Thru-Kayaking

Okefenokee Swamp - Monkey Lake

2008-05-14T19:35:00.016-05:00

"You should take advantage of Monkey Lake while you still can. It is normally day use only. But because last years wildfires destroyed some of the campgrounds, the Department of Fish and Wildlife, is allowing camping at Monkey Lake shelter," Joy, the proprietor at Okefenokee Adventures store suggested.

The next available Saturday night for Monkey Lake was six weeks in the future, so I made my reservations. The day finally arrived. I have spent the weeks of waiting, cleaning and repairing my camping gear. I now have a new (used) touring sea kayak; it is a seventeen-foot Prijon Kodiak. This would also be the maiden voyage for the brand new Kokotat Gortex spry skirt, and a Bending Branches wooden paddle.

Into the Suwannee Canal, I launched the kayak and headed into the Okefenokee Swamp with the sun to my back and a gusting headwind to my front. Turn a bend and all vestiges of civilization disappear. The primitive landscape has been here for millenniums and its largest inhabitant, the American alligator has been here for eons.

The first two miles follows a canal dug during pioneer days in a failed attempt to drain the swamp. The canal is straight and about twenty-yards wide. Pond cypress, bay, and blackgum trees cast a comfortable shadow while hanging stands of Spanish moss paint a picture of the Old South. Sweet-zhweet-sweet, songs of warblers, and drumming taps of woodpeckers, serenade paddlers, and go unheard by motor boaters.

At a junction, the canoe trail turns south into an open-water prairie. The trail starts to narrow and within a half a mile is no wider than the 220 cm paddle; in sections, it becomes farther constrained forcing me to pick the insertion point else, upon extraction, the paddle becomes entangled with moss and lily pads. Aromatic white water-lilies, interspersed with purple prairie irises, and other colorful blossoms line the path. The voices of the southern cricket frogs keeps a lone paddler company but are silenced when one approaches. Occasionally the paddle digs into the peat, but the main channel is deep enough to float a canoe, kayak, or skiff.
It took me three hours to cover the seven-and-a-half miles to Monkey Lake Shelter. The entrance to the dock was choked with floating peat. A three-foot alligator watched from beyond a paddle’s length as I struggled to leverage and pole my way to the dock. The shelter is a platform 24 by 24 feet, with one-half covered in a tin roof. A wooden picnic table, violated with incised names and dates, is the only amenity, and a port-a-potty is the only service.

When camp was set, I paddle two miles farther south to fish at Buzzard Roost Lake. After a few minutes of casting and reeling in my bait worm, I notice a ring of eyes watching my every move. Like a pack of wolves closing in upon a meal, from a safe distance a half dozen alligators watched, and waited for a fish to be hooked. At which point they would rush the fish. I had seen this game before, and being alone, I did not want take any chances of an aggressive alligator following a caught fish onto the kayak, so I discontinued my fishing and returned to the shelter.

One party per night is allowed on a platform. The nearest platform is ten miles away, and the only neighbors are reptiles, insects, birds, and mammals. I play a game to recognize as many sounds as possible, but none is more primitive than the rattle of a sandhill crane, or the resonance of a bull alligator. The riveting, grunting, and rasping voices of various species of frogs, treefrogs, and toads creates a nightlong symphony that lulls anyone to sleep.

With a tail wind, the return trip was faster. I agreed and was thankful for her comments, "take advantage of Monkey Lake, while you can." It is an unspoiled and unique wilderness adventure.

St Mary's River

2008-05-05T16:58:00.010-05:00

Day trip
May 3, 2008
Hilliard, FL and Folkston, GA
Easy

St. Mary’s River
This being the first weekend of May, the weather was perfect for kayaking and canoeing. Craig, my co-worker, and I had spent the workweek looking out the office window to the St Johns River with a look reminiscent of schoolchildren waiting for spring break. The best we could do was to wait for the weekend.

Scotts Landing (N 30° 47.067’ W081 58.170’) is on the St. Mary’s River about forty mile north of Jacksonville, FL (where we live) and one mile east of US-1.

At about noon, we put in at the public boat ramp. We were in Perception Sundance II, fifteen-foot recreational tandem kayak, heading upstream with Traders Hill (N 30° 46.980’, W082° 1.472’) as our destination. We had a slight headwind, and stratus clouds filtered the sun.

This is the time of year, when all the leaves are vibrant yellow-green; dead wood is ash white from the winters leaching; and the birds are in full breeding plumage. I was excited upon seeing two Mississippi Kites gliding over the river and was overjoyed to finally after many years of birding, to see, a Prothonotary Warbler with all of its brilliant yellow plumage.

We flushed over a dozen Spotted Sandpipers, and saw three on one log, a sign that this solitary birds were migrating from their winter grounds of Central and South America to their North American breeding grounds.

Many of the trees were full of flower, the grape vines were reaching out, and the spider lilies were blooming.

There was an occasional boat, some had angler, and others carried families out for the day. There was group of jet skiers, all slowed to leave no wake when they passed us.

Floating logs and fallen trees were covered with basking cooter and slider turtles. Our biggest surprise came when we saw what looked like a small alligator basking on a log. On closer examination, it turned out to be a large snake basking on the log. No exaggeration it was that big. The photographs helped me identify it as a Banded Watersnake (Nerodia fasciata fasciata), a harmless non-venomous snake. Harmless if you leave it alone, for "they will readily bite and exude a foul smelling musk."

Bird songs accompanied us along all along the route. I was able to recognize the Cardinals, Brown Wood Thrushes, Palliated Wood Peckers, Chimney Swifts, and Barn Swallows.

Our ten-a-half-mile round trip trek was a feast for our eyes, our ears, and our spirits.

Passion for Thru-kayaking

2008-04-22T21:05:00.002-05:00

Originally I started this blog because to communicate with the many persons who asked me to keep them informed on my adventure down the Amazon River. On my solo trip on the Amazon I met many people from around the world who encouraged me to continue to write.

Since returning to the Florida, I have contemplated on what my next immediate adventure was going to be. On September 2009, I plan on returning to kayaking the Amazon from Leticia, Colombia to Belen do Para, in Brazil. This September 08, I will be competing in The Great River Amazon Raft Race, billed as the worlds longest raft race.

Although Kayaking the Amazon 07, was an appropriate name for the site last year, I have changed it to Thru-Kayaking. I am borrowing the name from Thru-hikers, who use the term Thru-hiking for the process of hiking a long-distance trail from end to end.
My passion for thru kayaking started when I first kayaked the trail system of the Okefenokee Swamp. While on the swamp I had the thought of going out the swamp and into the Suwannee River. The Okefenokee Swamp forms the Headwaters of the Suwannee River. In February, 2006 I kayaked the 310 miles from the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, to the Gulf of Mexico. It only took me ten days, but I was smitten by the idea of thru kayaking.

You know what came next, the idea to kayak the Amazon River A year ago in April 2007, I set out on my attempt to kayak solo, the navigable (in a touring sea-kayak) the length of Amazon—I made it 2,000 miles before a run-in with river pirates. The experience took its toll on me and quenched my desire to continue solo, but did not extinguish my desire to finish the trip. The trips in now scheduled for September 2009, so if you are interested contact me.

Mean time my goal is to thru-kayak as many of the Florida, and Georgia rivers as possible. And because I am working, I will do many of them in sections, or section kayaking. The first river I will attempt is the Ochlocknee River, pronounce o’clock-knee. Two weeks ago I scouted the river and last Saturday, I kayaked the mid-section, Lake Talquin.

The Great River Amazon Raft Race 2008

2008-04-13T07:28:00.002-05:00

Our team has come together again. We have entered the Great River Amazon Raft Race. We are team number 8. Claudine was in Iquitos and took the initiative to register us. Linda has been itching to be the first team to return for a second run. Sonja is still not sure if she will be able to leave her studies to participate.

They call me captain, so I must be the captain of the raft. There is a Captains Log, or Blog that is quite interesting at http://dawnontheamazon.com/blog/2007/12/27/the-great-river-amazon-raft-race-blog/

Thru-Kayaking or Thoreau Kayaking

2008-03-20T18:27:00.002-05:00

Simplicity in Boating and Living
—Only thing you really need is an attitude.
—————————————————
Kayaking * Canoeing * Sailing * Camping * Rafting

I have taken the name of David Henry Thoreau for several reasons. First, he was an early advocate of recreational hiking and canoeing. Second, he was a minimalist. Anyone, who has ever done any long distance kayaking, canoeing, sailing, or thru hiking, out of necessity has become a minimalist. In the beginning, it is only for the duration of the adventure, but slowly, it impregnates all that we do in our lives; in the end, minimizing becomes a way of life.

Many people in our society which tends to be materialistic in its outlook, confuses minimizing with poverty, hence looked down upon the life style. When Thoreau stated, “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone,” he took simplicity to a new level by equating less with wealth. In Zen tradition, less is more.

Personally, I am a kayaker. I choose to paddle rather than walk, but have done my share of hiking. I prefer a kayak over a canoe, for it is easier for me to handle when alone which often I am. I have added sailing for there is a kindred spirit among long distance sailors who often live on their boats. "Wherever there is a channel for water, there is a road for the canoe," —David Henry Thoreau.

Other than a preferred method of transportation, I believe those of us who engage in long distance or multiple day trips share a common belief in life. It is a conviction that rises to the pitch of a religious fever, and is best illustrated in Thoreau’s own words. “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

At one time or another, we have all been referred to as “rugged individualists.” To you I dedicated this blog.

Veins and Soul

2007-09-27T11:23:00.000-05:00

A good meal, a shower, and a bed to sleep in did wonders for us, but knowing that we had made it through the toughest day and had been able to hold our standing was inspirational. On the way down to the raft, I had stopped at the makeshift kitchen; the rice porridge was not ready and would not be ready until seven; we were all under the impression that the start time was at seven, so I was not happy. Our binding had come loose, so as I waited for the ladies and breakfast, I tied nylon cord over the natural fibers.

From the river bank, with a megaphone the announcer called out, “All foreign teams are to depart at 6:30.”

The blood rushed to my head. I yelled back, “Now is a fine time to tell us. Why did you not advise us last night? People sleeping in town are preparing for a seven o`clock departure. Your own staff will not even have breakfast ready until seven.” All the people on the bank stopped working to look and listen.

In a wimp of a voice the announcer responded, “All foreign teams can depart when ready. We will time you accordingly.”

I borrowed a saw and cut away the tail end of a log that was dragging like a speed break, and then I tied the raft in a way that I could jettison two logs to make a catamaran. The rules called for eight logs, but we had noticed that a couple of teams only had seven. I had a contingency plan just in case we need it. We never did.

The girls arrived without eating breakfast. We pushed off. I went to turn the GPS on and realized I had left it on the support boat in my backpack. Back to shore we went. I ran back on the clay and silt slope back to the boat, but in my hurry I stepped bare-footed on rebar protruding from a cement block. Yes, on the first day of the race my sandals had disappeared. The rod pierced the skin, but I did not say anything, not wanting to delay us any longer. We were already the last to leave. It was painful for everyone to watch the rafts disappearing before our eyes.

We struggled to catch up, but the competition was smarter now and was riding the current better than ever. Finally I stopped the crew to rest and eat breakfast. Again we watched the other rafts leave us behind, but the small break and the food helped us. We had become a new team. We could now control the raft with precision. Linda controlled the starboard side so whenever the nose drifted left she would turn it right. When ever we needed to turn to the portside, Claudine would take control. “Just call me lefty,” she would say with a self-satisfying grin on her face.

The sun was hotter than ever. Sonja’s face and back were bright red, even with Super Block, SPF 55. My legs, not accustomed to being exposed were frying and a large patch of skin peeled off. Sonja would jump into the muddy water of the Amazon regularly and Claudine and Linda poured water over themselves. Again we caught up with the trailing rafts. Two attempted to slow us down by blocking our passage-- all in fun—or was it? We got past them and gained on the next raft. We caught up to them but were in need of a break, so I asked the ladies to start talking to the other team. A second later Sonja was in the water, so was a member of the other team. We could now rest without loosing our position. We passed them a few minutes later.

Linda and Sonja took over the GPS and would call out our speed. Their stamina and competitive spirit took over. “We are not going to let anyone pass us,” they would say. An afternoon head-wind came up; now the other teams could not find the current, but we could. So we gained on another raft. The waves grew larger and heavier riverboats passed more frequently leaving large wakes. If hit broadside, a large wake had the potential of pulling our raft apart.

When a large boat approached I prepped the team. “We are going to turn sharp into the wake. On my command. Secure your gear. “The boat came near us. Linda was concerned. At the last moment, the boat veered a little giving us more space. “Now” Claudine dug her paddle in, Sonja and Linda paddled harder to swing the raft around and I pulled the nose. The wake hit us head on; all the logs rose up in unison on the crossbeams with no pressure on the binding. All the gear was pushed up and landed back on the raft. Our legs had been refreshed by the wave and our spirits rose again with joy. We were little children having a great time playing in the creek.

In the wind we passed one more raft, but this time the other rafters had changed their strategy. They no longer attempted to pass us. They just followed us waiting to make their move, but by then, our team was in high spirits and had rhythm. We ate our avocados and bread, drank our warm water, sang and laughed. One team got tangled in fishing net; another went into the wrong channel and had to come back out.

We finally made it to the mouth of the Nanay River and now had to paddle 500 yards up stream. The GPS went from 4.5 miles per hour to .9 miles per hour. What an ugly way to finish. The counter current pushed us back, we pushed back, the current never tires but we were worn out after three days and our final energy quickly drained. Then a trailing raft entered the Nanay, and Linda exploded like a firecracker. Sonja dug deep showing more strength and persistence than she had ever done. Claudine´s quiet demeanor now became that of an officer in combat. We paddled as if we were struggling for our lives. The rafts full of younger stronger competitors, that had followed us for half the day now started to pass us. “We have cumulative time,” I would say between stokes, we are still ahead. That last hour brought out everyone’s inner character and like steel under the forge became as sharp polished swords.

We came in ninth place that last day, but we were first in our minds and hearts. We had pushed our envelope. We were on top of the world, we were elated, and as Linda said it best for all of us, (we) “felt young and strong.”

We came in fifth place overall. We celebrated with the whole group. There were no losers in this group. No one got voted off the island.

But as quickly as we came together, as it is when traveling, we parted company. Claudine went into the jungle with a guide to visit a remote tribe. Sonja has also gone off into the jungle with new found friends to consult with nature. Linda has returned to her computer to respond to 558 e-mails from her students. And I have now concluded my adventure, returning to the States tonight on a flight out of Iquitos.

The blood in my veins has been replaced by the Amazon River’s muddy water and its current will now run in my soul till I die.

(P.S. If you are ever in Iquitos and need a Spanish teacher, look up Linda.)

The Faint of Heart Need not Apply!!

2007-09-25T15:32:00.001-05:00

"The Great River Amazon Raft Race 2007 (The Faint of Heart Need not Apply!!)"

The first line of the Amazon Rafting Club’s web page says it all, but most participants overlooked the sentence until directed to it by Mike Collis, the event promoter, usually in a response to moans and groans.

On the second day, I went into the support boat looking for Linda, and to buy a cup of coffee, for no coffee could be found in the remote native community where we spent the night amongst water buffalo. I found Linda in a bunk bed, dazed and in pain. The strain of paddling was in her muscles but showed in her face. She wanted to continue but her body wanted to surrender --she was trotting and tottering. I had led my teammates into a competition without any training, where even the trained teams were feeling the pain, and already one complete team had succumbed and several other individuals from different teams were unable to continue into the second day.

The hour we left the City of Iquitos, the hardships began, at first annoying, then irritating, finally maddening. Everyone expected to endure the physical hardships of rowing an unconventional primitive craft without any comforts to speak of, but many of the foreign participants were set back by the general disorganization that is typical of emerging cultures.

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Linda was thankful someone had come for her that morning and for cheering her on. She had been the lucky one, for she had slept in a bed on the support boat. Sonja and Claudine slept at the football field in a tent we borrowed, and I slept in a hammock in an empty building. Most of the foreign teams slept on the overcrowded support boat, and the Peruvians slept in the village on the cement or wood floors under mosquito netting.

For breakfast, we had rice porridge, but the Peruvian name for it was more descriptive, meja de arroz, rice crumbs. Boiled rice mixed with condensed milk may satisfy the need for something warm in the morning, but did nothing for our palates and contained little for nourishment.

The first day we learned to steer the log raft by using a paddle as a rudder. The raft would not track a straight line at all. The crooked logs dipped into the water at odd spots and if any one of us stopped paddling, the raft would spin. We did not paddle synchronized with three new paddlers. As the captain, I felt it would be better if each person paddled at their own pace and capability, so I tried to absorb the difference in order to keep us on course. By the end of the first day everyone had blisters on their hands, sore muscles, and aching bones. Claudine, our resident doctor took a survey of what muscle hurt the most. Sonja-- lower back, Linda—shoulder, Claudine--deltoids muscle, and me--gluteus maximus.

The second day we set out with clearing skies. Before the girls arrived, I borrowed an axe and a machete and hewed away at the balsa-raft in hopes of streamlining it a little more. In the morning, we had more energy, unlike the first night when we had not eaten, the previous evening the community of the village provided us with a wonderful meal of fish stew over spaghetti noodles. The foreign teams left first because they required more time.

In the early morning, we watched as the Peruvian teams passed us. By mid morning, we were cramped. Sonja squirmed every few seconds but Claudine sat poised like a lotus flower in meditation, while Linda and I shifted our bodies periodically in attempts to find a comfortable spot, but we could fine none. The skies cleared and the sun began to scorch our skin. We bathed in sun block, but the perspiration and the river water quickly washed it away. We drank water, but before long, the sun had heated the fluid so the lukewarm liquid stopped quenching our thirst. The more we drank the more we had to urinate, and in the Rio Amazonas you dare not pee in the water for the Candirú:

“This fish is feared to attack humans and swim into an orifice (the vagina, anus, or even the penis—and deep into the urethra). Because of spines protruding from the fish, it is almost impossible to remove except through surgery. The fish locates its host by following a water flow to its source and thus urinating while bathing increases the chance of a candirú homing in on a human urethra.”
—Wikipedia

While there were many hardships, we all agreed we were living an experience that we would never forget and it had its moments of pleasure. For example, when we took a shortcut through a narrow channel with the jungle only a few yards away on either side, the current ran swift so it became a picnic in paradise. The birds sang all around us, the bank was alive with vegetation and flowers, Sonja swam in the river, we ate our crackers, then some young native boys threw freshly picked papayas into the water for us to eat - a gift from the jungle. Their throw was short, so I had to swim after the ripe fruit. We ravaged the fruit.

Day two was a ten-hour day, we left at seven in the morning and arrived at five in the afternoon —a half an hour before sunset. There were a couple of rafts that came in after sunset; one raft had to be pulled in by the Peruvian Coast Guard.

