Boiling River

by Andrés Ruzo

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 Revelations in the Dark

  CHAPTER 2 My Grandfather’s Legend

  CHAPTER 3 Stupid Questions

  CHAPTER 4 A Detail in a Story

  CHAPTER 5 Hidden in Plain Sight

  CHAPTER 6 Hopes and Hard Data

  CHAPTER 7 The River

  CHAPTER 8 The Shaman

  CHAPTER 9 A Long-Awaited Return

  CHAPTER 10 The Ceremony

  CHAPTER 11 Spirits of the Jungle

  CHAPTER 12 The Smoking Gun

  CHAPTER 13 The Greatest Threat

  CHAPTER 14 Paititi

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IMAGE CREDITS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WATCH ANDRÉS RUZO’S TED TALK

  RELATED TALKS

  ALSO FROM TED BOOKS

  ABOUT TED BOOKS

  ABOUT TED

  To my greatest discovery: my wife and field partner, Sofía

  1

  Revelations in the Dark

  I am standing on a rock in the middle of a river. Nighttime in the jungle pours around me. Instinctively, I reach up and turn off my headlamp. The blackness is complete now and I pause, waiting. I had missed the darkness. I breathe in. The air is thick and abnormally hot, even for the Amazon. As my eyes adjust to the dark, the outline of the jungle slowly distinguishes itself from the night: blacks, grays, dark blues, even silvery whites. It’s amazing what we miss when the lights are on. The moon is hardly a sliver, and innumerable stars dominate the sky above, illuminating the vast jungle and bathing each leaf and rock with their soft light. All around me, vapors rise like ghosts in the starlight. Some are thin streams of mist; others are clouds so large that their billowing appears to be in slow motion.

  I lie down on the rock and am still, watching the steam rise into the night. When a cool breeze blows, the mists thicken and roll, forming pale gray-blue eddies against the sky. The rock beneath my body glows dimly white in the faint light. Where my back and legs touch the rock’s surface, I’m sweating lightly. A torrent of water, hot enough to kill me, wider than a two-lane road, surges past my rock, emitting a roar that drowns out the jungle’s nighttime chorus. My senses are sharp and every movement is keenly deliberate.

  I’m in the heart of the Peruvian Amazon. The other members of my team are in bed in the tiny community nearby, but there is no way I can sleep—not with what is before me here. My heart is beating hard, but I feel a complete calm. My eyes follow the river’s vapors as they rise and melt into the firmament. The Milky Way flows across the sky like a reflection of the river below. The Inca referred to the Milky Way as the Celestial River, a path to another world, a place inhabited by spirits. So the vapors join two great rivers here. It’s clear why the people who live here regard this jungle as a place of such spiritual power. The shaman’s words echo in my head: “The river shows us what we need to see.”

  This is becoming one of the greatest adventures of my life. This will be the story I tell my children and grandchildren—and every action I make in this moment adds a new piece of the story. Every passing second now seems to hold a greater significance. Burning-hot water splashes on my right arm. I sit up, pulling my arm to my chest, no longer lost in thought. I recall my professor’s words from volcanology field school: “The people who die on volcanoes are the inexperienced who are ignorant of the dangers and the experts who have forgotten they are dangerous.”

  I stand, make sure I have a firm footing, and jump back onto the nearest shore. As I look back at the Boiling River I can’t suppress an excited whisper: “This place exists. This place actually exists.” I remember the shaman saying the river has called me here for a purpose, and I can feel a greater mission about to take place. I won’t get much sleep tonight.

  The vapors dance in the starlight as I make my way back to my hut, my mind filled with thoughts of the river, the dark jungle surrounding it, and the story that remains to be written. It’s a story that began with a legend heard in childhood—a story of exploration and discovery, driven by a need to understand what initially appeared unbelievable. It’s a story where modern science and traditional worldviews collide—not violently but respectfully—united in their sense of awe for the natural world.

