“Let’s keep going.” I noticed how prettily the morning light played on the banana leaves and corn. Plunging back down the path, we discovered that it wound through similar clearings, spaced fifty or sixty yards apart.
Encountering people working their chacras—small farms—we bade them good morning, asking, “¿Tiene balsas aqui?” Have you rafts here?
The people were all good-natured. Rafts or no, they asked where we were from and where we were going. At the mention of Riberalta they nodded and smiled, then wished us good luck.
Eventually, we came to a clearing where a bare-chested young man chopped wood with a machete while his wife played with two children on a stilt shack’s porch.
He introduced himself as Ernesto Rivera and his wife, Guillermina. They were interested to know all about us and said they were both schoolteachers. The shack wasn’t their home, just a shelter they used while farming. They lived in town and came to the river when school was out of session. Neither spoke English, but they were very helpful as we struggled with Spanish. Ernesto had no raft but was happy to take us across the river in his canoe to his friend’s plantation. There we found a raft measuring about sixteen by fourteen feet. Much too big for us, it had huge gaps between the logs.
Without a word, Ernesto’s slashing machete quickly severed the crosspieces of the first four logs, leaving the best four for us. Ernesto explained we should build a platform over half the raft and cover it with a tent for shelter and comfort. Ernesto’s friend gave us the raft, even volunteering to tow it to a convenient spot for outfitting. He wouldn’t accept payment. Within minutes, Ernesto, his friend, Fitz, and I were chugging across the Tambopata River in his pecky-pecky, a long, narrow boat with a lawn-mower-sized engine.
“We depend upon the kindness of strangers!” Fitz shouted to me over the clatter of the engine.
I smiled at his bastardization of Blanche’s line in A Streetcar Named Desire and called back, “Everyone’s so nice. It almost makes me want to stay.”
We tied up on the bank of the Tambopata River, a few yards from where it flowed into the Madre de Dios River, and not far from the sawmill where we could buy boards to make the platform for the tent. Our closest neighbor was a slaughterhouse just above us on the bank. It was nothing more than a cement floor pitched to a drain with a thatched roof and no walls. Large steel hooks dangled from a beam beneath the roof. Four tethered beef cattle munched grass nearby.
In the morning, we returned to work on the raft to find one cow gone. A carcass of fat-streaked flesh hung on hooks. I smelled the bloody stench and presumed that the three other cows did, too.
Fitz stared at the remaining cattle, which continued to graze indifferently, flicking their tails in the sun. “It’s like ’Nam,” he said, “death is all around but you can’t believe it will happen to you.”
—
Ernesto helped us with our raft after working his chacra each day. Word spread quickly through the jungle town about the two gringos. Soon it seemed everyone knew of our plan. Children hung around the raft all day while we worked. Their parents came in shifts to watch us, a few at a time, before continuing down the path to their plots. When the children became bored they would splash in the water or play tag. There were times when I joined them. Three young men who’d been lounging idly on the bank helped us carry lumber from the sawmill. All day long people came to the riverbank, stared awhile, and then left. Sometimes they sat watching quietly. Other times they asked questions about the trip, or about building the platform for the tent over the widely spaced balsa logs, listening carefully to our broken Spanish answers. They corrected us when we made mistakes, and we would laugh at our linguistic clumsiness.
When I gathered sticks on the bank for our cookstove, the children followed me. I laid the kindling on the raft. Soon the kids fell into doing the same. Grins in their round, brown faces exploded with pride as they placed piles of sticks onto the stern of the raft.
“You’re wonderful,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
They shifted and wiggled then ran off to find more.
As we walked through town, carrying nails or rolls of plastic sheeting, borrowed hammers or saws, people waved and smiled at us. Sometimes they gawked. I felt like a celebrity. We were busy and the time passed quickly. By evening we were famished, eager for La Genovesa’s food and company. En route, villagers stepped out of open-fronted shops and cafés to greet us warmly and inquire about our progress. It was the most sociable town we’d ever visited. These people made their own entertainment. They loved to share stories and became immersed in the making of ours.