Tamshiyacu, a small town, was our second stop. There were many stalls with food, and a couple of hostels with rooms. Claudine and Sonja took the last room in “the best” hostel, I took a room in the second best, but it had no water for showers, so I rinsed off in the girl’s room. We were in seventh heaven, food, a shower, and a bed to sleep in after ten hours of hard paddling in a hot sun. The town had a ceremony for us, but most of us were only able to attend the first part before retiring to our nests.

In town, several people came up to me and thanked me for the lessons on reading the river current. I am not sure my teammates appreciated me giving away our advantage, but I went ahead and gave a second lesson on river geology and interpreting the surface water. We came in seventh place the second day, but we only lost a few minutes in the overall time so we held our fifth place standing.

Walk Don't Run

2007-09-25T01:32:00.000-05:00

“En sus balsa,” the announcer called all the teams to get on their mark.

“Walk, don’t run. Paddle as if you were using your muscles to walk not run. Paddle consistently. Remember the story of the tortoise and the hare.” That was my advice to the team on the riverside beach minutes before we launch into the turbid waters of the Amazon River.

“Listos,” the megaphone rasped a call to get set.

You can imagine what happened when we, with the help of six men, pushed off with our "light” balsa-log raft.

At the sound of “LLA,” go. All of the rafts shot away, leaving us behind, spinning in the water.

All night it had rained. Our tents were flooded and most of our clothes were wet. The river carried extra sediment and was littered with rain-washed debris. The sky was dark, and continued to drop rain on us as we set off. The overcast sky was a hidden blessing, for it kept the scorching sun from us allowing us to concentrate on technique on the first day of the race.

The first hour, we watched as the rafts disappeared into the distance while we learned to use the rough-cut and heavy paddles we were provided. Claudine soon discovered the carbon fiber paddle that I had with me, and Linda adopted the other half of the kayak paddle. Within two hours, the rafts ahead of us were no longer getting smaller and an hour later, we passed our first competing team. As we passed the struggling team, led by an Australian sporting dreadlocks, I heard from Linda an innocent giggle of joy like that of a toddler alone at play.

We knew we could never compete with the semi-professional team with two Canadians, a Mexican, and a German. In fact, we expected to come in last. The other teams of young healthy men and women did not expect any competition from us, so as they watched us pass, they were flabbergasted. They would chase after us and were demoralized when we stopped for smoking breaks. The girls were competitive to the core.

“How do you do it?” the team being passed would yell out at us.

Linda would respond in her southern drawl by saying, “I have to go pee, so I am paddling like mad.”

Or, we as a group, would tell them that Sonja, the twenty-five year old, was PMSing and was in a rage. When asked if we knew how much farther to the finish line, Claudine was sure to double the time and add some to it. In the opposing team, upon hearing the exaggerated estimates, you could hear in the tone of their voices, and see in their body language, agonizing discouragement. We would pull away in the current, paddling as if on a picnic, hiding our pains and sore muscles.

“Paddle softly. Do not push yourselves. We are in a marathon, not a sprint; pace yourselves.” My teammates must have been sick of hearing me repeating these words to them. However, I could see it was difficult for them not to push hard to pass the next raft or hold back and watch as a raft temporarily passed us.

“The winning crews will show excellence in teamwork, stamina and knowledge of currents and rivers.” —Amazon Rafting Club web page

The ladies had counted on my river experience and knowledge to lead them through the race. This was not a football field size boya-raft made of cut lumber on its way to the mill, rather it was a small balsa-log raft, but what I had learned that summer from the boya's river-guide about reading the current and my experience in kayaking the Amazon River gave us an advantage.

As we proceeded, people from the bank or on motorized boats would yell out giving us advice to move closer to the bank or farther out into the middle of the channel. Like asking for directions, they gave conflicting advise, but we held fast to our course. I taught my raft mates to read the river by showing then how to identify the whirlpools and eddies hidden underwater that slowed the raft, to look for the current in the windblown waves, and to read signs marked by flotsam. The current became our ally. When the other teams used muscle to pull them through the soft spots, we let the current carry us around. When the teams hugged the coast full of swirling water, we floated past in the smooth flow at mid-channel. When the stream was swift, we took breaks. On our respites,Sonja swam in the river and ate constantly as most vegetarians I have known do. Claudine and Linda smoked cigarettes, while I stretched my sore muscles.

At the end of day, the first team dropped out of the race, it was a domestic national team. We celebrated in the small community where we slept that night. We had done better than anyone, including ourselves, had expected. By the end of the first day, we were fifth of the eleven competing foreign teams.

River Amazon Raft Race

2007-09-24T10:24:00.000-05:00

Made it back from the Rio Amazonas Raft Race; what an adventure, this makes Survivor seem like child’s play, but packed into four intense days. Twenty-four teams compete in two categories, domestic and foreign.

Claudine turned out to be thirty-two, a doctor from Zurich, Switzerland. We met at the Yellow-Rose Café. We were sitting alone at the sidewalk tables enjoying a cool morning drink when we struck up a conversation. As it is when traveling, we quickly made the decision to enter the Great River Amazon Raft Race 2007. While I took care of the registration, Claudine struck up a conversation with a tall young German girl, which in many ways, reminded me of my daughter. Sonja from Güttingen, Germany became our third team member of the four-person balsawood-raft. We needed one more person.

The following day we took a bus to meet up with the rest of the foreign team members and support crew who had left the previous day on a boat. In the town center of Nauta, the municipality held a commencement ceremony. Before the governor, mayor, and town of Nauta, I was called to help raise the Peruvian flag while the band played the national anthem. After the ceremony, the conversation of a fast-paced southern belle, who spoke with slow-drawl, called my attention. She spoke of having a house in Iquitos, and teaching Spanish online for a Community College in Natchez, Mississippi.

“Do you own the “Gringa House?” I asked.

“How do you know about the Gringa House?” Puzzled she countered.

“I am A.J.,” Introducing myself, “We corresponded about a room.”

“Aei. Jei.” She screamed and hugged me before I could finish. Like two old friends that had just found each other after a long separation, we quickly bonded and kept each other laughing. A little persuasion and Linda became our fourth member. With Linda at fifty-seven and me at fifty-five, we became the oldest team members to enter the 2007 race.

The web page reads as follows: “The 3 day race will start in the town of Nauta on Friday, 21st September 2007, and finish in the City of Iquitos on Sunday, 23rd September 2007. Each 4 person crew will paddle their ready built, lightweight, balsawood raft down the mighty Amazon River for 132 miles. The winning crews will show excellence in teamwork, stamina and knowledge of currents and rivers.”

We expected a “… ready built, lightweight, balsawood raft…” but what we got on a remote beach on the edge of the jungle, was a rude awakening. We had to fight for eight heavy balsa logs, and strips of soga-bark. However, before the bark could be used for binding the balsawood-raft, the bark had to be soaked, to soften and make pliable, then pulled apart into strips. (There is an art to working with vines and barks.) The logs and the bark were all the materials that were provided, for us to construct our raft. When we finally realized what was taking place, the Peruvian teams had already selected the best balsa-logs, and since they were prepared, they brought axes, machetes, hammers, and various other tools while all we had at hand was a couple of Swiss Army knives and a bucket of North American southern charm.

The first load of lumber arrived early in the afternoon and the Peruvian teams whittled and shaped their logs into streamlined light craft, while we waited for our logs, Linda gathered and borrowed enough clothes and gear for the trip. She had originally come along as support crew, not as a racer.

An hour before sunset, our team, Los Charros, had only one balsawood log, and two cross beams that Claudine and I had salvaged on the beach from driftwood. Sonja was anxious to get started on the construction of the raft, and I was starting to voice my displeasure to the Peruvian organizers for their lack of organization, when finally Linda stepped in and used her Mississippi southern charm on the Amazonian boys. Within an hour, a peke-peke plank boat came from across the river with eight balsawood logs for us to use, by this time Sonja had fallen asleep in the tent.

After sunset, and in the mist of a thunderstorm, a muscular Iquiteño physical education teacher arrived with a machete in hand, he helped us lay out the logs, and trim the wood. As he chopped grooves for the crossbeams and hacked shape into the leading edge of each log, his work made it obvious he was a teacher, not a shipwright, or a rivereño. A neighboring Peruvian team helped us to tie the raft together, for there are specific knots for tying with barks and vines, and also specific knots for binding the raft.

Claudine and Sonja cut a pillow in half and wrapped the halves in plastic to use as seat cushions. Linda showed up with a young Peruvian carrying lumber, nails, hammer, and padding. He built her a raised padded seat while I watched in amazement. I used a dry bag with my sleeping bag in it as a seat cushion. With bamboo and string, we raised the red, white, and blue American flag, and the red, white, and green Mexican flag. Had we had a German and a Swiss flag, they too would have flown proudly side by side. We named the raft, “The Mississippi Queen.”

We were the most diverse team in age and countries and we were ready to go, except there was a slight concern, Claudine, Sonja, and Linda had never paddled a raft before.

Amazon Raft Race 2007

2007-09-19T17:17:00.000-05:00

I have just entered the Great Amazon Raft Race 2007. I am the team captain and my other team members is a Swiss, not sure what her name is, but she looks like she is in her twenties. My other two members will be Peruvian and I will not know who they are until tomorrow. Our team name is Los Charros, and I will fly both the American and the Mexican flags since I have dual nationality. There are other U.S.A teams.

www.iquitostimes.com/raft-race-2007.htm

One more chapter of the adventure.

Onze de Meio

2007-09-15T11:22:00.000-05:00

She was built in Holland in 1920. Her bow’s stem, the forward part of her hull, was near vertical. –The boat was living color of a blank-and-white photograph from the turn of the twentieth century. She was all metal, chipped paint, and rust. Remnants of solid brass fittings and pullies adorned her. Her cargo holds were stacked with crates of Cachçsa “51”, a Brazilian spirit. (Caipirinha is the most traditional Brazilian drink prepared with cachaça. It is a lime and sugarcane drink.) Her lower deck was stacked from floor to ceiling with sacks of onions and crates of green mangos. The second deck was crammed with passengers; the ceiling resembled a marsupial’s cave with all the hammocks hanging like roosting bats.

I had arrived early for a late afternoon departure, but the deck was already crowded with luggage and passengers. The ceiling was strung full of hammocks and only small gaps remained between the two outer rows. I strung my canvas bed in the inner row with either end of the hammock wedged between the outer rows. I then tied my backpack to a beam making it a little more difficult to grab-and-run.

Rather than wait onboard, I walked to the wooden riverboat being reconstructed. There I started to take photographs, first of the ship, than detail shots of square nails, exposed structure, and finally the shipwrights at work. Watching the craftsmen working the lumber, cutting ribs and supports, and then fitting the finished work onto the keel was living lesson in history. They took wooden beams that had been rough-cut to take advantage of the natural curve and wood grains, Once a template had been made from the existing hull and traced onto the curbed blank, the workers started to hew away shaping the new rib.

What fascinated me most was their rudimentary tools. With an axe they whittled away the wood to within a fraction of an inch from the working line, then with an adze; the rough-cut wood was finished and left smooth. A final pass with a wood plane works out any imperfections and takes away the sharp edges. Finally the component was painted and fitted into place.

As I watched, the men expressed pride and were happy to see that I took interest in their work and tools. The lead man explained the process as best as we could communicate in two differing languages. The workman opened their tool bags for me to examine, and with joy showed the tools of their trade. I was amazed—this was the same technology and process that was used to build: Columbus’s ships, the Niña, la Pinta, and the Santa Maria; the Pilgrim’s Mayflower; Francisco de Orellana’s sail boat (he was the first European to sail the length of the Amazon in 1500’s, naming the Rio Negro, and inadvertently the Amazon.) The group shared their coffee with me, and like any crew of aircraft or auto mechanics, they included me in their sordid, but harmless joking.

By the time I returned to the Onze de Meio, the passenger’s deck was uncomfortably packed solid. Now the hammocks were stacked, one on top of the other. Because my hammock has a built in mosquito netting no one tied theirs over or under me, but still at night there were six hammocks that came in contact with my canvas bed. Thomas and Yolanda, both German tourist, and I hoped that more people would disembark than embark in the first stop. –we were wrong, but the ships captain did offer Yolanda and every other female passenger his cabin. Watching the short stocky and bold headed captain’s Casanova tactics became part of our entertainment.

At Santarem we stopped for several hours. One of the passengers returned terribly intoxicated. We were on the top deck reading and conversing when the drunk stumbled onto the metal floor. He then got up and slammed into the railing. Again he got up, but this time he to start dancing. Many people cheered and jeered when he stripped his short and swung them over his head. Fearing for the man’s safety, for his knees were already bleeding with injuries, I went to the Captain’s cabin and knocked with urgency. He opened the door in annoyance, and impatiently listed as I explained the situation. In the subdued light of his cabin I noticed one of the female passengers in his bunk. The caption finally followed me and upon seeing the incoherent man ordered him to put his pants on. “You are disturbing the tourists,” he added with sarcasm and returned to his cabin.

On the second day my deck shoes disappeared from the outer pocket of the backpack. I was now down to the Brazilian sandals I had purchased in Manaus. Bewildered I told Thomas and Yolanda. Yolanda could not understand why I was not upset. Later when I informed the captain, he laughed and walked away; that bothered me. An hour later he returned and asked, ”They robbed your shoes?” When I affirmed, he laughed again and walked away. A flash of anger swept through me but quickly dissipated.

The following morning when I swung out of my hammock, a Colombian lady laughed out loud when she saw me awakening with my sandals in hand. “You slept with your sandals!” She said between giggles.

“Yes. I do not want to be left barefooted.” I answered and we both laughed again.

A few minutes later there was an uproar on deck. Many passengers woke to find they had been robbed as they slept. A woman had lost a purse from a private cabin. The French couple had money taken. A merchant had lost bottles of expensive perfume. A Brazilian soldier, on leave, had passed out and awoken to find his wedding ring stripped from his finger; he was depressed the remainder of the voyage. The Casanova captain was no longer laughing. All the passengers and crew knew my shoes had been stolen the day before, so when the captain spoke to those that had losses, he spoke to me too.

I know that my shoes were taken by either a crew member or someone who was still on board, so when ever someone asked me about my loss, I would make light of it. “What am I going to say when I write? That they steal used shoes. Stinky, old, and worn shoes.” Everyone laughed, but a few were offended for they saw it as a bad reflection upon their country. I would just respond by saying that it was the act of a desperate individual, who probably needed them; I could afford to buy new ones in Manaus.

The next day, I got an evil thought and a malicious streak came out. I told the crew and the passengers that I had changed the name of the boat from Onze de Meio (Eleventh of May). The boat was now christened Onze Robos por Voyage (Eleven Robberies per Voyage.) When I told the captain, he tried to smile. Funny, a few hours later, one of the crew members asked if my shoes were brown. Then he led me to one of the bathrooms. “I came to use the restroom and I saw them laying there,” he explained. I thanked him, then washed the shoes inside out. When I notified the captain, he told me to take them to the engine room where they would dry faster.

After six days travel from Belem to Manaus, I walked off the Onze de Maio with my a backpack on my back and a pair of worn, Sperry, non-marking, deck shoes on my feet.

ps, Right now I am in Leticia, Colombia and have many more stories to tell, but for now I will be boarding a lancha riverboat to Iquitos. I will write again when in Iquitos, Peru hopefully I will arrive with a pair of shoes on my feet.

Thomas

2007-09-05T09:10:00.000-05:00

The boat listed on impact. Passengers screamed out, the crew-hand on deck directed everyone to the center line. Thomas, a German national, and I chuckled. We knew the riverboat had hit a sand bar, two ladies fainted and people were fanning hopping to bring them to. Thomas and I met on the boat from Belem to Manus. He had sailed around the Cape Horn and into the Antarctic so he is an experienced sailor.

On the way to Belem the riverboats are heading downstream so they run farther from the shore where the near shore looks like a wooly caterpillar and the distant shore is a line of gray yarn stretched across the distant sky. Now as we traveled upstream the riverboats hug the coast to avoid the mighty Amazon's constant current.

Traveling so close to the shore has its hazards for the crew, but it is an opportunity for the passengers to get a close view of the life on the river. Cattle ranches, fishing communities, and wild jungle are all within a few yards as we traveled upstream at nine miles per hour. At times I could see inside the people’s homes, even the kindling fire in the kitchen stove. There were plenty of sandy beaches, and the channels between the islands were calm and intimate—perfect for kayaking. I will be back.

In Manaus, Thomas decided to buy the kayak for a token price . He would kayak from Manaus to Macapa . It was painful for me to help him gear up, and then as I launched him I tried to hold fast but upon returning to the hotel room, it was all I could to to keep the tears from meandered down my cheeks.

Weeds and Sidewalks

2007-09-02T07:50:00.000-05:00

I was asked how it came to be that I ended up in Belém and the kayak stayed in Manaus. I have learned that in a blog, that models a journal, where entries are from recent events, it is sometimes not wise to reveal every detail, especially if it can stir emotions at home.

After the river pirate event, the offers of assistance were over whelming, and every offer was appreciated, so had I written about the state I was in when I first arrived in Manaus, there is no doubt that many of you would have offered assistance. Remember, what I am about to write/reveal took place several weeks ago.

The riverboat pulled into the harbor in the darkness of the new day. Only a handful of passenger disembarked. The harbor area is considered too dangerous for arriving passenger, so we waited in our hammocks until the refuge of daylight.

I followed Thor, a Norwegian scientist to a hotel where I took a room for ten U.S. dollars a night. My cash was now low; what little money had been sent to me in Leticia, Colombia was almost depleted and I had no way of drawing local funds. My plan had been to have a new bankcard sent to me in Manaus. In inquiring about the best method, I learned that DHL and FedEx were the fastest and most secure—I could expect a five day delivery time.

With in hours of arriving I asked my daughter, with specific instructions, to send me the replacement bankcard. It was Sunday, there was nothing she could do until Monday; by Friday I should have the package, I concluded.

All I could do was wait. Even though I was physically exhausted, I could not rest, so I started to walk the deserted Sunday streets of Manuas’ Centro district.

The area is dominated by building from the nineteenth century, mostly remnants from the rubber boom years wand Manaus flourished, like Saudi Arabia, today, is booming with petrol-dollars. Many of those buildings are now in a state of deterioration.

I found myself in Manus earlier than anticipated by accident. I had arrived by boat and not by kayak—that bothered me. I tried to take solace by labeling it as “fate,” and by knowing that I would have arrived with fewer funds, but would have the same wait for a new ATM card.

Monday came and passed and there was no word from my daughter. I tried to stay busy writing a blog and visiting the Teatro Amazonas, Manaus' Opera House, but did not go inside for the fee.

Tuesday came and I received the confirmation number for the package, the bankcard had been sent via U.S. Postal Service, Express Mail. The locals now told me I could expect it to take ten days, or longer. Once again, I counted my funds and made plans to cut back to one meal a day. I could take an extra roll from the free Café de Manhã, I could do it.

Once again I found myself pacing the streets of Manaus’ Centro. Old sidewalks have always fascinated me, especially in the historical cities. Cut stone blocks, now polished by a century of foot traffic, incised tiles form intricate geometric patterns, and broken glazed tiles give the last pulse of life in color and design. The streets of Manaus, like many Latin American cities, are broken and irregular—in our culture we would consider them a hazard.

