issue, what a trooper. Holding her in a new level of regard, I held no qualms in taking my ‘Captain Slow’ status to another notch; delicately descending into drainage dips and negotiating speed bumps with supreme care.
With a rear shock to be shipped and install, on closer inspection there was also: Pearl’s brakes, which were letting out a pair of screams every time I slowed; the plate—protecting my feet from her exhaust—had bore a raucous-racket-of-a-hole in it from all the off road vibration; she was in dire need of an oil change and service; her battery terminals were looking beyond filthy and on top, Pearl was missing a couple of crucial bolts to her sub-frame.
All that coupled with worn out tyres, an oil change and service due on the F800cc, faulty brake discs and a disintegrated plate supporting his Peli case, Jason was going to be one busy boy in Lima. I would of course become the ‘Sparky’s mate’ and pass the spanners, emulate James Bond with his Motion Pro tool and bring cups of tea and slices of keke—cake on the hour, every hour.
In an attempt to escape from one reality only to seek a more beautiful one, I long ago implored the world to teach me a thing or two before the time runs out. I love the stark differences encountered on the travel spectrum in Peru for example, such as walking past mothers breastfeeding their toddlers, yes—three year old toddlers, on a Monday morning inside a national bank. (At least they’d save soles on Inca Kola and other such child-beckoning beverages.) Or surviving a sea of the world’s worst drivers to encountering floods of the same local people with the nicest manners. Especially when disaster strikes and you become dependent on the help of a stranger.
A new acquaintance, ex-pat Brit Johnny Bravo who has journeyed alongside the “loonbags” of Lima’s roads for years, took us to the boho-chic end of Barranca and over a coffee pondered, “I can’t decide if they are the best drivers (with huge reserves of luck), or the worst drivers (with the fastest reflexes!)” From firsthand experience, I’d fervently err on the latter..! Although ruminating on it later over a savoured cup of English tea, thanks to Johnny’s thoughtfulness, when you grasp that users of the roads in Peru haven’t been required to take a driving test, only something akin to Britain’s ‘Compulsory Basic Training’ day, you begin to fathom why the roads are frenetic at best, fatal at worst.
But when and how did Peruvians become so gloriously hospitable, especially noticeable when compared to the British culture of the more reserved, perhaps occasionally guilty of a little cynicism and suspicion? That’s something culturally instilled at a grassroots level, starting with good old fashioned family values and community spirit in helping our neighbour. Some of us in England have barely spoken a word to our next door neighbour. We’ve much and more to learn from the world.
Our accommodation within 24 hours went from ‘Love hotel’ to a Catholic convent, another amusing contrast. Both of which I thought I was getting incredible ‘bang for my buck’; the former for its value in renting a room for the entire night and the latter for the uber low price including internet and hot water. That is, until getting electric shocks from the our shower head. And later an unpleasant buzz from Jason’s arm holding the laptop—a jolting over-charge of which ran through him from the electricity powering the could-now-do-without WiFi. “Ouch! Stop touching your arm against mine Jason— it ruddy hurts!” Turning everything off gave rise only to a rude gush of cold water but at least the shower was welcoming in Lima’s humid heat. After the initial shock…
Sat in a semblance of the convent’s peace and quiet, reading and relaxing, we experienced a minor earthquake. Apparently reaching 3.9 on the Richter Scale, it wasn’t more than a titillating tremor, however, it did simultaneously raise our eyebrows in acknowledgment. Actually, it’s not unusual for Lima to experience seismic activity, being situated between two tectonic plates: the Nazca Plate and South America Plate. Still, as mild as it was, I didn’t expect to find my lips singing away to Carole King’s song, “I feel the Earth move under my feet…”
So now we were to simply sit tight and wait for our parts en route from Motorworks. The parcel itself—the contents of which would be akin to our birthdays, 15 year anniverary together and Christmas in one—took a speedy three days to hit Peruvian soil, one of FedEx’s fortes by far. The battle on our hands commenced the moment it landed; we now had to climb an Everest-sized mountain of bureaucracy via an administration labyrinth along the way. Jason beavered away on preparing Pearl for her major surgery, while I spent a day and night furiously designing, reformatting and translating technical specifications in Spanish for each of the nine components and collating original invoices in keeping with Customs’ preferred layout.
Sounded straightforward enough, however with FedEx answering their switchboard one in every ten calls coupled with my survival Spanish, and unclear instructions around a mandatory set of precise requirements from the import agent Yudit Canta, assembling our paperwork correctly was filled with inaccurate time-wasting exercises and more laptop hours than I’d care to bore you about. Ines, the co-manager at Touratech Peru corrected my paperwork, grossly impinging on her working day and her husband Ivan, the other manager, had pre-empted us on how to best ‘push’ the process. We essentially had a 50:50 chance of ascertaining a ‘green light’ from Customs’ traffic light system; an amber or red simply spelled ‘No package release’.
With a killer 20 mile ride riddled with Lima’s loonbags over to the FedEx office, we were told on arrival that our paperwork wouldn’t be presented to Customs until the following day. My response to which politely relayed the rehearsed, somewhat embellished story of a time-ticking visa past its 11th hour and subsequent impounding of the motos, “Our parcel is full of constituent parts to fix my motorcycle in order to complete a five-day ride to the border with only four days remaining before visa expiry. Please could you help me, I am desperado for FedEx’s assistance under these urgent and accentuating circumstances. If I do not collect the package today, it’s game over for us and our motorcycles on an Argentina to Alaska trip.” An economy of the truth admittedly but desperation really is the mother of invention.
“Sorry madam, this is the procedure we must follow at FedEx and Customs will look to process your documentation tomorrow. You will get a red, amber or green back from them.” Arrr, the parcel-determining colours of their unenlightening traffic light system.
You’re kidding? Any crisis of conscience fully reconciled within the blink of an eye, it was time to trigger a mini-Oscar-nomination-standard-thunderstorm on my face. A deluge of snotting and the onset of tears worked a charm. Fortunately, the FedEx representative was male giving me full leverage to cry him a river in appealing to his ‘Moto-damsel in distress’ sympathy-inducing qualities. (A woman may’ve just told me to “Suck it up princess, your parcel ain’t ready.”)
Alakazam! A day’s worth of mundane hours later and FedEx fast-tracked our parcel from somewhere lost in the ether to ‘Ready for collection’. And joy of joys—believe you me, I never dreamed I’d feel so elated to see the word Verde—green in red ink on our consignment papers. Namely, a box of motorcycle parts but Pearl’s livelihood depended on it. It wasn’t exactly a box of ‘old for new’ but I’d take ‘broken for second hand’ any day. I offered up the rear shock like it was The Lion King’s Simba and bathed in the green victory of glory.
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