On our third day, when we had finished hammering the last board of the tent floor, Juan and a friend from the bank, Jim, helped us to construct the tent over it, using poles cut from trees and sheets of pink and blue plastic we’d purchased in town. We stretched the plastic over the poles and borrowed a large stapler from the bank to secure it in place. The plastic was thinner than a tarp but much thicker than a trash bag.
Fitz made a stove by cutting open one side of an empty five-gallon canola oilcan and covering the opening with chicken wire for a grill, as instructed by the hardware shop owner. Then he nailed the bottom of the metal can to a log on the raft, equidistant between the tent and where the tiller would go. This would be our outdoor kitchen where we would burn the kindling inside the can to boil water, heat Spam, or fry eggs in a pan on top of the chicken wire. Many used these same stoves like barbecue grills back home. The grill was safe enough, but our “deck” would never pass inspection in Connecticut because of its ankle-snapping gaps.
We purchased oranges, bread, canned sausages, tuna, sardines, and cheese, as well as a drop line and two fishhooks. The hooks were huge, but they were the only size carried by the store.
“What kind of fish could this be for?” I pulled a four-inch curved hook out of the brown paper bag. “You’d have to be awfully strong to pull it in.”
“Looks like it’s for the fish from The Old Man and the Sea,” Fitz said, laughing.
I thought about the story of the hungry Cuban’s perseverance with the great fish at the end of his line. “I hope we’ll have better luck than he did.”
We left the open-fronted hardware store and walked toward the raft with our supplies.
“Everything’s bigger here in the jungle than it is at home,” I noted, “the trees, the reptiles, the fish. They’re all bigger than life, even the mosquitoes…”
“That reminds me,” Fitz interrupted. “Juan said to get a mosquitero. Oh, and a machete. I’m not sure what for.”
“Maybe we have to cut back limbs or vines on the river,” I said.
“Maybe. I asked him why we needed it, but he was ambiguous. Probably thinks it’s obvious,” Fitz replied.
The only explicit advice Juan had actually given us was “Don’t ever swim in the water.”
“Why?” I had asked, taken aback. We’d watched the children splashing in the harbor, enjoying it with high squeals. “I thought the caiman are dormant during the rainy season.”
“They are. It’s the candiru you have to watch out for,” he’d said solemnly.
“The who?” Fitz had asked.
“A minuscule saw-toothed fish, downriver. They’ll swim up your butt and latch on to your intestines, suck your blood until you die.”
Fitz and I had stared at each other and then at him.
“You’re kidding?” I’d gasped. We’d seen piranha and knew that when in a frenzy they could strip prey to the bone within minutes, but mainly if the prey were already bleeding.
“You don’t have to be bleeding. Candiru are parasitic. They’ll find you if you’re swimming.”
“Okay, we definitely won’t be swimming,” Fitz had agreed.
—
Each evening, we would meet up with Juan at La Genovesa to discuss the day’s work or to draw up lists of provisions we would need for our trip. One night, Juan suggested that Fitz buy a rifle.
“What for?” Fit
z asked, his voice rising.
“You never know…,” Juan replied.
“Are the people on the river unfriendly?” Fitz took a cigarette out of his pack and pushed his hand around his pocket for matches. “Would the Indians or animals attack us?”
“No, nothing like that.” Juan looked into the distance as if he were seeing into the wild. “You won’t have any trouble with the indigenous people. And as long as you keep by the river, you won’t meet any fierce animals.”
“Then why bring a rifle?”
Juan shrugged his shoulders. “You never know. It’s just something useful to have with you.”
Fitz hated guns. Two years as an infantry rifleman had convinced him that having a rifle as a civilian was a bad idea. “I’m not going to get one,” he said after Juan left. “It’s just an invitation to trouble.”
I understood his reluctance to carry a gun. He’d never said much about the war, but I did know of one experience that had affected him deeply. On his first day carrying his lieutenant’s radio in Vietnam, the lieutenant was shot dead trying to save another friend who also died in the ambush.
After Fitz returned to the United States, the lieutenant’s family asked him to visit in Darien, Connecticut, to talk about their son’s death and to provide details concerning rolls of film he had mailed home from Vietnam. When I put Fitz on a bus to go, he was not looking forward to the visit but felt it was the least he could do for the lieutenant. He looked somber upon his return. The visit apparently helped the family reach closure, but it had compelled Fitz to relive the horrors of war.