My mind started to disintegrate along with the sidewalks. The desire to continue in the kayak was there, but now all the warnings and cautions that had been planted over the months seemed to take root. The pirates were the spring shower that started the germination; the gaps in kayaking created first to avoid the danger zones and then by the missed stop, were fertile ground. Now, with funds depleted from having to purchase a new camera, and the two trips back to Leticia, Colombia, my mind was choked with weeds. But the final blow came when I started to count the days needed to complete the trip and the days remaining on my passport before the visa expired—I withered like a sprout in the sun. I wanted to return immediately, but I could go no where without money.

Friday came and passed, the card did not arrive. I did not want my daughter to wire money for we take a beating in fees and in the exchange rate. I paid for the previous weeks hotel stay. Now I was down to thirty U.S. dollars, and by Monday, I was down to five. When the mailman made his delivery on Monday afternoon and there was no package for me, I ran to the internet and requested my daughter wire money via Western Union. When I returned to the hotel ready to lay low, the package had arrived. I had two Reais in my pocket, one U.S. dollar.

My goal had been Belém, and even though I would not finish in the kayak, I could at least reach my goal in a riverboat.

And that is how I ended up in Belém do Pará, Brazil and the kayak in Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil.

Bazaar, Mercado, or Mall?

2007-08-23T07:39:00.000-05:00

I found the mall with the MacDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Panda Express and all the other trappings of retail globalization. It was the classic modern mall with central air, escalators, bright lights, sparkling windows, and immaculate floors. I found it only in searching for an English-Portuguese dictionary. Yes, I did have the Quarter Pounder, fries, and cola.

What I found earlier in the day fascinated me. When I worked in Iran, the Persian bazaars captivated me, here in Belem, the water front and the Mercado reminded me of those years, where the sights, the sounds, and the smell of all blended into a ritual that is centuries old—in Belem it goes back to the sixteenth century, maybe earlier.

Oh, the fragrance of garden-fresh herbs, the sharp order of newly ground spices, the perfume of colorful fruits, and the ancient aroma of well-preserved salted fish and shrimp, all fill the air. You would imagine the individual scents would clash into a muddled mixture of odors, but the Ver-o-peso street and market are divided into groupings, hence each section has its own peculiar scent, so that when charcoal smoke arising from the brazier fills your nostrils, your mouth waters for the taste of kabob or churrasco.

For how many centuries have the fishermen moored their boats to haggle over the value of their catch? They scrutinize the scale with wrinkles in their faces and measure the days at sea as they count their meager receipts to be divided amongst the crew. Vendors stand ready to tempt the fishermen with food, drink, vice and virtue, and the camera robs them of their dignity.

Belén do Pará, Brazil

2007-08-21T16:10:00.000-05:00

Like a tropical tree that from the distance you see only its crown, but once you are upon it, you see only its roots, likewise, is Belén do Pará, Brazil; from the distance you merely see its modern skyline of skyscrapers, but once upon it, you see only its Iberian roots in its architecture.

The million people are like a million leaves in a strong wind, rustling and bustling along the narrow streets of the city center. I walk the streets feeling claustrophobic and sense the sadness that comes with knowing that I have reached my destination, but also suffer the agony of defeat, having arrived, not as planned, for the kayak stayed in Manaus. I console myself by grasping the GPS firmly in my clasp hand and by knowing that the route is well charted and soon—soon, I will return—with a group or at least one other person to complete what I started to do—to kayak the Amazon.

For those that want to follow along, my journey will not be over until I return to the States. The return trip will take me upstream via boats to Iquitos.

Someone in the comments asked or alluded to the destiny of the South American Natives, while walking the streets of Belén, I came across a sculpture that made me think of the comments. It is a native with only a feather headgear and a loin clothe for regalia; his bow lies on the ground. The warrior kneels at the foot of a priest dress in the European garb of an early missionary. His crucifix is tucked in his waist band, like a holstered six-shooter of a western cowboy.

In my mind the native represents the river and its people, whereas the missionary represents the city. The Spanish royalty gave Columbus authority so he could convert souls for the church, but he refused to baptize the natives in order to enslave them. “Columbus was... a strong supporter of slavery, refusing to baptize the indigenous people of Hispaniola so that he could enslave them (Spanish law prohibited the enslavement of Christians)...” http://www.csmonitor.com/2006/1017/p05s01-woeu.html

I have travel, following a geographic feature, the Amazon River and its headwaters. What I saw was not the nation or Peru or Brazil, for they are much more than what I have experienced. The river is a natural feature, not a language or a culture, yet the river’s influence crosses all the human barriers to impose itself upon the people, communities, towns, cities, their nations, and now me, and hopefully you too.

A few photos of Manaus

2007-08-12T11:32:00.001-05:00

When I first arrived I was asked to describe Manaus. My response was, “Manaus is a typical Latin American city: some old, some new, mostly broken down.”

Looks like I will be here a few days. Let me know if there is anything in particular you would like for me to photograph. You can e-mail me or you can leave a comment.

Fate

2007-08-12T10:46:00.000-05:00

In Catuá, the leisurely paddles into the várzea forest had given me time to reasses the circumstance I was in. Earlier, Sebastiana had informed me that a boat, heading for Coari, would arrive that night. Time and funds were now a factor, hence, a sixty-eight mile boat ride would make up for the three days spent exploring.

The day was spent paddling through the floating meadows and the flooded forest. At midnight a recreio riverboat pulled up to the flutuante. Two crew hands carried the kayak on board, and I went to the top deck. The deck was open to the night sky. In the pitch-black Amazonian jungle the night sky is a deep cobalt blue and is alive with the sparkle of stars and the curtains of the Milky Way hang like white lace veils. The river’s surface was glowing and glistening under the moon light. By two in the morning, I started to doze-off, so on the second deck, I hung the hammock to take a short knap.

Awaken by a bell and the engine’s idle, thinking we had arrived in Coari, I rushed down stairs, but the boat had only slowed to allow passengers to transfer onto a small craft that would take them to a petrochemical plant. The bright artificial lights of the complex illuminated the dark emptiness of the jungle and smothered the delicate starlights.

The GPS indicated another hour to Coari. I went back into the hammock, awakening to find the GPS indicating that we had long passed Coari. Had I slept through the stop? I was now on the way to Manaus.

On the top deck I watched as the sky illuminated in purple, then red, then orange, until a flaming sphere bloomed from a stem of mercury. A couple, whom I had met while the passengers disembarked at the petrochemical complex, came onto the top deck. She was visibly upset–the boat had not stopped in Coari as scheduled. Two more passengers joined us. The night pilot came up and said, “Well, we went by Coari,” as if to lessen the oversight. I accepted the turn of events as fate; fate was guiding me.

Close to noon the captain informed us that they were in radio contact with a boat heading to Coari. A motorboat would transfer us. We all got ready. The motorboat showed up; two passengers elected to continue on to Manaus; the boat could not take the kayak. In the end only the couple transferred on to the west bound riverboat.

On board, Thor, a Norwegian scientist doing work in Tefé, said the boat had deliberately passed Coari because the Federal Police were inspecting all boats. “This boat is caring some type of contraband,” he concluded.

The riverboat was made of wood; it was worn but beautiful. The hull was made of planks a foot thick, the stairs were rounded from years of wear, but the walls were rich in golden hues and shinned under the varnish. I ran my hands across the carved doors, my eyes over the veneer ceilings, and my mind past the boats romantic history.

We stopped at a port for a few hours, and continued on, arriving late that night in Manaus. I stayed onboard until the sun rose before going into the famous jungle city of Manaus, where I now find myself.

Frontier Woman

2007-08-10T15:41:00.000-05:00

Francisco left that evening for Tefé in a recreio riverboat, to collect a pension payment. The following morning while drinking a cup of Brazilian coffee, one of the chickens would squat and seem to dose off. Its eyes would cloud over and its head would drop to the ground. An hour later the fowl was dead.

Sebastiana is a true frontiers woman, I realized that when she cast the net and brought out a two pound sardine. A few minutes later she was serving a meal prepared with herbs she had grown and fish she had caught.

I took me a while to push the kayak back into the water, but once my mind realized that we were not going anywhere, it began to relax, and started to focus on the sights and sounds of the flooded forest.
The dark color of the water made it look viscous as if made of jelly, even the pink dolphins appeared lethargic and for the first time, in three months of trying, I was able to photograph one breaking the surface. Pink dolphins vary in color from almost florescent pink, down to a soft gray. Their dorsal fin and bulbous heads distinguishes them from the smaller gray river dolphin. The simple Canon, PowerShot A540, at 6.0 mega pixels has been pushed to my maximum capacity.

As the river recedes, thick grasses quickly take root, filling in the newly exposed soil. In calm waters thick mats of floating grasses make large meadows. And in the main river channel, floating islands made entirely of grass can be found migrating with the current. I have often used these floating islands as docking stations to rest, unfortunately I have to keep the spray skirt sealed for all the spiders, ants, and other insects that come visiting the capsule.

Today, I explored the grass meadows of the flooded Catuá River. It was a labyrinth of natural trails dotted with small scrub and dwarfed tree islands. Each turn brought new birds into view, and each island was sprinkled with brilliant birds. The grasses made excellent blinds that allowed me to get close to the aves. I was able to peer into the white eye of the Greater Ani and was able to listen to its many calls. Black-bellied Whistling-ducks flew overhead and perched on trees. Bare-faced Ibis took flight from shrubs and Pinnated Bitterns flushed from the grasses, but only from a distance could I watch undistinguishable parrots and spectacularly colored macaws, for they kept a hawk’s eye upon me.

Under the canopy of the flooded forest, the air is cool and the light is soft. Here one is immediately transported into an altered state of consciousness that is felt on the skin as a cool breeze that has blown in from the Garden of Eden. Sunlight and leaves fuse and gleaner like polished emeralds. Tree branches come to life as a troop of monkeys pass overhead. Jumping noisily from branch to branch, a trio of youthful primates plays a game of tag. A pop and sparkle of water drop diamonds mark the spot where a fish snaps up a morsel.

Gold leaves float in the shaded water as if suspended in a void, and liana vines hang like twisted ropes from trees held up by buttress roots. Trunks and branches are covered with broad-leaved philodendrons and blooming bromeliads. Rather than being oppressive and repulsive the verzea forest feels inviting and welcoming.

Later in the afternoon, I watched as Sebastiana moved through the flooded plain in canoe fishing. Her grandson sat quietly on the back seat. Luciano, the teenager boy, had caught a dozen grasshopper in the floating meadows. Sebastiana cast the grasshopper as skillful as any fly-fisherman, maybe better, for her family depended on her skills.

Better than Starbucks

2007-08-10T08:48:00.000-05:00

In Cantuá I found myself in a peerless situation, I had paddled into the heart of the Amazon in my own kayak! As I sat on the flutuante in a state of bewilderment, contemplating the uniqueness of my position, Sebastiana asked if I liked or wanted coffee, to which I responded with a big affirmative smile.

In the turmoil and the distractions of the past month, I had been rushing through the rose garden, concerned about the thorns, and all I truly needed to do was stop, look, smell the roses.

The smell of smoke caught my attention. On the bank Sebastiana, being watched by her grandchildren, had lit a small fire. In a small wicker basket she cleaned beans; picking out little particles. She then transferred some of the beans into a pan made from a five gallon tin can that had been cut in half. As the beans started to heat up, the aroma of roasting coffee beans reached me and levitated me to her side with camera in hand.

As she slowly roasted the beans, I looked around the bank. It was in the várzea, the trees were stained from the high water mark. A few feet away the lower forest was still flooded. The thin line of smoke carried by a gentle breeze followed me around the bank. A dead chicken lay under a bush. Ants had started to converge on the corps. Farther on another dead chicken lay covered in ants.

“They were alive, feeding happily this morning,” Sebastiana lamented. By her look and the way she felt the chicken, I could tell she considered cooking the dead animal. She felt the rigidity of the fowl and then ordered her granddaughter to take the chickens into the woods. “Far away,” she yelled after her.

Sebastiana would add a twig to the fire, and the small boys would add several more. When the fire flared up, she would pull out the burning twigs and the boys would grab the flaming twigs. “You are going to get burnt,” she would yell out a warning. The fire would die down and the process was repeated.

Sebastiana continually stirred the beans until the coffee was roasted to her liking. She then added sugar and continued to stir. When the beans were caramelized she then transferred them back to the wicker basket.

The clumps were broken up and then the beans were hand ground. She made a pot of coffee by boiling the grounds. The mixture was ran through a cloth strainer and served in a small cup. The coffee was strong, sweet, and priceless. Better than Starbucks. And, all I had to do was stop, look, and smell the coffee.

Okay, I did help grind the coffee, it was the least I could do.

Not a Thru-hiker

2007-08-09T14:32:00.001-05:00

From the mouth of Lago Tefé, the river follows a large island making the river seem small and intimate, but then the island passes and the river becomes intimidating once again. The wind kicked up, the sky darkend, and thundered. All around lightning called attention to threatening cells. The rain finally caught up to me at mid-morning, but quickly passed leaving me wet and cold. The sky stayed dark into the afternoon, and the water became murky as the wind kicked up waves.

On the opposite shore, across the river, I spotted a flutuante and made my way across to it. The channel is now at least three miles wide so it takes at least half an hour or longer to cross the river. While crossing the river, waves washed over the deck and the wind was, as usual, out of the east.

Dog-tired I made it to the flutuante. It was only two in the afternoon, but after I was given permission to spend the night, I decide to call it the day. The communities catch was being stored in a large ice cooler inside the flutuante. The caretaker weighed the fish, stored it, and doled out the gasoline to the fisherman. I slept in the hammock strung from the rafters of the floating structure.

That evening I decided that things were not right, the more I pushed myself, the less I was enjoying my trip. The following morning I again left with the intent of paddling less than the forty miles I had been pushing myself to do, and spent part of the morning bird watched.

I had decided that the thru-hiker mentality was not for me. The goal of going from point A to point B at all costs was not what I wanted; I wanted to enjoy the journey, however it may turn out. I had to “act as an individual, and destiny (would) guide (me.).” Already, I was making plans to do the Tabatinga to Belém run again, but next time with a group or at least one other person.

It was at that point that birds started to appear, herons, macaws, parrots, kingfishers, and many more. It was then that I came upon the Reserve at Catuá. Several fishermen pointed me to the mouth of the river, "there is a flutuante where you can stay."

At the float Antonio weaved a basket, he stopped long enough to help me pull the kayak up on the deck, and then he went fishing with single line poles and a bow to shoot a harpoon. A torn weathered hand written sign over Antonio stated that guests of the reserve flutuante were expected to pay three reais per day ($ 1.50 U.S.) I would spend the next three days here.

Flutuante (Float)

2007-08-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

When I left the Mamirauá Reserve, Francisco had assured me that Tefé was only a few hours away; a half-day’s paddling. With two days rest and with the thought of taking a riverboat in the back of my mind, I was relaxed and enjoyed the morning’s calm waters.

The river’s width continues to increase. There are no beaches, and now in the low areas, the river’s edge extends into the forest. Although I have often referred to the forest that lines the river as a jungle, the correct term is a gallery forest. The flood-plain forest, flooded yearly, is called a várzea. Because the soil is enriched yearly with mineral-rich deposits, the ribereño people use the várzea extensively for agriculture. Francisco cleared the high ground that had already firmed up; all around in the lower areas, the forest was still flooded.

By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of a town. Maybe Francisco had assumed that the kayak traveled at the same speed of a motorized peke-peke. In the afternoon’s heat, after thirty miles, my mind was full of doubt and filled with discouragement. The enthusiasm of the early months is gone. I have not recovered from the incident with the river pirates. Francisco sensing my weariness had stated that riverboats, on their way to Manaus, stop at Tefé.

The map in the GPS unit showed Tefé ahead, but the map has been off as far as twelve miles. Finally as the sun was low in the western horizon, I entered the blackwaters, rich in humic matter (decomposed vegetation), and devoid of sediments, of Lago Tefé. “Five kilometers ahead,” said two sports fishermen with the first rod and reels I had seen on the trip.

Flutuante is a new word in my vocabulary, but it is a word that means refuge to me. At the then of the day, the city of Tefe was ahead of me; already I could see the floating business of the fish dealers, the boat repair shops, and the floating homes, all of them refered as flutuantes by the Brazians. I would look for a flutuante to store kayak, then look for a hotel room, and finally a cyber café.

As I passed a flutuante, a voice in Spanish asked, “Where are you coming from?” The sound of Spanish perked me up; it was like music to my ears. I have gone through Spanish withdrawals as I did with English withdrawals, and I am now happy to hear either language. Like a moth being drawn to a light, the kayak swung around to the flutuante. “We are Colombian,” the man announced and invited me onboard.

“When I arrived in Brazil twenty-six years ago I did not know any Portuguese and struggled to get established, but now things are good for me. I buy fish here and in Manaus and ship it to Bogotá.”

The floating raft was actually five rafts bound together. The largest raft held a two story house occupied by the owners Ernesto “Botelho’ and Gladis. The second raft was a warehouse where the fish was refrigerated, a third raft had four rooms of which one was being occupied by Rosa; the kayak took a second room. The fourth raft had a work area and a building that was rented out to a family. I was invited to stay on the raft that housed the kitchen, an office, and the bathroom. A place was located for my hammock.

I spent two nights on the flutuante; the days were spent in Tefe at the cyber café. On the way to town, I notice that there was a floating church, a floating disco/bar, and many floating houses. Many of the houses had gardens planted in old canoes. One house even had a fruit tree. The Colombian flutuante had electricity and water from town. Gladis invited me to go upstairs and look at her home. “We are forced to live by our business,” she said.

I read my e-mails and comments, people are encouraging me to go on. I can not stop, not now, so on the second day I paddled away from Tefé.

Drinking Water

2007-08-07T10:02:00.000-05:00

After leaving the home of Francisco in Sito Fortaleza, I hit a mile stone, the two-thousand mile mark, but there was no celebration like at the one-thousand mile mark. I felt cheated, for I had not paddled the whole way. I tried to change my attitude by telling myself that even if it was only eighteen-hundred miles that I had paddled, it was still an accomplishment to be proud of, especially for my first ever sea-kayak, and then there was still fifteen-hundred miles to go. It was no good; my mind could not accept the fact that I had not paddled the whole way.

The orange-red clay bluffs, riddled with kingfisher burrows, called my attention. At one point I stopped to take photographs of the bluff and a butterfly landed on the camera. I held still and savored the sweet moment of excitement, of being close to nature. The butterfly flew from camera to GPS, to water bottle, to gloves, slurping the salt residue from my perspiration.

The river continues to widen. In my eyes, the river is now wider than the San Francisco Bay. The wind blown waves are increasing and there has been at least a few minutes a day when the wind is blowing and waves are washing over the decks. At times, I can look down river and see a landless gap where the river continues. The water has less silt, this becomes obvious when looking at the paddle blade in the water, even more so in the evening when I take drinking water in a plastic bucket.