  At a time when everything seems mapped, measured, and understood, this river challenges what we think we know. It has forced me to question the line between known and unknown, ancient and modern, scientific and spiritual. It is a reminder that there are still great wonders to be discovered. We find them not just in the black void of the unknown but in the white noise of everyday life—in the things we barely notice, the things we almost forget, even in a detail of a story.

  2

  My Grandfather’s Legend

  The sound of hot water trickling into a teacup fills the cool air of the kitchen. I peer out the window at the Andean foothills that intrude into Lima’s gray winter sky. Winter in Lima always has a certain stillness to it, and this August is no exception. I am twelve years old, sitting in the kitchen of my aunt’s house, anxiously waiting for my grandfather to arrive.

  While I stare at the clock impatiently, Dioni, my aunt’s cook, stands at the sink, peeling fat Peruvian carrots. She is like a grandmother to me. “It is so good you came to visit,” she says without lifting her eyes from her work. Dioni speaks Spanish with a strong Quechua accent. Quechua, the language of the Inca, is spoken in a deliberate, closed-mouth fashion—a result, it is said, of developing in the cold of the high Andes. Dioni’s voice reminds me that, more than four hundred years after the Spanish conquest, the language of the Inca is still very much alive.

  She continues, “Your aunt said your dad and his brothers took you up to Marcahuasi for a week! It’s too high up, and you are too young!”

  I sit on a bar stool at the end of the kitchen island and prepare my mate de coca, infusing the dusty green leaves in the hot water until it turns pale gold.

  “Did you bring the leaves from Marcahuasi?” Dioni asks. I nod. “Those are the real coca leaves, from the mountains—they taste much better than what we get at the supermarket.”

  I take my first sip and savor the earthy, herbal flavor. Just last week, on the cold Marcahuasi Plateau, I got debilitating altitude sickness. Drinking mate de coca was the only thing that made me feel better.

  At last my grandfather walks through the door with outstretched arms. I run over to give him a hug, then laugh as he makes faces at me. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves; he wears his on his face.

  My aunt Lydia is with him. “Can I get you anything?” she asks my grandfather. “We have tea.” His head shakes. “Coffee?” It shakes again. “Inca Kola? Juice? Water?” Finally: “Pisco?”

  Now my grandfather’s body straightens and a sly grin creeps across his face. “Bueeeeeeno, if you are offering it . . .”

  She brings a fine silver tray bearing a neatly folded cloth napkin, a freshly opened bottle of excellent pisco with the cork just slightly reinserted into the bottle, and a crystal tulip-shaped flute. He pours and we toast, he with his pisco, me with my mate.

  He begins to expound on the Marcahuasi trip and all the ways he would have done things better, smarter, and more efficiently had he been there. My attention drifts, and his voice recedes into the background.

  Whack! A swift rap on the head with a rolled-up magazine gets my attention. “Guanaco!
Listen! I’m telling you something important!” he scolds, making me scowl. To my surprise, his impatient expression softens into a proud smile.

  “Your face is as animated as mine!” he says. “I’m glad my genes have not been lost on you.” I’m still scowling.

  “Okay, cangrejo, let me tell you a story to cheer you up.”

  I perk up in anticipation. I love my grandfather’s stories.

  “This is a story about adventure. A story of the Spanish conquest of Peru, the curse of the Inca, and a lost city hidden deep in the Amazon—made entirely of gold.” I gaze at him, spellbound, as he takes another sip of pisco. “This is the legend of Paititi.”

  “Paititi?”

  “Don’t let anyone tell you the conquest was for God,” my grandfather continues. “Sure, the conquistadors brought along a few monks, but what they really wanted was gold and glory.” Cross-legged on the floor, I sit perfectly still as my grandfather begins.