—
On our last afternoon in Puerto Maldonado, after buying all our supplies, I tallied the costs in my budget log.
All totaled, we’d spent $19.37 on goods, including four boxes of food—mostly Spam, beans, cheese, and rice. We’d bought two Panama straw hats ($2.34 each); a flashlight and batteries ($1.23); the mosquito netting, the chicken wire, the recycled five-gallon canola oilcan (without the oil), the rolls of plastic to build the tent, a hammer and nails, and a fifteen-foot rope (cost lumped in with general supplies). The steel machete was $1.34; for the workers who used machetes, that was equal to a month’s salary.
We already owned a sleeping bag, a sheet, and the two handwoven blanket ponchos we’d bought at a market in the Andes. I doubted we’d need wool blankets in the jungle, but they’d be good padding to put under us for sleeping on the hard floor.
Ernesto had made a rudder from a piece of wood he’d found in the scrap pile behind his house. We’d watched him wield his machete, shaping the wood as if it were clay. The base of the machete’s wide blade was used like a hammer, its edge sharp as a knife.
Fitz and I nailed the rudder to a long pole and then slid it through two crossed sticks at the stern of the raft. We then tied a thirty-foot vine that Ernesto had given us onto the stern to use as a painter.
After four days, the raft was set to go. We would sleep on her tonight and leave in the morning.
—
Fitz and I made our rounds that evening, saying good-bye to the shopkeepers who’d given us their time and helpful advice. We strolled, hand in hand, to La Genovesa for our last dinner, where we were to meet up with Juan and Jim. They were leaving at first light for an expedition up the Madre, so they would miss our grand launching.
Jim handed me a brown paper bag. “For the christening,” he said. “There’s no champagne in the jungle, but you’ve got to have something.”
I opened the bag and pulled out a quart bottle of local beer. “How nice of you!”
“You have that tradition, too, right?” he asked. “For the launching of a new boat? It’s good luck.”
“Yes. And we could use all the luck we can get!” I laughed. We all laughed. I was excited about the trip but nervous, too.
“I wish you could be at the launching,” I said, sad to think we would probably never see these kind men again.
“I’m sorry to miss it,” Juan agreed.
Our paths were going in different directions—he was headed west, in search of gold, and we were going northeast. Part of traveling was leaving behind people you liked.
“We won’t forget you,” Fitz said as he shook the men’s hands gratefully.
“And we won’t forget you,” they said in unison, looking at the two of us.
“You’ll have the time of your life,” Juan said, smiling, bowing, and kissing my hand.
The Genovesa family came over to our table. It was our last good-bye to them as well. They gave us letters they’d written to relatives in Riberalta, which we promised to deliver. Mr. Genovesa’s wild, spiraling gestures, his sky-high exuberance, his wife’s smiling, sun-shaped face and soft voice had been as much a part of our meals as lomo saltado, Italian style. We felt as if we’d just finished dinner at one of our parents’ homes, so comfortable at La Genovesa that we sometimes forgot to pay. They never gave us dinner checks or told us how much we owed. We had to pry it out of them.
After hugging the Genovesas, Fitz and I wandered along the riverbank to the hotel to collect our things. The fragrance of flowers floated on the night’s river breeze. It seemed as if we, too, were floating, heads full of jungle-rafting dreams. The bright moon suffused this world in a silver bath and splashed the river almost white.
In anticipation, we carried all our supplies to the raft. That night we would be trading screened windows and a bed at the Chavez Hotel for hard boards and mosquito netting in the tent. Even the almost-full moon seemed jovial, like a lantern beckoning us onward. My step quickened as the light illuminated our path to the river. A few clouds moved across the sky, crisscrossed the moon, and then passed on. One lingered long enough to shadow the light. I did not see this as an omen as I skipped down the dirt road to the raft. I felt nothing but joy and a sense of adventure ahead.
Too hot to crawl inside, we settled on top of our sleeping bag—the blankets placed beneath it for padding—with a sheet pulled over us. Fitz untied my braids, smoothing my hair down my back. Soon I was lulled to sleep by water lapping against our raft and soft summer voices drifting along the river.