Every evening I draw four or six liters of water in a clear Platypus collapsible bucket. Five drops of Clorox to every liter of water is added and then it is left to sit overnight. The silt settles to the bottom. In the beginning I could not see through the bag, but now as the silt decreases it is opaque. In the morning I boil a liter of water for tea and breakfast, and filter two liters of drinking water for the day. The remaining treated water is used for brushing teeth and washing.

The WaterWorks EX filter has been great. The carbon core removes the taste of the chlorine, the ceramic filter is cleanable, and the membrane cartridge removes particles down to two micron. The ceramic filter will remove the silt from about three liters before it has to be cleaned again, so it is my daily routine to clean the filter every day after use. To date I have not had traveler’s diarrhea.

I can attribute not having the common traveler’s illness to the clean water and eating only heated food. The cold foods and table condiments are avoided. Peelable fruits are safe to eat as long as they are not too ripe. Over ripe fruits in the tropics spoil quickly and harbor lots of nasty microbes.

Don´t Tread on Me!

2007-08-06T08:54:00.000-05:00

I need to add a section about a photograph in the last post. It is the wooly-caterpillar. When I was a young child visiting Veracruz, a city, in the neo-tropics of Mexico, my uncle warned me about picking up wooly-caterpillars. “They will burn you.” Well that particular one had not “burned” me, nor had any since, so I had discounted the warning as a wife’s tale.

Last week while Francisco worked at clearing the banana grove, and I walked around taking photographs, I came across this bright yellow and large wooly-caterpillar. After several photographs, the interesting face was not showing up, so I then decided to pull its head up for a photograph and also to add dimension by placing a known object next to it, my hand.

I pinched the hair, and pulled up. The little critter was strong and held tight. When it pulled I then felt a stinging sensation in my index finger. The sting started to tingle, then felt as if scalded; I had finally been burnt by a wooly-caterpillar. Tío Cecilio was right, they will burn you. He must be in heaven laughing at me. The pain grew in intensity and was actually painful.

When I told Francisco what had happened he laughed and told me to place my finger in the used oil he carried to burn wasp nests. The oil did not help and the pain continued for an hour and continued to be uncomfortable for several more hours.

It was then that I recalled John Kricher´s section: Warning Coloration —Don´t Tread on Me! “Although many animals survive by camouflage, some seem to send exactly the opposite message. Certain tropical butterflies, caterpillars, snakes, and frogs are brilliantly colored and stand out dramatically in any environment.” (See reference books on side margins.)

And then I also recalled Tricia G.’s comments in the first days where she is telling me the same thing when I posted the photograph of the brightly colored bumble-bee.

So the lesson that not all animals use cryptic coloration as disguise to camouflage themselves as protection, is well learned.

Rest

2007-07-30T11:59:00.000-05:00

After I took my first Advil for the trip, I started to feel better. The water was flat, and José had reassured me that the danger zone had passed. “Take the river or the canal, it will be the same,” were his last words, so when the junction came I took the canal, the east bank was shady. In the shade of the morning, I listened to the birds and remembered Jacquie, reminding me that it is the journey, not the final destination, so I pulled the binoculars out and looked at the Amazona Fasiva’s (parrots) and took photographs of the kingfisher’s nests in the brick colored bank. I started to get hungry so I ate the rice and sardines I had cooked the previous night, and drank some of the instant lemon-aid. If someone wanted to rob me, they could have it all.

I came upon a large cattle ranch, with a large ranch house that had a red tile roof. By one of the corrals a vaquero, on horse back, raced after me and invited me to stop for conversation. He spoke only Portuguese so I thanked him and continued on but was happy with the invitation.

The canal was several miles long, so it was not until midmorning that I reached the mouth of the river again. But as luck would have it a cold front moved in, yes it is winter here, the temperature dropped only a few degrees, not enough for me to notice at first, but it came with heavy winds.

At the end of the canal, the waves increased, and I looked at the river, it was turbulent. The river is up to three miles wide, and in places the straight ways go for ten miles or more, so the waves can get quite big. There were white caps. I pulled under some small trees and waited thinking it would pass in an hour or so, but it did not let up. Finally from the river came a small canoe. Well if he can do it ,so can I, and off I went. It was a washer machine, and I was but a toy.

I immediately went to the side, where the water was the calmest and proceeded at two miles per hour. The water runs in ribbons, like the tails of a kite. Think of a freeway with several lanes. The first ribbon is next to the bank with many counter currents, eddies, and underwater obstructions, here the water is the calmest in the winds. The next ribbon is washer machine, where wind blown waves, reflected waves, current made waves, and counter current waves all meet; there is no rest here and waves will hit you from every direction. The next ribbon has more rhyme and rhythm, it is mostly wind blown waves, but it is intermittent and will disappear like a unmarked lane coming to an end. The next ribbon is the main current; it is well marked with white caps as the wind and the current battle each other, two of nature’s gods battling each other. Here the wave brake over the kayak, washing over the deck, and is not a good place to be either. I made twenty miles between the edge of the river and the wind blown wave ribbon, before coming to community where I asked for shelter.

Antonio the vice-president, and Francisco the elder, both spoke some Spanish, and said I was welcome, but we must ask the president of the community first. I was invited in to Antonio’s home for a lunch of fish stew. Later Francisco showed me where there were toucans. Everyone in the community took turns looking at my bird book. I handed them my binoculars, but they quickly returned them. I can say that Sito Fortelesa has the most well mannered children, happy and gentle people I have met in the entire trip. There poverty in material was obvious by their cloths; but their wealth in culture was beyond measure.

When the president came, he was filled in on my situation and adventure, all I had to do was ask for permission and it was quickly granted. My kayak was moved to the big house where I stay with Francisco the patriarch of the clan.

The next day -the winds were worse. Francisco suggested I wait another day, “the winds only last two or three days,” he told me. That day I accompanied him to his chagra where with two other people they cleared the banana grove. I spent the time photographing insects, and resting. Needless to say there is a lot here for me to write about.

The following day I made it to the city of Tefe where I am now. It is about four hundred miles to Manaus now, and I will try to make it without taking another day off since I am running behind in time. I should be there in ten to fifteen days.

Decision

2007-07-29T08:35:00.000-05:00

Fonte Boa was an interesting city, spread out, built for automobiles, but there were few, mostly motorcycles. I spent a few hours on the floating raft waiting for the sun to come up and a place to store the kayak.

After the kayak was secured I went into to town on a motorcycle taxi and there found the cyber cafe where I wrote the blog Three Time -Lucky. I could not bring myself to check into a hotel so I return to the marina and spent the rest of the day just waiting talking to the locals in broken Spanish. The owner of the float invited me to a lunch of fish stew which I had watched her prepare.

That afternoon one of the men in the marina warned me of an area coming up. "They killed a foreigner there a couple of years ago, to rob him." I marked the spot on the map with a red flag. "Make sure you take the channel to cut across the bend," he added.

That night the float owner said I could sleep in their large boat, so that night I slept in the hammock hanging from the rafters. And in the morning as the sun touched the horizon I pushed off back into the river.

The water was calm in the morning, but my mind was turmoil. The sound of a peke-peke motor caused alarm. When I passed a community I wondered whether they were looking at me, watching, would a boat pursue?

At high noon when the sun burnt, when the wind no longer cooled, and the thirst could no longer be quenched, I started to have doubts about continuing on. There was no turning against the current; the next town was three, maybe four days ahead: I could then take a oat back to Iquitos. No, I would continue on to Manaus, then on to Belem.

I kept looking for the channel to cut off on in order to avoid the danger zone. By two-thirty the wide river still lay before me. At the junction of a tributary there was a small community, thinking this would be a good spot to stop, I pulled to a floating house and asked if I could spend the night on shore. I asked in Spanish, the young man responded in Portuguese. He pointed across the small channel to a tin roof on a frame and said “villa.”

I paddled across the small tributary and looked up the channel to the chagra and wondered if he meant here or a community down river. I continued down river.
Several miles down river, I came upon a community. “Bon dia,” I called out to the men gathered on a log. Someone responded like wise. I then asked to rest and spend the night. There was silence. I then repeated the greeting and asked again. Again silence, but this time I noticed one of the man fondling a machete, when a woman stepped up and with her finger indicated no, and to move on. So into the river I continued.

At this point it had been over thirty miles. The GPS indicated I had passed the channel and my mind was in turmoil again, going into spasms of negativism, -why had I not taken the boat? What made me think I could do this? In the next town I was taking the boat; enough of this kayaking.

Now the wind hit me head on. The waves kicked up to three feet. The bow reared up into the air, and then dug into the next wave; water washed over the deck. I had to keep going now. The sun was getting closer to the western horizon. I prayed. The energy from the one bowl of instant noodles was wearing off. I had to focus on the direction of the next wave, the wind, and the current pull. I wanted out, so my mind traveled to a Sunday afternoon, a steak cooking on the back porch, a loving companion, and a plush couch. I laughed at my ability to complicate life and to inability to appreciate until it was gone.

Finally at forty-one miles, I spotted a floating building, half a mile later I came upon a fisherman. I asked for a place to rest. “Here,” he said pointing the community and the float. Again I prayed, but this time in gratitude.

I could not eat that evening, and in the morning I made some oatmeal, but could not eas so packed for later. Before sunrise I was on my way again.

I was now in the area I had marked as the area I had been warned to stay out of, but there was not turning point, I had missed the cut-off channel. The water was calm, the wind was cool, the kayaking was easy, but again the mind was taught in torsion, the warm sunrays pierced, the width of the river overwhelmed , and the thoughts of doubt, and indecision suffocated.

At mid-morning I pulled to the side beneath the shade of a canopy, and as I moved closer to the red clay bank, a troop of monkeys scurried away. There I ate the oat meal, and swatted at the swarm of mosquitoes that had moved in. “MM day time biting mosquitoes, bone-breaker fever,” was my thought.

At the next bend, two persons in a small canoe speared fished. The rear person handled the canoe, while the front person stood poised with the spear, arm raised, and hand cocked ready to throw. The scene resembled a heron poised to strike. I wanted to move close to take pictures, but the thought of being in a hot zone kept me pushing on.

Later I came to a community where a boat waited to take on passengers. I stopped looked, debated to board, return now, no, yes, NO. I paddled closer, came with in a few hundred yards, and kept going. I can not quit now.

There had been no beaches, no islands to camp on, and no place to rest. By the thirty-two miles I had not been out of the cramped cockpit, there were no communities in sight, and again the sun was closing in on the western horizon. There was only a high bank and jungle. Once today, I had tried to stop thinking of camping in the jungle, but the soil was nothing clay and silt. I now went into survival mode. I found a floating palm trunk, pulled up to it and tied my kayak to making a raft. If I have too I will float all night. Once secure I took a nap, to check the stability.

The sound of a distant peke-peke motor snapped me out of stupor. It was fishermen spreading their nets, and then I noticed an island, and floating building of to one side. The GPS now indicated forty-four miles. I untied my self and headed for the float. There José greeted me and welcome me to the community of Horizante. At the end of forty-six miles I had found a place to rest.

I made some rice and sardines, but could not eat so I saved the food for the following day. In the morning I took my first pain pill for the trip.

Third time -Lucky

2007-07-23T08:32:00.001-05:00

The warnings were too much and the danger was higher than I felt comfortable with, so I’ve portaged around what I was told was the danger zone, by taking the riverboat to Fonte Boa (S 02° 29,990’ W066° 04,252’). The town is approximately fife-hundred river miles from Manaus, and fifteen hundred from Belen. The way I look at it, it is better to forgo a hundred miles and avoid as much of the problem area. The Amazon and the Putumayo rivers (Rio Salemões and Rio Itus) are the two main corridors for the smuggling of drugs. The confluence is west of here and as can be expected it is rife with river pirates looking to cash in on the contraband.

The economics of the underground traffic were explained to me as follows: one kilo sells for one-thousand U.S. dollars in Tabatinga, it sell for four in Manaus, eight in Belem, and thirty-two thousand in Europe. One kilo will buy a lot of fishing gear for a local fisherman, and would go a long way to feed a family. Unfortunately their vigilante dragnet is hurting a lot of innocent people. And I am sure vigilante is not the right word, for they in turn sell the drugs back into the market.

On the way back down the river, we stopped at the Federal Police station. Commander Wilson roused me out of my hammock and was happy to see that I had not given up. João said they had read the “Robbed” glog and had been concern. Walter asked if I had been caught asleep and was surprised to hear that it happened in broad daylight. I gave João and Wilson CD´s with copies of the photos of them and the floating inspection point. João said he was going to be on leave at the same time I was in Manaus, so we agreed to meet up.

In Letícia a professor for Seville, Spain named Pilar, checked into Hotel Amazonas where I stayed. We later crossed paths in an outdoor café, and then later on the riverboat the Voyager IV. Pilar was making her way down the Rio Amazonas on riverboats. At the same time in Leticia I noticed a couple walking around town, we too crossed paths on the Voyager.

I arrived early at the boat to secure a spot for the hammock. There was fair skinned, red faced, German on board already. We struck up a conversation immediately. At the snack bar a longhaired Brazilian named Iran invited Herbert and I over for a conversation. Hubert boasted about not being able to return to Germany, while Iran saw himself in the image of Jesus Christ. He even showed us how different his hands were, suggesting a crusification in a past life. Hubert stated he was an escaped convict, busted on a drug charge “–Germany had ruined his life.” Iran said he sold candy is a boy, later vegetables, now money just comes to him. He later gave the presentation on the economic value of kilo. A little while later an eccentric lady showed up with writing in pen all over her arms, legs, and hands. Hubert requested photographs. Much later professor Pilar brought dignity and sensibility with her.

Iran went on about how bad thing were in Tabatinga, he emphasized that he did not go anywhere without a body guard admitting that he was afraid to go out. He claimed to work for “the man, the boss” that owned the boat. At the end he openly stated that there was going to be a party for the boss that evening, but no one knew who the boss was. He grinned when saying it.

Hubert now went into his spill on how he only had fifteen Reals left (7.50 US). Iran pulled his wallet out and not so covertly handed Hubert some cash. The following day I heard Hubert make the same spill to a Manaus businessman except this time he only had twenty Reales. I did not see him spend a single penny when on the boat. At about 3 P.M. a man came for Iran, a few minutes later the departure horn blew three times.

Throughout my stay on the boat, a crew member would come and personally advise Hubert that it was time to eat, he would then invite me to eat with him. We ate with the crew at the crew table.

The couple I had seen in Leticia turned out to be from Melbourne, Australia. When through Jason, Gemma learned that my Saint Christopher had been taken in Caballo Cocha, she sent her medallion to me via Jason. For their trip, they had purchased matching St. Christopher medallions and had them blessed. Jason instructed me to tie it around my neck, so it would not be lost again. I braided a three strand cord and now wear the St. Christopher around my neck. Acts of kindness like this leave me speechless. She also gave me an Australian saying: Three times –Lucky. This was my third time attempt at Brazil.

Pilar and I spent several hours in silence just staring at the river, the clouds, and the sky. When we spoke it was about travel and adventure. She carried a copy of the Iquito’s Time newspaper. I pointed out my picture and the my article that was featured in that July issue.

This morning at 2:30 A.M., when I arrived at my destination Fonte Boa, both Hubert and Pilar requested to be awaken to say good bye. As the boat disappeared into the darkness, they were at the rail waving good bye.

Fat Voyage

2007-07-20T08:56:00.000-05:00

“Hah! You have not come all that way on your boat,” was a response from one of the crew members of the Voyager IV. “You are too fat,” he reasoned.

I pulled the end of my belt and extended the baggie pants, indicating how much weight I had lost on the journey. The Captain stepped in saying, “he has reduced. He was assaulted in Sao Rita do Weil, which is why he is on the boat.”

Along the way I have run across a few skeptics who do not believe I have paddled the length; they point to my weight as a sure sign of inability. Part of what I set out to demonstrate was that you need not look like the advertising in the kayaking and backpacking magazines to accomplish a feat.

Jokingly the trip has been referred to as the Amazon Diet as apposed to the South Beach Diet. Before departing I took front and side photographs for the “before” and “after” results. Well, last night I took the tape measure out and measured. Minus eight inches from the waist and minus five inches from the chest and it is only the half way point.

But still, even Officer João, when relaying to the Commander the incident of my spill, he stated, “He swam like if in a swimming pool --but then fat does not sink.” We all laughed.

Saturday, I will be heading back into Brazil, this will be the third time, the charm. I came up on the Voyager IV, and in the same riverboat will return to where I left off to continue on. The Voyager is a floating grocery wholesale warehouse. The first deck and the galleys are stocked with crates of food, and merchandize. The second deck is where all the hammocks hang and coach passengers ride. The third deck is private cabins for first class passengers.

The boat travels a route with a loosely held schedule. When it arrives at a town it blows its horns which can be heard for miles around. But already boats wait to purchase goods to stock the many jungle stores. Buyers fill out a check list with items they wish to purchase. Crew members fill the order. Payment is taken at a booth which houses a computer with a virtual inventory. Then the goods are loaded onto every imaginable type of river watercraft, but not before a final inspection. Each stop is two to four hours which allows a tourist to walk the many little towns along the route.

End of the Day

2007-07-18T18:24:00.000-05:00

The kabob man added a stick of chicken hearts as conciliation, and to say that not all Brazilian people are alike. I accepted his offering, and returned to the hotel room. The smell of mold and stale sour stagnant air filled the room. The air did not circulate, but my mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Thoughts of what could or should have been done or happened; the scene replayed in my mind like a CNN news alert, over and over. Most of all, the decision of what to do now weighed heavily. The bankcard was the source of my traveling funds. I took and inventory of the remaining money. They had found the decoy money but not the U.S. dollars or the stash of local currency. There was just enough, maybe to get to Manaus, but then I would arrive in Manaus totally broke, and there would be no reserves. I could not count on my cousin to be there.

The door knob jiggled. I jumped out of bed, grabbed the water bottle and ran to the door and slammed the bottle against the wooden door and with a loud crash made clear my mood. I stood there waiting for the door to open thinking “bring it on, bring it on.” I heard whispers outside the door. Twice more, I drummed the door hard with the Nalgene water bottle hoping the night clerk would come downstairs. There was no response, silence for a few minutes, and then the whispering continued. Fed up I threw the door open ready to face any confrontation.

A young man lay in the hallway face down; a young woman who appeared to be in her first trimester kneeled over him trying to revive him. She turned wide eyed and said “pardon.” The intoxicated man tried to get up, but stumbled forward into the cement wall. She tried to hold him up, but he fell and started to dry heave. Disgusted I went upstairs to the night clerk and roused him out of sleep. He went down stairs and said, “ah, he is one of our employees. He does not know how to drink and must not have made it home.” The night clerk and the young lady carried the drunk to a near by room.

I went back into the room, hid the remaining money into a bread bag, and with that I fell into unconsciousness.