  In 1532, Francisco Pizarro and his men landed in Peru, at the northern border of the Inca Empire. The Inca were engaged in a violent civil war and had spies everywhere. From the moment they landed, the Spanish were being secretly watched by the Inca—their movements and habits tracked and reported. The Inca knew the conquistadores were not gods, but there was one thing in particular that they could not comprehend—their obsession with gold. The Inca told stories of Spaniards entering villages with no greeting other than: Where is the gold? and terrorizing the villagers until they obtained it. Their lust for gold was so insatiable that many Inca believed the Spaniards needed to eat gold to survive. To the Inca, who saw gold as divinity made manifest, this rapacity was confusing.

  Atahualpa, emperor of the Inca, wondered how to deal with these foreigners who were harassing his subjects. An advisor told him to capture them and burn them alive. But Atahualpa was more curious than afraid. What threat did 170 thieving white men pose? He, Atahualpa, was lord over millions. He commanded an army more than 250,000 strong. He was the most powerful god-man on earth, son of the sun, master of the magic of the winds.

  Atahualpa sent emissaries to invite the foreigners to Cajamarca to meet with him. The conquistadors accepted. They then ambushed Atahualpa during what was meant to be a peaceful meeting. The Spaniards—vastly outnumbered but better armed—devastated the Inca.

  Atahualpa, now a prisoner, glared defiantly into the eyes of his captors. None could meet his gaze, which they said was like looking into the sun. He walked ceremoniously to the nearest wall, reached his hand up as high as it could go, and drew a line. He summoned an attendant who leaned in as Atahualpa whispered into his ear. The attendant stood and told the Spanish, “The emperor says that he will fill this room to this line, once with gold and twice again with silver, if you spare his life and let him go.”

  The Spaniards spoke among themselves. That much gold and silver would make them wealthier than they had dreamed. They agreed to the terms. Atahualpa ensured that they swore their oath to their own god, the one who had delivered Atahualpa into their power.

  For the next two months, the conquistadors watched as gold, silver, and precious stones poured in from across the empire to satisfy Atahualpa’s ransom. Finally Atahualpa had completed his part of the deal. He would walk out, humbled but alive.

  More months passed. Atahualpa’s captors had not killed him, and he was kept in relative comfort, but he was still a prisoner. “They will not break their oath to their own god,” he told himself.

  One night, an attendant came to Atahualpa and whispered to him, “I overheard the Spaniards saying that you are too dangerous to keep alive. Your captors will break their oath and come for you tomorrow.” A Spanish guard passed by and demanded to know what the attendant was doing. “I am only giving the emperor fresh coca leaves for his morning tea,” he said, handing Atahualpa a small cloth bag with fresh leaves. The guard saw the leaves and sent the attendant on his way. Atahualpa prepared for morning.”

  I drink the last of my coca leaf tea, imagining Atahualpa as he realized he had been betrayed.

  “The next day,” my grandfather continues, “Atahualpa awoke to learn that he would be taken to trial under armed escort.”

  Atahualpa had no weapon with which to defend himself. As his captors came closer Atahualpa reached into the cloth bag. He brought out three leaves in his two hands and began to shout, ‘“By these leaves I damn you, white men! Mama Coca, remember their wickedness! Plague their nations and avenge me!” He threw the leaves at the Spaniards, sealing the curse that the coca leaves would bring upon them.

  Atahualpa was executed but the Inca fought on. It took another forty years for the Spaniards to complete their conquest. The struggle finally ended in 1572, when Túpac Amaru, Lord of Serpents and last emperor of the Inca, was hung in the main plaza of Cusco before fifteen thousand of his subjects.

  The Inca were conquered, and their sacred gold—a symbol of life itself—was melted down to satisfy their conquerors.

  New waves of would-be conquistadors arrived, eager to follow in the footsteps of Cortés and Pizarro. When they asked the Inca where they could find another civilization to conquer, the Inca told them, “To the east, beyond the Andes, lies the land of the plant. There you will find Paititi—a vast city made entirely of gold.”

  The Spaniards launched expeditions into the Amazon, and the Inca looked on with stoic faces, knowing they were about to get the thing they wanted most—vengeance.