Chapter 8
Launch Day
FEBRUARY 15
I bolted upright from our makeshift bed. It had been surprisingly restful. Inhaling the fresh morning air, I felt a rush. “Wake up, Fitz! It’s launch day!” I kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair.
When I stepped outside, everything was wet, but not a drop of rain had seeped into the tent. It was watertight. The mosquitero had kept us safe from the buzzing mosquitoes. “This is unbelievable,” I called to Fitz. “We’re really ready to go!”
I looked past the Tambopata riverbank to where it merged with the Madre de Dios River. The Madre was maybe half a mile wide at this point. The early morning sun sparkled on her surface as she lazily meandered. Trees speckled our bank with shadow, but the shade didn’t reach the Tambopata’s water. Our raft, tied with its long vine to one of those trees, was floating in bright sunlight. Beyond us, where we were headed, the Madre widened to the east and curved. What beckons around that bend? I wondered.
I darted inside and smacked a kiss on Fitz’s mouth. “Are you ready for the time of your life?”
“Yes,” he said, opening his eyes.
I pulled his arms up while he tried to wind them around me and pull me down. “Come see. You’re going to love it.” I wriggled free. “The sun’s out. It’s a glorious day for the raft trip!”
“The hell with that. I like it right here.” He reached for me again.
“Fitz, come on,” I said, giggling while trying to ignore him. “We have lots to do.”
“Okay, Hol. I’m awake!” He wiped his eyes and stretched out his long legs.
“Hungry?” I ducked out of the tent to put kindling in the stove.
High in the trees, birds were in full song, flying back and forth across the Madre. The fragrance of oranges drifted toward us on the dawn’s dewy air. I took a deep breath. The air was cool and sha
rp, early morning, when everything begins again. Two small bright green birds perched briefly on the tent’s peak then flew away. They’re just like us, I thought, flying free.
“I’ll make coffee.” Fitz yawned. As he pushed aside the tent’s flap he bumped his head on one of the framing poles. The tent’s opening was six inches shorter than he was.
Fitz boiled river water from a water bottle we’d treated with halazone tablets to make the water safe to drink. He prepared our first breakfast using the frying and saucepans from my Girl Scout mess kit. I’d carried it for the past few months in my backpack but had never used it until now. Fitz fried two eggs for me. Loathing eggs himself, he decided on cheese, bread, and jam.
By the time we sat down to eat, the tropical sun had dried the logs. Some locals crouched on the riverbank, watching us. I didn’t want to leave these friendly people who’d helped us get the raft ready to launch. My stomach knotted. Were we crazy to head out alone, into a jungle river we knew nothing about? It was what we’d wanted to do, and had planned to do ever since we’d sought out the balsa raft. No second-guessing now.
“Let’s make sure we haven’t forgotten anything,” Fitz said as we finished our coffee and rinsed the dishes in the river water.
I took out a pad and pencil and checked off the items as Fitz called out each one, down to malaria pills, a sewing kit, and two now unneeded rope hammocks that we’d planned to sleep in on the boat we’d missed.
When we were done I picked up a fan made of shimmering blue-and-green parrot feathers, a gift from an Ecuadorian Indian chief. “This will be good to swipe at the heat,” I said.
“For sure,” Fitz agreed.
“Wait, we have to christen the raft! We need a name.”
After staring at our pink-and-blue plastic tent for a moment, Fitz suggested the Pink Palace, alluding to the totally pink Lima mansion of America’s ambassador to Peru. A month earlier, Fitz and I had accepted a last-minute invitation to the plush palace from Ambassador Taylor Belcher. Fitz had arrived at the fancy soiree with big, wet splotches still remaining on his hand-washed gray sport coat. He’d self-consciously explained them away, claiming that we’d been caught in the rain on the other side of the city. The ambassador drew his wife and guests around to marvel at Fitz’s tale. Evidently, it hadn’t rained in Lima for twenty years. Fitz’s luck held. When we left the residence a few hours later, it was pouring down buckets.
Ruthless River Page 6