The next day I walked the streets of Sao Paulo de Olivença trying to decide what to do. In the end I met an American, Allen Yoder, the Baptist Minister who has lived here for over twenty years. With his help I was able to catch a boat back to Leticia, Colombia where some money was wired to me.

My plan now is to take the boat to where I left off and continue on to Manaus, and then on to Belem.

I am amazed at all the offer of assistance that have poured in, and all of the words of encouragement. This trip is no longer just for me, but for all of you.

“Risks and trials alone form character: Cast off the trammels of civilization, act as an individual, and destiny will guide you.”-Mark Jenkins

River Pirates

2007-07-18T09:49:00.000-05:00

It rained for the first part of the morning. Commander Wilson requested that I take photographs of the barge, so once the rain stopped I circle the barge in my kayak taking the photographs and then departed. The officers had won a spot in my sentiment so it was with sad heart that I departed. A few miles down river Joao and his assistant came up on the patrol boat. “Take the main channel around this island, there are still a lot of robberies in the small channel.” His warning sounded strange for I had been reassured that I would have no problems. We were in Tikuna tribal lands and many of the natives did not speak any European language, Portuguese, or Spanish. “They are a simple people,” and “they are aggressive,” were two ways they had been described to me.

The GPS had been acting up since it had been submerged for several minutes when I flipped and some moisture had managed to enter the unit. I pulled the map out and the magnetic compass to practice and to get orientated in case the GPS went out.

That night I slept comfortable on an Island with a marsh in the middle. Yellow headed black birds called from within the grasses. A flock of blue and yellow macaws squawked as they flew overhead. And earlier I had seen my first yellow headed vultures. It felt good to be in Brazil. I had also found my Swiss army knife thought to be lost; it had been folded in the tent.

The river was moving in a north, northeast direction and would soon turn due east. In front of me there were a series of islands that span the width of the river. The question was what channel to take. The town of Santa Rita do Weil was on the western bank, and a small community on the eastern bank. The settlements marked the end of the Tikuna tribal lands. I took a reading with magnetic compass, compared it to the GPS and decided on the most direct route to be heading at about 25°. The water was calm. A lone fisherman passed and I confirmed my position by asking the name of Soa Rita. He then sped away taking the western small channel leading to the town.

The morning was comfortable, I was in good spirits, so I would let the current carry me while listening to all the wild birds on the islands, then I paddle some more. I considered recording a sound bite, but could not figure out how to operate the camera and made a mental note to read the instructions.

As I slipped into the center channel and passed and island fireworks resounded in the distance. My thoughts turned to Caballo Cocha and Profesora Raquel and wandered how she was doing. A few minutes later, the sound of a peke-peke approached from the rear. Thinking it was just another person swinging by to look, I continued on. The boat slowed, I dropped the rudder, and started to turn. It was too late, the boat operator had turned his boat to ram me broad side. I turned in time to push myself away from the drifting boat. The person in the bow grabbed my stern line.

The center person, and ringleader, accusingly asked “why you are taking the center channel? You are trying to hide. You are smuggling drugs,” so the barrage of words commenced and the arguments.

“Where are you credentials? Your uniforms? I have been checked by the Federal Police.” I argued back, but it did no good.

The ringleader yelled back, “I am a Tikuna soldier,” they then started to pull me. So I grabbed my machete from the front deck and turned hacking at the stern line. Once, it bounced back, again harder, it dug into the wood, a third time and the line was cut. I was free and tried to paddle away, but the bow man again grabbed my stern line. I looked up to see the ring leader standing over me --his machete cocked over his head. I knew there was nothing I could do but subject myself to the piracy.

They demanded I get out of the kayak and into their plank boat, but I refused. All I could say was, “let us go to Santa Rita.” With the added weigh they could not tow me too far or too fast, so they took me to the nearby island. On the bank which was all clay and silt, they ordered me out of my kayak and into their boat. “We are going to search your boat, you are smuggling drugs,” said the bowman who spoke some Spanish.

Mean time the ringleader angered, whined, “You cut my boat, you cut my boat.”

“You rammed my boat. You tie my boat. You take me. I am a tourist. You have no authority,” was my response as I looked him squarely into his face.

“Sit down,” the bowman ordered, so I sat.

Here in the three border region, where Colombia, Brazil, and Peru there is a lot of drug smuggling and many Peruvians and Colombians enter illegally into Brazil. The local bandits prey on the smugglers and illegal immigrants, counting on them not reporting the aggressions to the police.

I was made to take off my PDF, it was searched, then my spray skirt, then they emptied my pockets, and then they started to take everything out of the boat, inspecting each item. The young motorman seemed honestly looking for drugs, he took a strong whiff of the moth balls I keep in the compartments to keep insects out, he then tasted the foot powder, the powder milk, salt, and was totally confused by the flask with the black tea. “Te, mate,” I shouted at him until the bowman translated it to Portugues.

The ringleader went through the front compartment and the cockpit. He must have been illiterate, because he handed anything with writing to the bowman, to include my journal and maps. On the map, I took the opportunity to show the bowman the route I had covered and hoped to cover; hoping to talk my way out of this one.

The ring leader found my decoy money, along with the AAA club card, and South American Explores membership card to make it look official. Unfortunately it was all in a waterproof case and I had placed my bankcard in it when I went to Leticia to buy the camera and failed to return it to secure spot. He examined it and returned it to the dry bag, but later took it out when I was distracted. He found the transistor shortwave radio and handed it to the bowman who quickly placed the headphones on and started to listen to station.

So it went till they had pilfered through all the gear. They were obviously disappointed that they did not find a few kilos of drugs. They then started to cram things back into the kayak. Realizing that it would never be repacked, I put my PDF on and stuffed the cockpit. They were going to leave me there, but with no place to repack, I ordered them to take me to the beach in front of the community. They pulled me to the island across from the settlement and ordered me to continue on; they turned and headed towards Santa Rita.

I startled the kayak like a riding a horse bareback and paddled to the settlement. There on a floating platform I repacked. The town’s people gathered. I had candy to the children and explained to the elders what had happened, and described the tattoo the ring leader had on his forearm. The story spread from one person to the other. They pointed to the site where I had been assaulted, whispered, and finally they all left leaving me alone to complete the job of repacking.

I left happy to be free and unhurt, then angry and frustrated. The next police station was twenty-five miles away. A few miles farther on a firm sandy island, I confirmed that the US dollars had not been found, nor all of the local currency, and the worst, the bankcard had been taken by the river pirates.

In the mid-afternoon heat, I paddle fast and hard not wanting to spend a night alone, not that night. About nine miles from the Sao Paulo de Olivença a man with his child and with a load of plantains, bananas, and coconuts stopped to chat. I told him what had happened, he offered me a ripe banana and a coconut, then he offered to pull me the rest of the way to town. I offered him some money but he refused only accepted a liter of gasoline.

In town, the police report was filed; a call was made to the Federal Police in Tagatinga. The policeman took me in his motorcycle to the internet café where I canceled the bank card, notified my daughter of my whereabouts. Then I went to the least expensive hotel in town to digest the adrenaline.

When I had settled down I went out looking for food. There was nothing open, only a kabob vendor. “They are too lazy to work, so they steal,” was his response to the incident. “What a shame, what an embarrassing representation of the Brazilian people,” he lamented.

Camera

2007-07-17T19:21:00.000-05:00

After a nice shower at the Federal Police barracks, in the kitchen I served myself some rice and beans with a thin stewed steak. I was alone in a long dark room. A pool table in one end, then a large picnic table with benches in the middle, a couch and a row of chairs in front of a small television, was at the other end. Individual rooms opened onto the main hall. Everyone napped, and then one by one they came out. Joao introduced me to everyone. We watched the World Cup; Mexico against Argentina. They were happy to have a Mexican as a guest. Mexico lost to Argentina 3-0. Mexico had beat Brazil in a previous game, so as always, there is a little bit of a rivalry.

After the game I went back to the camera. As the cook prepared coffee for the evening meal, I placed the camera near the heat so it would thoroughly dry. Once there was no more moisture visible, I inserted some batteries, but the camera would not respond, other than flash and blink and go dead. Now I had to decide, continue on to Manaus without camera or return to Leticia, Colombia for a new one. I could not see continuing on what might be a once in a lifetime trip without a camera, so I notified Joao of my intention to return to Leticia. He told me he could get me a free ride in the morning to Tabatinga.

That night I slept on the barge suspended from the ceiling beams. All night long boats stopped for inspections. On the larger passenger boats all four officers worked their way up and down the decks probing, questioning, and inspecting. Only one stayed on duty while the rest returned to the barracks until needed again. In the morning the commander Wilson was on duty. Go get washed up, get some coffee and breakfast and we will get you a boat. After breakfast he instructed me to say I was on official duty for the Federal Police, and if I needed any assistance in returning he gave me the name of an officer in Tabatinga to contact.

When the sounds of power outboard motor roared from around the bend, Joao called down to the barge. When the boat arrived the commander went through his routine of where you going, were you coming from. “Are you telling me the truth, you are going to Tabatinga?” He confirmed the boat operator’s response, and proved. “When are you returning?” When he said that afternoon, he then in an official voice said, I need for you to take this man; he is tourist kayaking his way down the river and needs to return to Tabatinga. I need for you to return him here today.”

The boat operator accepted and with that I was on the boat flying back for a new camera. The boat was contracted to the ministry of health and carried two doctors and boxes of medicine to Tabatinga. It felt strange to see three days of paddling erased in two and a half hours, but the distance seemed impressive. When we arrived the boat operator said “you have two hours.”

I jumped on a motorcycle taxi to Leticia, Colombia, found the exact camera so I would not have to purchase data cards. This time, however, I purchased a water proof case for the camera.Then rushed back to the floating dock; I was pack in time to play several rounds of pool with Joao, before he went on duty. Mexico lost against Brazil. 6-0

Check Point

2007-07-15T11:30:00.000-05:00

After crossing into Brazil, the first thing I notice was how quiet it was. There was no one calling out at me from shore, the peke-peke had mufflers, and because of width of the river even the normally loud jungle seemed quiet. It was not until that afternoon that I first spoke to someone. It was at a small settlement where I looked for a place to rest. A boat operator spoke Spanish. After a brief question and answer section, he directed me to a floating fish stocking station that was not in use, but was almost good repair. He said I could sleep there. The towns people came and looked at the stranger in a strange boat, but kept a respectful distance, the children did not bother me either. It was obviously a different culture; one that was comfortable to me.

The next morning I headed out, after a good breakfast of oatmeal and coffee. In Iquitos I had purchased a hand full of cinnamon sticks that have been a great addition to the oatmeal. That afternoon I set up camp on an island near some fisherman. After erecting the tent the lead man came and invited me for a lunch of stewed fish in a clear broth with chives.

I awoke early in anticipation of reaching the Federal Police checkpoint. I had my entire safety equipment ready for inspection, for in addition to the passport check, I was told to expect a drug, and boat inspection. Along the way I could count on being insect free while on the river, but no longer; little biting gnats now find me in mid channel. A second little brown gnat-looking insect bites leaving a large welt and a pinhole in the apex that oozes blood for a few seconds.

Through out the day I asked for the Federal Police inspection point and was directed down river, until finally I could see a building with a watchtower. It was a floating barge with a small office. I pulled up to the waiting officer, and not wanting to go past him, pulled directly in front of him. He stood forward of a moored patrol boat. The current was strong at that point and the kayak slipped forward and the nose of the kayak went under the boat and into a crossbeam in the raft. I almost went over, but was able to tilt the kayak up into the incoming current. The officer threw a rope at me and tried to swing me around, but the current leveraged by the kayak was too strong. I told him to move the boat. He pulled the boat back off of the kayak. But now with the weight off the boat´s nose, the proboscis twisted and canned under the strain. Had it been anything other than plastic it would have broken. I jerked back to free the trap. The kayak out of its wedge reared up, like a bucking horse, and over I went. I found myself looking up through the brown water. There was nothing to do but a wet exit by freeing the spray skirt. The current now swept us along. In one hand I held the paddle and with the other the kayak. I freed one hand and started to swim pulling the kayak towards the confiscated boats moored to a barge. The current was to fasts and so there was not enough time to reach them. A man threw a hose from one of the boats, but it was too short. There was an open space then a floating house. I had to make it to the house or else I would have to execute a self-rescue. I was swimming, kicking hard, when Jaõa, one of the Federal Officers pulled up in a patrol boat. I handed his assistant the stern line and the paddle first, then pulled myself onboard.

Joõa then pulled the boat towards the checkpoint; he gunned the motor when he made no headway against the current. The boat moved forwarded with the added power. I looked back just as the wake swamped the open cockpit and then flipped the kayak. I yelled out to the officer and watched as the dry bag with the journal, binoculars, and bird book floated away along with a black bag. My passport and camera were in black dry bag; Without a second of thought, I dove into the water swimming after the bags. The journal and the passport were two things that I could not afford to loose. As I swam towards the bags my thoughts were that there was no way I would be allowed to enter Brazil with the kayak, and of Chinese fire drill. The black bag was not my passport it was only shopping bag, the journal bag had enough air to keep it afloat, for which I was thankful. No sooner than I had reached the bag that I see João and his assistant coming back for me, he now had a look of disgust in his face. Now even more tired than before, I struggled to get back into the boat, but managed to fall in as I tripped over the spray skirt I wore around my waist. Panting I kept an eye on the kayak as we made our way back to the floating checkpoint.

“Have a seat,” Walter (V-v-ault-er) the officer on duty said as he offered a plastic lawn chair. “Where are you from? Where are you going? Spread your things out so they can dry.” The crowd had started to gather. Flustered I wrung things out.

“What a sturdy boat, it did not sink,” a voice in the crowd commented.

Another pointed out “he had everything tied.”

As soon as I had secured the kayak and all my belonging a storm moved in and Walter said, “let’s go inside and get the paper work done.”

In the office I was dripping water from my cloths, the passport was a little wet, as was the international vaccination card, and the camera. Water had seeped into the dry bag as it was submerged under water floating in the river. The rain storm darken the sky, and in a few minutes I looked at my bare feet as a puddle of water ran across the barge office and under his polished black assault boots.

Walter wrote a long paragraph in his log, he then invited me to take a shower in the barracks. We both laughed when I said I had already taken a bath. “A Mexicano, when the commander comes, you go into the barracks take a shower you will fill much better, you can eat with us, and spend the night here.”

When the commander came, he introduced me to Wilson. “He swam like a man in a swimming pool,” I overheard him saying. “You can tell he is an veteran."

Up the bank and in the barracks, Walter showed me the shower, then the kitchen, and said "help yourself," he then went to bed after a late night duty tour. João worked on a bas-relief of a macaw.

Soa Pablo du Olivença, Amazonas, Brazil. S 03° 27.765´W 068° 57,877´

2007-07-14T18:10:00.000-05:00

If there ever was a time I felt like turning back, it is today. I was robbed. They got me between two islands. I will go into details later, but I lost most of the money I had on me, worst my ATM card, and a few other items. I filed a police report, and need to get some time before I make a decision on what I am going to do. I am in Soa Pablo du Olivença, Amazonas, Brazil. S 03° 27.765´W 068° 57,877´

Fruit and Vegetable Stand

2007-07-07T19:35:00.000-05:00

How fresh are the lemons?

Intelligence gathering about the next phase to be run is part of the experience; it is where the seed of fear is planted, where the wall of caution is measured, and where the ray of hope along with sparkle of the smile receives its energy. I am smiling now, relieved to finally be getting positive information about the run between Leticia, Colombia and Manaus, Brazil.

Demoralize, exhausted, and frustrated, not wanting to hear any more bad news, I delayed gathering information. But now that I have started, it is all coming in positive. The people are friendly, the river is well patrolled, there are plenty of beaches to camp on, and above all it is safe to camp, even if alone. Everyone I spoke with agrees, the area half way from Iquitos to Santa Rosa is a troubled area.

To be honest with you all, I was starting to have doubts about continuing, but now I am rearing to go. The only remaining concern is that at times the Brazilian authorities can be a little finicky about the watercraft they allow into their waters. I should not have anything to worry about though, the kayak is an internationally certified craft and I carry emergency night running lights, a marine radio, and always wear an approved PFD.

Evaluating the source of information has been my weak point. Often I have given credence to people who spoke only on hearsay, or had dated experience. Now the first questions are: When was the last time you traveled the river? How far did you a venture? How often do you travel the route? What was your experience? Although I will listen to every story, I now focus on the fresh first hand accounts.

The other good news is that there are plenty of smaller cities with internet service, so I should be able to communicate at least once a week. The run is approximately one-thousand miles long, from W 070° to W 060°, each degree has taken me on the average two and a half days to transverse. I estimate that it should take me a full month to reach Manaus. Now if everything goes according to the latest plan, Mario, my primo-hermano, who is like my twin brother, will meet me in Manaus where we will continue on together to the Atlantic Ocean.

I depart for Manaus in the morning, Monday; today I will exit Colombia and enter Brazil –on passport only. I will sleep in the same hotel and my kayak will not move until I depart.

I think I will now go have a slice of the roasted pig's rump for breakfast. Ciao

An Odyssey

2007-07-06T17:06:00.000-05:00

Several people have asked about my expectations, whether I have found what I had expected or if it was different. This is a good time to summarize.

The first two days on the river were frightening, because I had arrived a month earlier than planned, hence the water was running faster and higher than expected. Those days have been the most dangerous waters encountered to date. The early start has also meant fewer beaches, islands, and sandbars available for camping.

The physical part of the kayaking is as predicted. Being able to choose my own pace and the ability to stop when tired have contributed to an overall comfortable trip.

Although anticipate, in that every book I read in preparation spoke of it, the insect bites have been overwhelming. In the first weeks the bites were painful; the horse fly bites bled and became infected; no-see-um bites welted up and itched unbearably; and the sheer number of mosquito bites tortured the flesh while the high pitch buzzing of the their wings tormented the mind. Over the months the mosquito bites have become less noticeable, the black fly bites are still painful but are less frequent and are no longer getting infected, and I now wear rubber boots in no-see-um infested beaches. There were days when I literately wanted to scream out of frustration for no amount of insect repellent would stop the bites.

The Peruvian people were great. Most shared their enthusiasm for my adventure and wished me success in hopes that it will encourage more people to come visit their great jungle region, la selva. Their generosity was tremendous. To share a meal with a family who had just enough food for that day or even that meal, was an emotional event for me. They are living a life of faith, a faith most of us in cities have lost. --"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?” –Holy Bible

In the last two weeks I wrote about incidents to show the reality of my trip and the lives of this area. The incidents were isolated and should not be taken to generalize about the Peruvian people. I can say that the troubled areas are predictable as human nature. When the people are relatively equal in resources, they are content and happy. In areas where there is a disparity in material or resource wealth, there is frustration caused by cognitive dissonance which leads more people to alcoholism, drug usage, and crime.

The area between Puerto Ocopa and Atalaya to Iquitos I would encourage anyone to come, but between Iquitos and the border, I would leave to seasoned travelers.