  The few Spanish who returned from the Amazon told stories of sheer terror. They met Inca who had fled the conquest, who forced the Spaniards to drink molten gold to finally quench their gold lust. They also met Amazonians: powerful shamans who commanded the jungle itself to attack, and fierce warriors whose poison arrows killed men in seconds.

  “They had entered a place where the trees grew so tall they blotted out the sun,” my grandfather whispers. “They marched in perpetual darkness. Mosquitos and biting flies left them drained of blood. The jungle drove them mad with green monotony, taunted them with the sounds of game they never saw and pools of freshwater full of disease. Starvation, dehydration, and madness were their only companions. They told of snakes that swallowed men whole, spiders that ate birds—even of a river that boiled.”

  “They never found Paititi, and the jungle once thought to contain Eden itself proved to be a living hell.”

  My grandfather exhales and sits back to enjoy his pisco. I look on, unable to utter a word, my imagination running wild with thoughts of the jungle, the mysterious Paititi, and images of fierce shamans, giant snakes, and a steaming, bubbling river. I barely notice my aunt walking in.

  She purses her lips as she evaluates my grandfather. “I can see you have had enough,” she says, taking up the now half-empty bottle and tray.

  My grandfather laughs as my aunt walks out the door. He turns to me, still smiling, and says, “Aye, papachito, the world is a big place. They are still looking for Paititi, by that and by many other names. But remember: the jungle keeps her secrets well, and she is not afraid to keep those who come after them.”

  3

  Stupid Questions

  “A boiling river?” scoffs the senior geologist. His suit is expensive, his hair is gray and precisely combed, and his brow is wrinkled. His is the face of modern Peru—a blend of indigenous and European. He speaks with the confidence and authority earned over decades of exploration in Peru’s wild places. His large corporate office speaks of his success: huacos (artifacts), rock samples, and cultural pieces from all over Peru sit between leather-bound books on shelves made of dark, rich Amazonian wood. I could not help but think I was in the gentleman’s study of a twenty-first-century conquistador, displaying the tokens of his conquests.

  “Yes,” I reply, “the legend mentioned ‘a river that boiled’ in the heart of the Peruvian Amazon. I know stories get exaggerated, but I’m still curious to see if there is any truth to it.”

  He casts me a disdainful look from across his imposing desk.

  It i
s May 2011, and I am a twenty-four-year-old PhD student from Southern Methodist University (SMU) in Dallas. My field is geophysics, specializing in geothermal studies. I’m here in Lima to start my doctoral fieldwork. My goal—the focus of my research—is to create Peru’s first detailed geothermal map, also called a “heat flow map.” This type of map quantifies the thermal energy flowing through the earth’s crust to its surface, and is useful in three main ways. First, geothermal maps identify areas of renewable geothermal energy potential. Second, they help make the oil and gas industry “greener” by providing information that makes exploration and drilling more precise (this means fewer needlessly drilled wells). Finally, geothermal maps are essential tools for better understanding tectonics, volcanology, seismology, and other fields within the geosciences.

  But geothermal maps are notoriously difficult to make. At each “heat flow site” you need precise temperature data and rock samples from deep in the earth. Geothermal researchers often find that kilometers of rock separate us from the measurements or samples we need. Plus, drilling a new well is expensive and can often have negative environmental impacts. Barriers like these are why I’ve started meeting with oil, gas, and mining companies; where possible, I’m hoping to repurpose existing oil, gas, and mining wells for my geothermal studies, using those holes to get my deep-earth temperature data without drilling any new wells.

  The corporate geologist likes that idea but is noticeably unimpressed by the question about my grandfather’s legend.

  “Andrés, you’re a bright kid,” he says now. “Your mapping research is interesting, and using existing infrastructure is a good idea, very innovative. So why this random fascination with an old legend? I don’t know of any Amazonian boiling rivers. Peru has all sorts of geothermal features but a boiling river in the jungle is hard to believe. You should know that—you’re the one getting the PhD.”