I had hoped to see more animals, but the water’s surface is not an ideal habitat. The river’s edge is prime habitat for many bird species, and I have enjoyed watching and discovering new birds, but because the water is turbulent and with many water hazards, I avoid this zone. The jungle or rainforest is dangerous to an inexperienced individual like me, so I have only ventured in a few times while accompanied by a local, and I have not been disappointed by the fauna and the floral diversity. Maybe farther along I will be able to spend more time in the tropical rainforest and observe more wild life.

The chasm between the physical reality and the mental imagery was unforeseen. To be warned several times a day and to be cautioned continuously about every possible hazard whether real or in the mind of the pundit is testing. I feel like I am in a Greek odyssey where I have to tangle with Cyclops, Medusas, and other mythical beings while passing through a series of trial and tribulations in order to reach my goal. Most of the Ogre I am forced to face daily and at times even before I can set paddle to water. In the end it turns out to be just an illusion, or was it? But like Aesop’s fables, they teach, and I am learning about this corner of the world we live in and most of all I am discovering about the inner fabric that forms my characters.

There are many people that I have to thank now.

Above everyone is my daughter Nicole who twelve years ago accompanied me on my first kayak ride. We crossed the frigid waters of Humboldt Bay in a tandem recreational kayak. I still have a photograph of that day where she has a look as if asking, are you sure you know what you are doing Dad? When I first mentioned my dream to kayak the Amazon she said, “I think you should,” then later added, “you need to do it, Dad.” Along with Nicole is Victoria who in spite all of my crazy and wild ideas she still has the ability to believe in me and is willing to offer her assistance. Her help in getting me here was more than I could ever repay.

In the past year the people at work listened to my plan and continue to offer words of support even today. The people at EverBank are a special group, you have seen their comments, Teri, Jackie, Beth, Tricia G., Tina, Val, Naydali, and many others whom I know are there following along.

The Florida Sea Kayakers Association (FSKA) members were critical in helping me get trained, equipped, and develop the skills that I needed to paddle the waters of the Amazon. I thank every one of you, particularly Mabel, Greg, John, Franklin, Dana, Sonia, Tom, Larry, Susan, Robert, Steve, Gus, Jerry, and every member with whom I paddled.

Then there is always the family and friends. Juana, Michael, Cuca, Felix, Michelle, Matt, Catie, Mario, David, Lilia, Sebastian, Johnnie, Frankie, Sharon, Jim, Lynn, Susan M., Debbie, Barry, Adam H., all who continue to offer their kind words in support.

The list can continue on, and I know that I have forgotten several important names that will come to me later and then I will feel foolish for having omitted it, please forgive me, you are all important to me.

Cat and Mouse Game

2007-07-03T18:35:00.000-05:00

Sunday in Caballo Cocha as I took the few final pictures, a policeman with the National Police demanded to know who I was and what I as doing. I explained that I was a tourist taking photographs of the hotel where I had stayed and photos for my friends back home. He asked to see my passport and demanded that I accompany him to the police station.

At the station seated along with a plainclothes officer, the uniformed officer questioned why I had not registered upon arrival. “I registered in Chinbote as required. The officers there, then advised me that Santa Rosa, on the border was the next and final check point. I am registered at the municipal hostel and they did not mention a need to register,” I asserted myself, as he wrote the details of my passport in a log.

They had made their point, they were watching me, and upon the nod of the plainclothes officer, my passport was returned. The officer in camouflaged fatigue pants, polished combat boots, baseball cap, black polo shirt with the emblems of the National Police, and a 9mm pistol strapped to his waist, said I was free to go.

Cabballo Cocha was a power ked ready to explode again. Immediately after the interrogation, I moved my belongings from the hostel to the kayak across the river where I slept that night in my hammock strung between two trees. As soon as there was enough light to see, I folded the hammock and prepared to shove off. Fire works exploded as the kayak slipped into the water. The firecrackers were a signal for the opposition to come. The teachers must be coming into the square. A second set of explosions added urgency. I did not want to be caught in the mêlée.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I paddled on one side only and floated with the current as the locals did. The canal leading away from the city drained la cocha (a small lake), so the water had a tannin color and reflect black. The black water canal emptied into the muddy waters of a canal fed from the Amazon, hence reflected white. The black and white waters mixed together at the junction of the two canals. Both sides of the canals were mudflats now being planted with rice, beans, yucca, and other seedlings. Farmers in dugout canoes made their way to the fields, peke-pekes carried worker to unknown destinations.

By the next junction, the boat traffic had diminished to a trickle, and I had to make a decision, continue with the current for the next eighteen miles or turn upstream for two miles to the Amazon. It was a longer more strenuous route, but I had been advised to take it, and to make my way across to the Colombian side of the river. The shorter, more direct canal was considered dangerous even for the locals. “Assaults take place even in broad daylight,” Wiler the peke-peke teacher had warned.

I turned north into the flow. At first the stiff current pushed me back, and then to the side. It had caught me off guard. I then remembered Wiler’s offer to tow me to the Colombian side, for the opposing current and for safety. From the begging of the trip, I have watched as the natives in their small canoes forged up river, sometimes fully loaded. Always they stayed close to the bank where the current is weakest, sometimes a counter current aids with the climb. Imitating the natives, I worked the kayak close to shore and started pushing against the river. There was no one in sight, and the slow progress of a mile to two miles per hour allowed me to see many more birds. Two hours later, with a sigh, I entered the main channel of the Amazon.

The river was over a mile wide, two at times, and once again I had to push hard, north, towards the Colombian side. The Peruvian side was empty, wild, and frightenedly desolate. I was constantly vigilant, to the point of being paranoid. The occasional hammering of two stroke engine would cause me to strain looking for the source --a boat close to shore.

Fifteen miles and four hours later, I was exhausted from not having breakfast, being in a heighten state of alertness, and battling a head wind with choppy waves. On the Colombian side of the river, I found a deserted island. Behind a drift wood tree, (yes full trees make drift wood here where everything is big) I found shelter to make a pot of coffee and a bowl of noodle soup. The island was wild and absent the usual primitive plantings common on Peruvian islands.

After breakfast, I continued stronger and with added confidence, so I stayed in the main current even when it flowed to the Peruvian side. The river constricted and passed within a couple of hundred yards of a Peruvian settlement. When the river opened up again, I returned to the middle of the channel where I continued in a smooth rhythm while watching the nose of the kayak split the water into a mesmerizing V.

The pounding of a peke-peke gaining on me snapped me out of my dream like state. He was coming at me. Nothing unusual, for many boats swing by close to look at the unusual craft in their waters. The engine slowed to trail me. Still directly behind me, I could not turn to see who it was. I had to regain control. When the boat had approached, I had dropped the rudder to help with the wake, but there was none to come.

I kicked the left rudder paddle in, dug the left blade into the water, and leaned deep, jerking the kayak into a hard left turn. Like a dog being chased, I turned to face my opponent. There was a look of surprise by the two men in the boat as we squared off. The lead man ordered the motorman to kill the engine.

“My name is Blah Blah, I am a policeman with the town you just passed. We were wondering who you were and what you were doing.”

“I am a tourist on the way to Brazil. I have registered with the National Police in Chinbote, and Caballo Cocha.”

“Ah. Si-ii.” At this point, as he whistled his si-ii, the lead man reached to grab my bow line.

“Your credentials,” I demanded and with a determined stroke pushed back out of his reach. The man in shorts and a polo shirt now changed his story.

“I work with the police officers as and admin…” I smiled and played along. “We saw that you paddle on both sides. No one here paddles like that. We thought you might be a tourist and warn you that at the point ahead, where the canal empties from Caballo Cocha, there has been several picadas (pokes-assaults), even at noon. (It was noon.) You will be better off moving over to the Colombian side, it is safer.” I thanked him and moved on, drifting towards the Colombian side.

At about thirty-five miles, I was exhausted, and the GPS indicated another twenty-five miles to Santa Rosa, the last check point in Peru, and the last town. I would not make it before sunset. I found a a beach on an island. It was firm and had a nice beach to camp on. A young fisherman baited his trout lines so I asked him if it was safe to camp on the spot. “No. The workers from la hacienda,” he said as he pointed across the river to the grass hill with Brahmas grazing, “they will come and check. The police check also, and if they find you here, they will take you to the police station across the river.” I was in Colombia, there were new rules. Was there a beach farther on, I asked. He pointed me toward the Peruvian side a mile down river.

After forty-two miles, I came across a beach on an island with bean plants sprouting. Tall cumulous clouds were moving in fast; a storm was brewing. The camp site was away from the boat traffic. As I erected the tent, miles away, I could hear one million rain drops falling on a billion leaves. While retrieving the spikes from the kayak, a microburst blew the tent over breaking a weaken pole that had been repaired three times already. I quickly disassembled the tent to prevent any additional damage. With just enough time to put on my rain jacket, the tempest hit hard and cold. I sat on the kayak repairing the pole as the rain washed over me.

A few bites was all that I could eat of the rice mixed with a can of fish in tomato sauce that I had cooked. There was no appetite in the exhausted state. By seven I had fallen asleep and by two I was wide awake fighting the urge to urinate. I listened to the dolphins splashing and blowing their ports, the zungaro catfish feeding in the shallows, the wing song of a nighthawk, wind blown waves splashing against the shore, and the distant love songs of frogs. I looked at the time, it was three. If there was any hope of me falling back to sleep, I had to face the mosquitoes and the no-see-um bites.

I forced myself out of the tent. The bites began straightway. Good timing, the jungle danced and sang under the rain; it would not be long before it reached my little island. In the tent, scratching at the itch of new bites, the rain drummed on the rain fly; first a pitter-patter, then a static like beating. It all sounded like music to me until the sour note of a peke-peke approached.
It is coming my way! Blindly I search to find the rain jacket, then struggle to put it on in the cramped space. I scrambled out of the tent grabbing the machete as the engine stopped. In the darkness and the rain I watch as the black cut-out figure of a man moves forward in the boat to paddle with an oar towards shore and my kayak. In a samurai stance with legs open, arms crossed at parade rest, and a machete firmly in my hand, I hold the high ground, waiting in silence. It is only one man, who must have seen me set up camp, who then waited for the cover of the rain, and the wee hours of deep sleep to make his move. Mosquitoes bite at my bare feet. He saw me squirm and rushed back to pull start his motor. The combustion smothers the silence as he disappears into the darkness. I follow the sound across the river and then return to my tent where I wait for the horizon to lighten before breaking camp.

In the morning, before departing, with my binoculars I saw ant size people watching me from across the river. It was several hours before I saw anyone else. Before noon I had taken out in Leticia, Colombia and then took a lleva-lleva (take-take) boat taxi to the Peruvian side to have the passport stamped with an exit.

I will rest here a few days before heading into Brazil, and the next section known for its river pirates.

End of Peru

2007-07-03T18:19:00.000-05:00

One thousand four hundred and twenty six (1,426) miles later and I made it to the end of Peru. Half the countries are done, but only forty percent (40%) of the miles. I will spend the next three days in Laticia, Colombia celebrating, by taking a good bath, sleeping in a real bed, and hopefully eating a steak. Where is the beef! Happy forth of July to all.

I should be ready to post the next blog by tomorrow afternoon.

Mission Field Trip

2007-07-01T11:01:00.000-05:00

After leaving Iquitos, it rained every afternoon for the following three days. The first night I spent in a town called Indiana. There two off-duty national police officers reassured that the route was safe. They attributed the assaults to the days when the narco-traffic was active on the river. “You have nothing to worry about, just do not travel at night, and look for a secure place to spend the night.” That was there advice to me.

The following two nights I spent on small river islands. I made sure to camp on the side away from the river traffic and to cover the kayak with the dark tarp. It was quiet and peaceful, and for the first time I did not have visitors at night. The fourth night I went into a town called Pevas. There I met Mother Superior Ebon, from Québec, Canada. She had been at the mission twenty-five years. She held service everyday, but could not call it mass, and as he put it, she offered communion to her people. The churches priest had left to attend to his father’s funeral, and did not return.

Two days later after camping on another island and paddling only seven miles I came upon a large boat with air-conditioners hanging from every room. My thought was that it was a group of tourist and there must be some attraction. At the boat I met two people from Alabama. The boat was a group of forty from AL, TN, GA, and NC on a mission field trip. I was invited to join them for lunch. I was happy to be speaking English with a nice southern drawl. They had ice tea, with ice, peanut butter and jelly, and all kinds of luxuries. Onboard there was a dentist and a chiropractor. A line of locals and natives waited to see the doctors. A group of teenagers held a class and worked with the children who were provided with treats of crayons, candy, toys, and drawing material. A fourth group of men worked to drill a freshwater well. It was this group who I joined for it was still early morning. I helped with interpretation and lent a hand whereever possible.

For lunch we had beef stew, ham and cheese sandwiches, with ice tea. This food items, for me, were a real treat. The group had only been in country two days and had brought all of the food they would need for their weeks stay. After lunch I was asked to spend the night, so I continue to work with the well crew. While in the muck with the well crew I decided to change my Keen waterproof sandals for my rubber boots. I washed the sandals and not wanting to stow them wet, I strapped them to the kayak, and returned to work. What I found strange was the rather non interest of the local men to help with the work at the well. It was Sunday. Most of the men played futbol or were in two huts drinking sugar cane liquor or a yucca drink. By the time I returned to my kayak, my sandals had been stolen.

That evening we had catfish and rice, and more ice tea. After dinner the settlement was shown a movie on the Holy Bible, and afterwards they were asked if they were ready to accept Jesus into their hearts. About ten men, woman, and children walked up front and accepted Jesus. As we prayed, I noticed several men passed out on the lawn. That night I slept in hammock on the top deck. The air-conditioners ran all night, but I was cold outside in my hammock. I met many wonderful people onboard, and for the time being, I do not include their names here on the blog.

I left that morning feeling sad, and can only conclude that I am starting to feel isolated. The river continues to be wide, and though I can see huts and communities on the bank I continue to travel in mid river and have little contact with anyone.

Sunday, July 1, 2007. The town here in Caballo Cocha is expecting more civil unrest Monday morning, so I am relocating across the river to a raft, and will depart for the Brazilian boarder as soon as there is daylight. I should be in Laticia, Colombia in three days, and will stay there for three days before crossing into Brazil. There is an internet connection in Laticia, so you should hear from me by Wednesday or Thursday.

Again all you comments are greatly appreciated. (You do not need a pass word, or have an account to leave a comment.)

Teachers

2007-06-29T21:16:00.000-05:00

Along the way many people of all economic and educational levels have opened their doors, have shared meals, and have conversed with me. A disproportionate number of the people have been teachers. In smaller settlements, large enough to have a school, will have at least one teacher. These rural teachers are from larger cities who, out of economic necessity, have accepted assignments in the smaller communities. Many are single mothers. Because of their higher education level or maybe it is the inquisitive nature of the teachers that cause our mutual attraction that draws us into elongated conversations

Caballo Cocha is located on the edge of a small lake. To reach the city, I had to enter a canal paralleling the Amazon River, and then had to turn up another connecting channel. In the heat of the afternoon sun I struggled after paddling over thirty miles. A peke-peke slowed and pulled to my side, it was three teachers on the way into town for a five day extended weekend. They pulled me against the current the reaming mile to the town port, and before departing, they pointed me to a balsa that would keep my kayak, and directed me to the municipal hostel.

That afternoon, at the main plaza, as I sat drinking an Inka Kola, the boat operator, a teacher joined me. In our conversation I asked him about el pela-caras. He burst out in laughter and looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “It is a myth.” I told him that I had come to the conclusion that it was a legend. He then told me of his experience in a small community.

"I had been in the settlement a few weeks on a new contract, when one day I went to a vivienda (hut). It was empty, so I went to the next. That hut was also empty, so I continued to the next and it was empty. I was thinking how odd. How strange. I finally came to a hut where all the communities’ inhabitants were huddled inside with shotgun at hand. There was obvious fear in their faces. When I asked what was happening, one man responded, el pela-caras was outside in the chakra (orchard). “I laughed and told them it was a myth, then walked to the orchard to show them there was nothing there. Nothing to be afraid of; but it still took them three days to come out, and another three days for the community to return to normal.”

After he told me his story, he accompanied me to a restaurant. He had already eaten, but kept me company. I ordered the smoked lagarto blanco (white crocodilian). As we sat in the outdoor area, other teachers arrived to converse He had to leave, but before doing so, he asked another teacher to join me, so I would not have to eat alone. Profesora Raquel, her eight year old daughter, and I were introduced. Prfa. Raquel was excited that I knew her home town of Requena and wanted to know every detail of where I had stayed, what I had seen, and done. It was obvious that her heart was in Requena on the Rio Ucayali and not here where she was forced to seek employment.

Before we parted company for the evening, she gave me her telephone number and offered any assistance I may need while staying in Caballo Cocha. She paid for my fruit flavoured drink and we agreed to meet the following day for she wanted to see the kayak. Yesterday morning as I searched for an internet café, I ran into the peke-peke teacher. He was going to a reunion. Across the town square, more than a dozen teachers gathered. They stood or sat on the sidewalk in front of the offices of the Minister of Education and adminstration building. Pfsa Raquel was there, he pointed out. They were there to protect the new school system director.

He explained; “The previous director was a political appointee. He did not have a degree and was not qualified for the post. He had employed his family, but they did not work, only drew a salary. He was ousted under protest. Now the ousted director, a local, had organized the locals against the outsiders and they had threatened the new director who came from Iquitos. The teachers stand in front of the Minister of Education’s office to protect the director from physical harm. “If you look closely” he pointed, “you can see where the building has been stones several times.” After the brief explanation he left to join his fellow teachers.

That evening while at the internet café, Prfa Raquel and her sister, who is also a teacher in a small community, came up to me. They invited me to dinner. I had already eaten, but decided to join them for conversation. As we walked and her sister followed in the motorcycle, she explained that all day she had gone from one meeting to another trying to mediate and defuse the tension. Along the way she introduced me to several teachers and several prominent members of the community. They were all interested in my trip, but seemed preoccupied.

Over dinner she mentioned that Monday morning there was going to be a major confrontation. I overheard her telling a young teacher to “tell everyone to bring anything they have: shovel, machete, sticks, axes, stones whatever. Be prepared. It is going to get ugly.”

At one point on the way to the restaurant and after eating, she instructed me on where to go. “We will meet you there. You do not want to be seen with us in this area.” I took it to mean she was protecting herself from rumour mongers.

After dinner we met at her house - a new surrogated tin roof, bare cement floor, and wooden walls with open ceiling. It was a clean simple home. Her brother and daughter were there, and another teacher joined us. We watched the tail end of a movie. Her daughter sat back in her lap. It was a warm and loving embrace. They spoke of going to visit her husband, also a teacher in a rural area. “Saturday at one AM we can take la lancha,” the mother told her daughter. After the movie we all parted leaving the professor, her brother and daughter for the evening. She still expressed a desire to see and paddle the kayak. “I can handle a canoe,” she asserted. I departed, checked my email one last time before retiring to my room in the hostel off the main square.

Close to midnight, I heard fire works, then commotion. I recognized the sounds of a riot. The turmoil brought back memories of Iran. There was yellowing and screaming. I prepared myself for a quick exit. My mind went into combat mode. All I could think was, “I hope they do not burst into the building.” Then as quickly as it started there was silence. I relaxed and went to bed forgetting the incident.

In the morning I had a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich at a rundown sandwich shop. The wife asked what I was doing, so I told her of my trip. Her husband piped up, “you are going to get yourself killed.”

“We are all going to die someday,” was my response.

From there I went to the Catholic Church where four Mexican nuns were housed. The Mother Superior is from Guanajuato, one from Nayarit, and another from Guadalajara. A human’s right attorney from Aguascalientes is also staying with them. Her uncle’s father Don Dolores Gonzales was my father’s compadre. Her father and I attended school together at el Colegio Portugal. We were amazed at how small this world is. At service, conducted by one of the nuns, for there is no priest here, in her prayer offerings she said, “let is us pray for Profesora Raquel for she is in comma.”

No! It can not be he same one. She was healthy and at home just a few hours ago. Maybe I heard the wrong name.

After mass I walked to the store where I had been introduce to the store owner. He saw me, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “your friend Pfsa. Raquel was been evacuated to Iquitos.”
“What happened?”
“She was injured last night. She has been taken to Iquitos in a lisadora (aluminium boat with outboard motor). There was a clash between two groups. She was struck in the head with a stone. She was unresponsive.” I left in a state of disbelief.

In the town square, at the snack bar where I journal, the owner told me, “Last night as I was about to close, the dogs were barking, and in barged in two teachers. One was bleeding profusely, crying - they busted my head.” I showed him a photo of Raquel, and ask if it was her. “She was helping the teacher that was bleeding. I told her that she needed to get her friend to the hospital. She helped her friend out the door. Down the street --they were ambushed. They were stoned. Beaten with sticks. Look there you can see where the stones struck the door and look over there you can still see one of the sticks.” I looked to see a six foot two by two lying in the sidewalk.

Just then her sister walked across the street wearing sunglasses. In state of shock she surveyed the crime scene. I went up to her. She hugged me with tears in her eyes. “We have no word. She will not arrive until three this after noon.”

“Who went with her?” I asked.

“My brother, her daughter, a policeman, and the motorman.”

“No doctor, or nurse, or medic?” I wanted to know.

“No, they are all afraid and none would commit them selves.”
“But it is a fourteen hour trip. And in the heat of the day.” I protested, but realized that there was nothing to do now but wait.

She asked for gasoline money for her motorcycle. I emptied my pockets of the sole and a half (50 cents) and handed it to her.

Nine teachers were stoned and beaten last night. Profesora Raquel is clinging to life. She made it Iquitos and is intensive care. On the way there she started to convulse. The boat stopped and a nurse came onboard for the remainder of the trip.

There is a quiet hushes in town. The people want military intervention for the police is ineffective. They are afraid anarchy will break out. They are afraid of the civil unrest.

I recall and exchange with Professora Raquel.
She asked me, “Are you not afraid being on the river alone?”
“No, there is more danger in the cities,” I answered, then asked, “are you not afraid of the turmoil.”
“No,” she said, “we have to stand up for our rights.”

All teachers are my heroes. She was injured trying to help a fellow teacher. She could have stayed holed up, but instead she risked her life to help her friends and defend her profession.

Pray for her and of the entire rural teachers.

Big Water, Big Sky, Little Man

2007-06-28T10:58:00.000-05:00

Leaving the comforts of a city was a mental challenge. Not being bitten for a week was more than I had hoped for; being dry, grit and sand free can be habit forming. Okay, I have to admit all the stories of river bandits and pela caras had started to take a toll on me. Intuitively I know that people have a tendency to exaggerate. From experience I have learned that the cannibals are downriver, or upriver, but never here. Never-the-less, I purchased dark brown cloth, to camouflage the bright blue kayak in the evening camp, and proceeded with caution.

The Iquitos river front is bustling with boat traffic. It is a hodgepodge of boats, every imaginable Amazon water craft can be found there, from balsa wood rafts, small dugout canoes, small peke-pekes, passenger plank boats, large several-ton flat bottom passenger and commercial boats, to barges.

A no-wake zone is unknown in this part of the world. In fact, a wake is a sign of status and power. Small aluminium boats with large outboard motors operate only at full speed regardless of how close they come to smaller crafts. As I paddled out of the city, several wake caused waves washed over the kayak.

As in Pucallpa, the city is built on a side channel; hence, the current is negligible and ill defined. It was difficult finding a comfortable paddle rhythms, even the shoulder muscles protested by tighten up. It was mid-morning when finally the muscles relaxed, by noon we entered the main channel with a solid current and a little later, I settled into a comfortable stroke. The river’s width has increased to about two miles. The boat traffic diminished soon after leaving the city’s outskirts.

Silence, in what is normally a loud and noisy jungle, can be unsettling. When the river was narrow, the non-stop chatter of the psittacidae (parrots, macaws, parakeets and parrotlets) was deafening. Voices of children at play could often be heard coming from huts in the dense vegetation. But now, with the rivers bank being up to a mile away, only the muffled sounds of psittacidaes and an occasional human voice drifted in the wind.

I felt small in my kayak. In the horizon, a thin line of dark green, above a big sky, below a wide river that reflected the heavens above, it all gave the illusion of floating in outer space, untattered and insignificant.

Fluffy white clouds drifted in bringing welcome relief from the afternoon’s tropical sun, and then they slowly replaced the blue sky with a blanket of dark grey. Gentle puffs of air rippled the river’s skin. I did not bother with a rain jacket as water drops pimpled the surface. I continued to paddle in trance like state even as rain washed over me.

Caballococha (S 03° 54’ W 070° 31’)

2007-06-27T20:15:00.000-05:00

Made it to Caballococha (S 03° 54.254’ W 070° 31.087’). The city is only two days from the Brazilian border. Two miles from here, across the river to the north, is Colombia. I just had some smoked alligator, fried rice, and a fruit flavoured drink. Now I feel a lot better. Two meals a day is my norm, one in the morning, one about three to four when I find a spot to rest, except in the cities, then they normally close down for siesta and food is not available until after sunset at about six. I arrived here this afternoon at about two thirty. Again, thank you all, for all your wonderful comments. I will be here for a few days resting and should be able to post to the first blog sometime in the afternoon.

Into the Vowels

2007-06-16T19:30:00.000-05:00

Like a serpent windings its way up a staff, the journey comenced at a latitude eleven degrees south of the equator, and has meandered up the seventy fourth degree longitude. Iquitos is three degrees south. The climb to the equator will take another 2,300 miles, to a point north of Belem, Brazil. The river will now enter a bend that curves the current’s flow to the east. From here, the river flows due east along the three degree south meridian. From longitude W 74 degrees, the river continues to W 70, to a point where the Amazon River turns back in name to Rio Mareñon, and three countries Brazil, Colombia, and Peru come to together. My next segment takes me to the border towns of Laticia in Colombia, Tabatinga in Brazil, and Benjamin whish will serve as my exit point from Peru and into Brazil.

There are consistent warnings for this segment of the trip. The river widens, the wind blown waves, and of what we call in Mexico, bandidos.

“They came at you in motor boats, but don’t discount the canoes. They will wild knives, guns, or rifles. Don’t fight them or put up a resistance. They just want money, some times they will take belongings, but don’t show them you documentation or credentials. Keep them hidden.” A Rivereño warned with words of caution tempered with kind advise.

Okay, so now we know how the tax board levies it tolls in this corner of the world.

I now digress filling guilty about posting too many photographs and not enough of the trip, so I will digress here several days, to the day before I entered Requena, the District capital.
The night before entering Requena, I drank a quart of powder mild and did not filter additional water, reasoning that I would be in the “city” with internet connection, stores to restock on, and nice hotel to rest in. What I found was a deserted city. Not a single motor-car or motor cycle, or bicycle was on the streets. The intersections were strewed with broken concrete and rocks. Signs of bon fires abound. People lingered closed to their doors. The observed every one that passed and watched their every action. My instinct went straight to riot mode. There were no groups, or mobs, but then that spoke of its own. All stores were closed, there were no services available, not a single fruit stand, or ice cream vendor. The town was shut-down in protest over proposed new tax for the region. I could not buy a single soda, though I saw covert transactions taking place between friends. Mom and pop took care of their own.

I spent the night on a raft that served as a store front for a fish dealer know locally as El Hermano, the brother, for his views an Evangelical Christian. I slept in my hammock suspended over the shafts of peke-peke two stroke motors. In the morning, plank boats and dugout cones waited for day light to begin to weigh and sell their catch. El Hermano, purchase only the larger fish, over four kilos. The fish were cleaned of guts, and in some catfish species, the heads were removed. All the fish was then weight. The fisherman was paid, and the crew now rinsed the fish in the river, and packed the fish in freezer size ice coolers. At one point, when the sun was hot, and the crew was processing a large catch, I notice a worker reach for a pitcher size container. He reached over the raft, rinsed the bucket in the river, and filled it with tea colored water in one smooth action. He then chipped from the block of ice and rinsed a large cube for the water. He then added spoons of sugar. Refresco, he named it as he smacked his lips. He offered me a drink from the bucket, but in thanks I refused, he then passed it on to one of the crew who guzzled the refreshing dink.

I had less of a litter of purified water, but I refused to even consider processing the water from where I was, but the people drank directly from the river. Now if you get nauseous from what you read, skip this paragraph. The raft upon which the three room dealership is built upon is about twenty by thirty feet. One side has a platform about five by twenty. This is the primary working area. In the back there is also another platform about the same side. On the downstream corner is a small shack, the size of an outhouse. It has no roof, there is a door, and there is an opening that leads directly into the water. There are many small fish that wait for offerings from above. As the workers cooled to a drink, I walked to the back platform, where the kayak rested. In the water, the fish had rejected the offering made by the matriarch of the fishing crew, so it bobbed between the rafts logs. I was content to know at least it was down stream of the workers. I manage to convince a worker to row into town and bring me back a two litter bottle of soda.

The two days preceding Requena, I had spent two nights at a park, a national reserve. The head administrator had allowed me to stay in their unoccupied newly built barracks. The building had been constructed with World Bank funds. It felt good to be amongst a group of people who enjoy and thrive on identifying every species that they see. From a tower, in the rain, we watched as white winged parakeets dripped in rain water, a pygmy owl groomed and drying feathers, and as a large hawk perched on a snag. We sat to a chicken dinner, where I was invited to return as a volunteer park guard. I would be given a territory to monitor for poachers, and of all things, to protect the turtle eggs of which the Taricaya was on the list. Was this the Spirit of Taricaya answering my prayer of forgiveness? To go out as a guard, a lone for three months, to protect it’s eggs. Now if I come back, it would have to be with laptop and spotting scope. The guard house has a radio to communicate with. Well it is a thought.

One more night here folks. I was about to settle into a sandbar, when a peke-peke approached. The one person insisted that I go into the town around the bend. He voice spoke with authority and worse determination. They were going upstream to gather sand for the new school being built, on the way down he would accompany me. I was a few hundred yards from the town when I was pulled along. The boat operator was the justice of the peace for the town. I would gladly spend the night at his house. Next thing I know I am at a graduation ceremony where I am the guest of honor, and operated the only camera. The girl, whose name was read out by a teacher is sat on a wooden school chair. Seven graduating middle school seniors in masks and disguises cut a lock of hair from the graduating primary school student, and then sprinkle talcum powder into their hair. The boys were placed in a hand and neck lock board. Then the God Parents step in take a small ceremonial cut, but the seniors all armed with scissors cut clumps of hair from the boy. As this took place, the director turns to me and says, “This ceremony is strictly forbidden by Lima, but the town insists on keeping their traditions. “

After the ceremony, the justice of the peace, who operates a bar, with CD video player, and a nice size television; all powered by his own generator, opened up for business. After a while I realized that the party would go on all night, so I set up my tent under a banana tree.

In the morning, in those few minutes when the sky brightens, but not a single sun ray has made its way over the horizon, the urge to go hit me. I had purchased cheese in Requena and it had constipated me for two days. Now the urge came. I scrambled to find a spot behind a large log. The sky grew lighter by the second so I felt rushed. I lowered my pants and nothing. My vowels protested with a shutdown of their own. The mosquitoes took advantage of the situation and landed squadrons on the smooth surface of the moon. Every single one came armed with a sharpened straw to savior new blood. I was caught between a hard spot and blood suckers. The first half hour paddling the kayak was uncomfortable. I could not find a single comfortable position. The best break in Iquitos has been that I can go a day without a dozen bites.

Since I purchase my kayak, I have been dependent on the rudder. In fact, a few members of FSKA would comment on constant use of the rudder. On this trip, I try to concentrate on my technique several times a day. I practice with the rudder up, every day, until one day the old light bulb light up and every muscle from foot, knee, hip, to arms knew its role in controlling the boat in a straight efficient line. I first notice an increase in speed with the rudder up. By then distributing more of the load over the whole of my body, I get less fatigued, and my endurance has increased. I had to tweak the weight forward for better tracking. On the last, day to reach Iquitos, I paddled sixty-five miles for over ten hours of constant paddling and was not uncomfortable sore.

I will be heading out on Monday morning. I spent the day cleaning the kayak, and even took it for a spin, empty, it flew. I have not been able to determine the internet availability downstream. I think the worst case scenario is that there will be none until the border. That should be in about eighteen days. This is all an estimate, but I do have to be across the border by July ten. I have the flag, and will buy a can of hot dogs to celebrate Maria’s, my sister’s, birthday on the fourth of July. Must be true love for you, canned hot dogs.

Waterfront Property

2007-06-15T18:03:00.000-05:00

With a large cheese burger and a tropical juice settling in my stomach, under a shady tree by the river, I looked out into the reflection of the water. My attention turned to a balsa raft. The rafts logs were pitted, rotting, and worse for the shack that was built on it, they were waterlogged. The shack was inches from the water maybe touching a wall in some hidden place. I imagined the person living there to be a young bachelor, maybe a little rebellious, but definitively street wise.

I started to climb the path back up to the street. In the final steep and narrow path I met a woman and her infant son. With permission I took a couple of photographs of the child. “Do you live here?” I asked. She pointed to the shack I had been looking at, indicating that was her home. I watched from my perch as she led her son home.

There is so much I have to be thankful and grateful for.

A walk in Iquitos

2007-06-14T16:40:00.001-05:00

Wild Honey

2007-06-14T12:26:00.000-05:00

At about six degrees south or the equator, the north flowing river splits to a small degree. A smaller parallel river is formed. The maps referrer to it as Canal Puinahua, the locals name it Rio Puinahua. The smaller river is narrower, it is used by all commercial traffic, has smaller curves hence shorter, but the real draw for me was that it follows the eastern border of a National Reserve / Park. I was not disappointed. The river is more intimate. The banks are heavily wooded with uniform canopies. The understory is more uniform. There are many new settlements, all trying to carve out a living from the natural resources. Every newly exposed sand, clay, or silt bar is sprinkle with rice seeds. Already there are many patches of vivid green, fields of rice sprouts.

At the split with the Ucayali River, across from the town of Juancito, the operator of a peke-peke powered plankboat, slow, and yells out in laughter, “an anaconda is going to eat you up. “ An obvious reference, to the smallness of my plastic boat.

A cold front moved in as I entered the smaller channel. At mid-morning, the clouds cast a dark and gloomy sky threatening rain. A few miles into the Puinahua River, while passing a smaller settlement, from the banks a young rebel asked if I wanted to buy a face.

At the twenty-two mile mark, I stopped on a sandbar; a tiny island. A flock of blue-black, Martin like, swallows huddled on the beach and lined a fallen snag. On a half submerged drift wood pile a group of nighthawks, squatted with faces towards the wind.

I quickly set up for the rain, but none came. With a half a day free, I took the opportunity t clean and inspect the kayak and the gear. The first task was to empty both, the front and rear dry holds. The hatches have worked great, not allowing a drop of water to get in. The stern compartment accumulates moisture from the dew covered equipment. The bow compartment holds books, journals, cloths, shaving kit, and other stuff, while the rear holds all the shelter, food, water filter, cooking and eating stuff. In the cockpit, in dry bags, forward of the rudder paddles, I keep heavy cloths, spare journal and sleeping bag.

The kayak is holding up quite well. There were a few gauges in the hull, but nothing serious. On the bow, at waterline the plastic is showing the striations of wear from the debris in the flotsam. The self adhesive Velcro tape that helm my under dash bag failed miserably in the tropical heat, so I drilled two pin holes to stitch the bag in place. The spray skirt is taking a beating. The area that chaffs with the seatback is wearing. I had a shoe repairman cement a chaffing strip, but it came unglued. The worse part is that all the seam tape is starting to come off and whole sections of a plastic coating that keeps the fabric water tight, is now starting to peel. Tom, you did say this Seal, Coastal Tour spray skirt had a one year warranty? : ) Right?

After the cleaning and the inspection, the dry compartments were repacked. The boat had not been tracking right, so I increased the weight in the bow compartment and decreased the stern weight. --Shifting the weight forward helped immensely with the tracking.

I am getting to know the bird sounds of the jungle. The loudest and strangest belongs to a large goose size bird with the bill of chicken, the stance of a goose, and has a single horn protruding from it`s forehead. The Horned Screamer’s call sounds and is consistently louder than a donkey’s bray while engaged in primeval urges.

On a beach while contemplating a campsite, Lucas approached I a small canoe. “Fishing, or are ya’ returning from working a chakra plot, “ I asked.

“Returning from my chakra,” we started our conversation. He was on his way to the settlement where he lives, he then offered the use of his chakra house.” It is empty, you can spend the night there,” with that he led me to the chakra house. It was not complete and half his palm bark floor had been stolen the previous winter. His cook had not gone for the evening, she left leaving me a Palometa fish. The fire still smoldered. In minutes after they left I was making tea, cooking rice, and fried fish over an open fire. I set up the tent of the stilted floor.

The following afternoon, as I paddled by an isolated house, the wife washed cloths, three children and their father sat near her chatting. “Hola. Mist-eeer. ¿A donde?...join us for lunch,” Sergio the forty-five year old father invited.

“I have already eaten,” I lied. “But if you do not mind I will get out and stretch,” I asked. After a few minutes we pulled the kayak onto the embankment. A few yards back from the bank, the depression of where a hut had stood for year caught my attention. “I am in the process of moving my house back, “ Sergio said as he pointed to his tin roofed house a few yards farther back in the jungle clearing. A troop of monkeys moved through back lot trees. The archaeologist came out in me when my eyes crossed a large earthen base discarded in a field. I held it like aprecious geme while admiring all of its fine details. It was a fired terracotta tinaja, a water jug. With red slip a geometric design adorned its rounded shape. I took several photographs and asked Sergio to protect the vase. “It will be worth a lot of money in a few years,” I whispered to him.

Later in the afternoon, I asked Sergio to take me for a walk in the jungle. We followed a newly cut path, he called a road, that connected his house to the local settlement. The cathedral like coolness and soft light gives the impression of sanctity. I took photographs of flowers, fruits, insects, and my host.

In late afternoon, the thirteen year old son was sent to check the fish traps. Half an hour later the Brandonly returned with several fish which the wife cooked in a fish broth. I strung the hammock across beams under the front veranda. The parents and the children laid fabric covered foam pads on the floor, and slept under mosquito nets hung over the bedding. With an oil lamp the eldest finished his homework under the netting.

In the morning Sergio told me of a nest he had found. He was going to retrieve it. He spoke of how delicious it was, but for the word nest I visualized a birds nest. No it is a colmeta. A bee I asked, and he confirmed that it was, but it does not sting, it bites, he reassured me after the invitation to accompany him. An ax, a machete, and a aluminum pot under his arm he led me through the jungle following a small path. We walked deeper into the interior. He stopped suddenly and asked while pointing up with one finger, “what do you hear?” he asked. I listen to hear the buzz and turn to see the entrance to a bees nest. With ax, he cuts to a working height the log retains the nest in its hollows. Sergio chops into the log with precision cuts until the hive is exposed; its chambers filled with honey are now exposed. With hand Sergio laps up honey, and I with a spoon fashioned from a leave, dip spoon full of wild honey, thin wild syrup, tasting of exotic flowers. Only the minimal amount will be consumed it will be sold as a tonic.

Pela-caras

2007-06-13T23:46:00.000-05:00

"Amigo-ooo;" they extend their vowels as to reverberate, and it carries across the spend of the river, the screeching of the parakeets, and whisper of the wind.

“Amigo-ooo…¿Donde-eee?” (Friend. Where?)

“Iquito-ooos.”

Fallowed by a long pause, almost silence, then , “es lejos.” (It is far.)

“Si. Unos dias mas.” (Yes, a few days more.)

Fallowed by another long pause, almost silence, then, “¿Solo?" (Alone?)

“Con Dios.” (With God.)

“Ahhh Si-ii.”

The sandbars are my favorite place to camp for it allows me to get the most rest. But when there is no beach available I have to look for alternatives. It is that hour that will determine how my evening will go.

I came upon a clearing in the bank with a lumber mill on the high ground. The area used as a ramp for the logs is handy for getting the kayak up. There was a twenty hut town of homesteaders, but only two hut were visible from the river. I walked into the mill and asked for the person in charge. The owner operator had his men bring my kayak up the embankment and placed next to a stack of logs. I was happy that the blue boat would attract less attention in the lumber mill. The half-dozen workers had just begun their lunch brake so it gave me a chance to introduce myself and answer their questions. When they returned to work, they fell prey to my camera. I slept in the hammock strung between two column beams. The jungle store bodega owners wife provided two of us a meal of, roasted chicken, rice, parboiled plantains and a cup of hot sweet herbal tea, all for three soles, one us dollar.

One night, on a small sandbar, I awoke to the sound of voices. As they were announcing their presence, I crawled out of my tent shirtless. There were six hard bodied fishermen standing in a semicircle around me. They all had black high rubber boots. Long shadows mimicked the hoping and the slapping of mosquitoes while I answered their inquiries. Once satisfied, they returned to their fish camp downstream at the far end of the sandbar. They departed with an invitation to came in the morning for fresh fish. On the way I stopped to say goodbye and was handed a two pound newly cleaned catfish.

The water level was still high and had just started to reseed in this area and the few beaches were still soft clay, so I was forced to choose to stay the night in a small town. Before getting out, I asked an elderly man if it would be okay to spend the night. He assured it would alright. We chatted for a few minutes while his wife bathed from atop a dugout. She wore a loose fitting skirt and blouse. She was unhampered by my presence; her hands went where they needed to go to wash. A second elderly man induced two young man to carry my kayak up the embankment, and then he proceeded to find a flat spot on a shelf of the bank. After I had setup the tent, he said, “you realize there are rooms set aside for travelers. We would have carried your canoa there.”

Within a minute there were a couple of dozen children and adults watching, staring, and gawking at my every move. They look at and touched the kayak while I went through my, by now well scripted, response, to include a history of the kayak. As I spoke to the crowd a twenty-something women washed cloths on a dugout. She stood in the water, and when all the cloths had been wrung and piled into a red plastic bin, she dipped under the water. Water dripped from her long coal black hair. Her t-shirt clung to her body as she began to bathe unhampered by the mob above her head.

After most people had left and only a half-dozen people remained, I found myself staring into the rivers current. A voice from behind me said, “why don’t you walk over to the town center, there is more activity there.”

Man played futbal soccer in a grass field while a game of volley ball was being played by the woman. Then the man invited me to go with him for fruit from his house. We walked toward the rear of the town, through a banana grove, a small orange orchard, and past a vegetable garden. From an orange tree he picked oranges, with a stick he brought down an avocado, from behind bushes he brought out sweet bananas; he offered more but I had to refuse for the limited space. Neil Roja Montes had built his house and proudly posed for a photograph with it.

In the shade of fruit tree he warned me, “you have to be careful around here. The people are fearful of strangers for they think they are the pela-caras. Out of fear, they will kill the stranger. Peel his face off. The body will be dumped in a cocha, a swampy area.”

“When was the last time this happened?”

“About two years ago.” All other answers were vague and shrouded in mystery.

In the last rays of sunlight a woman in her forties bathe wearing only a skirt. People walked by on the bank without giving the topless woman a second look.

The next day as I passed the pueblo of Santa Rosa, a man yelled out, “¿quieres compare, cara, de persona?

Do you want to buy the face of a person, he asked, and I replied, “la tuya.”

The reply of, just your face, was followed by dead silence. I was angered by his comments, for it opened the gates to a zone of fear. Alarms rang at the recall of the sloth replayed. The boy had said, “get the shotgun, es un pela caras. “ Not pale face, nor long face, nor was he referring to the sloth, he was referring to me! The foreigner, is, “el pela-caras.” He was the one who came to kill and peel faces from the people. The boy was labeling me as “el pela-caras.” The crime rate is higher in the cities. Everyday the news of a death, or a crime is announced. Who was killed two years ago? No one remembers. Yet here in the jungle, a crime takes place, everyone hears of it, and the event becomes part of the community’s conscience being remembered as if it took place just, yesterday. There is no new incident to erase the thought of the crime. So I reasoned and continued to paddle all the while pondering the possibilities.

The curiosity had to be satisfied. I asked several people, but the subject was smothered in sensation almost a state of superstitious fear. The first few people could not give me exact time frames of when this had occurred. Then one man, bold and sharply dressed, stated that in the decade he had been there, he had been hearing about the pela-caras, but no incidents of homicide of the sort had occurred since he had been there. He attributed la pela- caras to ignorance of the people. But, his words did not reassure me, for fear reinforced by ignorance could be a loaded gun or the reflex of a machete wielded against me.

"The pela-caras is a tall white man. Some say he is a gringo who enjoys killing and taking body parts, in particular faces. He strikes at night when one is alone."

Photo emotions.

2007-06-13T16:01:00.000-05:00

Even the process of recalling the previous segments events and then synthesize into a meaningful statement is a challenge. I’m in sensory overload here; visual, physical, culturally, linguistic, and mentally. Every ounce of me is trying to observe, maybe understand, to know just a little more. There is so much, but I can only convey a fraction of the minute amount that I have been able to capture. There are photos that say something to me and hopefully to you too. I have no words for the photographs so I will just post them so you can share the experience along with me.

Birds and Fishcamps

2007-06-12T19:24:00.000-05:00

The first night, I camped on a sandy beach and feasted on the palometa fish. The topmost layer of the sandbar was dry and warm; the perfect habitat for shorebirds to nest on.

A Sand-colored Nighthawk cooed as they flew-by in mock dog fights, then the male lands and puffs his neck and wings, all-the-while cooing to attract the female who sits nearby attentively watching while playing coy. The scene is repeated by three dozen nighthawks until the last of the moon’s rays give way to the star lights. Tiny Collard Plovers spurred for dominance and territory. A hundred Large–billed and Yellow-Billed Terns noisily squawked and squeaked on the nesting grounds of the sandbar. It was a noisy beach, but a much welcome change from the un-muffled roar of motor-cars in the city. The ruckus continued as I fried the fish and past sunset.

The motor boat had not extended out far from the city of Contama. La selva jungle returned rapidly along with the screeching squeal of the parakeets. But through the day I had heard the distant sound of a huey, the Vietnam era helicopter. Once again I attributed it to my imagination playing tricks on me; it must be distant sound of a peke-peke, not the wop-wop of rotor blades.

The previous night a family with a fish camp on the other end of the sandbar visited at night after I had retired to the tent and had fallen asleep. Franklin, a teenage boy I had spoken to earlier, had brought his father to meet me. Their voices outside the tent awoke me. A few yards out the father called-out to announce his presence. In the deep shadows of a blue moon we spoke. The father, the son, a second teenager, and a two year old little girl named Gina. Between hops and slapping mosquitoes we spoke.

The father and the mother had been bateing the trout lines. Two wild cane poles are driven into the water; a line with three hooks is then strung between the poles. Three times during the night, Frankie, goes out alone, in his dugout cone, to check the lines. “If we leave the caught fish out too long, lagartos, or fish will eat our catch.” The father invited me for breakfast before returning to his camp. Before departing he asked if I had news of the aircraft that had crashed in the rainstorm the day before yesterday, killing twenty people.

In the morning I went to the fish camp which had just grown by two campsites during the night. They had caught several Zungaros, a type of catfish. I was given a plate with a whole roasted fish, a parboiled plantain, and a pinch of course grain salt that they use to salt fish. Gena, the two-year old was also given a whole fish, bones, fins, and all. She devoured the meat by breaking chunks of meat with her small fingers or by sucking the bone clean. She asked for more and was given seconds and thirds. Her mother looked at me and said, “she loves to eat fish.”

I thought of the differences in child rearing practices between our cultures. The father asked for me to wait for him, for the family was going into town for the week-end. Five girls were left behind in town so they could continue in their studies. “But, Frankie, he does not want to study,” his father said. I waited and paddled a few mile to his village. “You will pass past the site where the airplane crashed. You see that hill, the river passes beneath it; that is the place.”

At noon I came to a large sandy sandbar where I got out to take a break. A man with a teenager stopped. After, where you going, where you coming from…, “yesterday this was the staging area where the marine and police helicopters landed. They would fly dead and injured here.” As we spoke the distant sound of rotor blades slapping the air approached nearer until a speck appeared above the tree line. “They are still looking for two missing passengers,” the canoeist said before departing.

That day I made it to Orellana, at night while speaking to the hostel owner, she interrupted our conversation when she saw the time and invited me to watch the news special of the crash. The airplane had departed from Orellana when it crashed. The pilot and other dead were well known or were citizens of the small town. The television was brought out and placed on the store's display case. Several people pulled lawn chairs to watch. It was raw footage of the crash site and recovery. A huey helicopter hovers over the canopy while a basked uncontrollably spins under the hoist cable. Then the camera swing to the impact site. The shredded remains o f a Twin Otter, the remnants of a turbine engines, and the mangled bodies of corps are shown in an overview. The camera then focuses on the ruptured skulls, the severed limbs, the lifeless bodies under debris. A group of survivors is fund huddled under a thatched roof. The camera focuses on the split skull wrapped in a blood soaked shirt used as a bandage. A man with broken ribs and in obvious shock is interviewed for exclusive news. A woman glazed looks goes unfocused as she tell of walking in the dark and rain to the shelter. Not a single medic, no signs of any one administering first aid. Back at the crash site they show the pilots corps being loaded onto a gurney, then the soldier is showing picking up the severed leg and placing it on top of his torso, still wearing a fully laced boot.

The mother turned in disgust, and blurs out, “they have gone too far in showing this.” I stepped out into the street and see the whole town gathered around televisions in stores watching the exclusive news.

In the morning I went back out into the river. The only internet connection belonged to the district government, so I was unable to post.

Back in the water

2007-06-12T11:13:00.000-05:00

After my long rest in Contaman it felt good to get back on the river. The guardenia family was there to see me off. The river was chocked with flotsam from the previous day’s rain, and the water was thick with silt. After several days rest, the muscles were tight but by mid morning I was back in stride, so I thought. At about fifteen mile I stopped at a beach that turned out to be semi-firm. I sat on the stern deck while eating some crackers and drinking Tang orange juice mix. After a ten minute break, the kayak had settled into the silt so it took some effort to pry it from the bank. I then went to get in, but had failed to register the motor boat that had just passed. With my right foot buried in inches of clay, I swung the right foot over the kayak, like mounting a horse, and then I pulled hard on the left foot to free it of the silt as the wake of the passing boat went by, I then found myself underwater looking up through the mocha water. I was over my head, but in one hand held the kayak, in the other the paddle. The boat had not flipped over, for a second I considered inflating the PFD but realized I was in no danger. The current carried me close to the shore so I swam pushing the kayak back to the bank where I took inventory of myself and was thankful not to have lost my eye glasses nor the camera. Dripping wet, I quickly got in the boat and scolded myself for been complacence.

To continue to write the blog in journal format would be overwhelming hence I have elected to take a few topics and subjects and focus on them, but still in a somewhat chronological order.

The river level is higher in this segment but the currents speed has stayed consistent between 2.5 to 3.5 miles per hour. The turbulent hazards have all but disappeared with the exception of the strainers. There are segments where eddies abound; it must be from unseen underwater obstacles, because it is not just at the line where the fast water sheers with slower water or the outer edges. At times, the vortexes and whirlpools resemble the inner gears of an old time spring watch where small and large gears turn clockwise and counter clockwise. Other times the water is flat and glazed reflecting the clouds and tree line. Small wind made waves came alonw with a brief respite from the monotony of flat water and relief from the clammy heat.

One of the most often asked question from the locals is, “how does la canoa, handle the oleada (wave action)?” At first this question was confusing since I did not know what they were referring too. Was it the wind blown waves, the boat’s wake, the currents standing waves, or was there a wave action that I had not encountered? But the question was consistent, just about everyone asked and seemed concerned especially when they saw me paddling mid stream.

“The kayak is designed for the sea and rides over the waves and the spray skirt keeps the water out,” was my normal response. They seemed satisfied, but the consistency of the question concerned me and made me inquire for specifics.

Their dugout canoes and plank boats are incapable of handling any type of irregular or large waves. Their open design and with gunwales only inches above the water line, makes their boat prone to swamping. “When we see a lancha (barge or passenger boat) coming we head for the bank, or end up in the water swimming.”

At about the 25 mile mark, wet and still uncomfortable, I came upon a large dry sandy beach, but there was a fishing camp. Still too early to stop, but then I saw the smoke from the campfire, with my inhibitions now gone, I pulled the kayak to shore in front of the camp; after the usual questions I asked to get out and stretch my legs. A few minutes later I had my kettle in the fire making tea. They invited me to grilled fish for lunch, but I refused wanting to make the 30 mile mark for the day. They showed me the big Torre catfish they had caught. I loved the color. One of the young fisherman captured a mole cricked when I asked what was making the burrows in the sand. As I left the fisherwoman gave me several Palometa fish, but I only accepted two for dinner.

Over 1,000 miles kayaked.

2007-06-11T06:27:00.000-05:00

1,100 kayaking and I’m in Iquitos, the first stop was Cyber Café. I’m stinky, tired, and do not have a hotel, and have separation anxiety since I had to leave the kayak in a warehouse in Mercado Belem, the ghetto. I will write more as soon as I find a hotel bath and rest a little. Thank you all for your wonderful comments. As soon as I can find my card reader, get a little rest, then I will start to post. You can stop worrying now; I am safe in civilization, in a city. The warehouse man said, as I walked out, “you´re not wearing a watch are you? Watch your self.”

Rained Out

2007-05-24T13:13:00.000-05:00

Thursday, May 24, 2007
Rained out! I had the kayak loaded and ready to go, and the sky fell out. I waited, thinking it would pass. The owner of the guradenia, and his friend, who had come to watch me launch, said it would last all day. “When it starts soft, it will last all day,” is what they said. I waited two hours and came to the same conclusion; hence, I postponed departure for one more day. It is mid-afternoon now, and whenever the rain slows, the wind starts gusting.

It seems like the whole town comes to a standstill in a downpour. Motor-cars stop, merchants stand in their door ways, and pedestrians hunkered under awnings and rooflines.

I wanted to post a couple of photographs of the guardenia where I have kept my kayak. It is a floating two room “house,” built on a log raft. Julian, Janie, and their two children live on the raft. One room is the bedroom where the parents sleep. The children sleep in hammocks in the other room, which serves as the living and workroom; it is here that they kept my kayak. Too one side, under the roofline, in a cut drum, the mother uses firewood to cook the families meals. From what I have seen it is mostly fish that is caught with a gill net extended from the raft. On the same side of the cooking area, but accessed from the river’s side is a blocked off area, that serves as the toilet. (All the matter drops into the passing current.) Today in a large plastic tub, they collected rainwater for drinking.

Yesterday, I watched as two (single strand) electrical wires were run to the house. Julian is totally unaware of electricity and thought that only one strand was needed to complete a circuit. The worker made fun of his ignorance. Julian and his wife were both elated be getting electricity. The television was plugged-in longed before the hook-up was complete. A new light bulb sat on the unfinished wooden table.

In the morning, in pastel blue skirt and white blouse, the eight year old girl walks the plank, climbs the stairs cut into the clay bank, and goes off to school. At noon, in same colored blue pants and white shirt, the ten year old boy goes to class.

There is hope in education.

We all have allot to be thankful for, I certainly do.

Contamana (S 07° W075°)

2007-05-23T10:29:00.000-05:00

Contamana (S 07° W075°) is a provincial capital in the Department of Loreto, and has a population about 15 to 20 thousand. The only way to reach the city is via the Ucayali River or by airplane. On first impression from the river the city looks like a rustic and deprived frontier town. On closer examination the city is clean and progressing. The ATM machine is installed but not yet hooked up, there has not been a single power interruption, and there is an internet connection, albeit overloaded.

This is a great place if you like fish and chicken. I had a fried Palmeta fish for breakfast (see photo); yes fried fish is a common breakfast, there no Egg McMuffins here. Most plates are served with rice, plantains, yucca, and a side of sliced cucumber, cabbage and tomato salad. A bowl of chicken noodle is first served with dinner, then the main course, along with a glass of fresh fruit drink. I took a photograph of a vendor at the morning farmer’s market selling yucca; it is a root that grows in nutrient poor soil. There is also a photograph of a street vendor selling food; that is where I had dinner one night.

This is all for now folks. Since I am getting mixed information about what services are available downriver, I’m not sure if I will be able to blog before reaching Iquitos in about 15 days. Orellana, is only 3 to 4 days away and it is said to have internet service for a few hours a day, when electricity is available. Then Requena, about ten days from here is the same story. If there are services, then by next week you will here from me. If not then, it might be two weeks. You all take care.

Jacquie, my thoughts and prayers are with you. I will tie a ribbon on my kayak, and with each flutter in the wind, let it be a prayer for your health, and our great adventure called life. AjR