Journey to the Jungle

A flight from Lima, Peru to the central jungle capital of Pucallpa costs the same as a flight from Lima to the deep jungle capital of Iquitos. That´s because in essence they are the same flight; you board the same plane, you are served the same small breakfast, you pay the same $6.05 departure tax. You just exit the plane after an hour, as I did, instead of 1 hour 40 minutes. If you get off in Pucallpa, you then board a cargo boat bound for Iquitos-- paying extra money to take four unsavory days getting where you could have been in forty minutes. Why do it? Some things are done only for adventure.

Boarding the boat early seems like a good idea, in theory. You get to set up your hammock where you want (even if you don´t yet know where you want it), you get to hang out and meet people in the shade of the boat instead of the heat of town, and you don´t have to worry about the boat leaving without you. In practice, getting there early lets you watch a crowded boat transform into a manically crowded boat. The carefully managed spaces in between hammocks fills with all sorts of cargo, running kids, and more hammocks; the people you want to meet driven away by an ever-growing wedge of human bodies, as the boat delays departure until every inch of cargo space has been filled. Moto-taxis, refrigerators, potato chips-- as Iquitos is the world´s largest city unreachable by road, the jungle town relies on boats like mine to supply it with everything.

By the first night, hammocks are slung so close that one person´s unconscious swinging causes a pendulum reaction in the neighboring hammocks, until the entire cabin is swaying to the same lazy rhythm. Party music blasts from the ships speakers at absurd volumes, as if to say 'you´re having a good time-- enjoy it!' I had two children sleeping under my hammock. I would guess at least a hundred people shared the 3rd floor of the four story boat, built as tall as it was wide. More people slept below, where the engines throbbed so loudly you couldn´t think as you waited in line for your meal.

By the second day, you start noticing things. You notice how to kids on the boat, hammocks are like jungle vines; everywhere, and at all times, kids are swinging, chasing, diving under hammocks. On a boat with virtually no communal space, personal space is quickly sacrificed. You get used to people bumping your hammock; you get used to kids poking, prodding, kicking, headbutting you, whether by accident or act of boredom.

You also start noticing all the tiny villages along the river. The jungle is like a desert, and the river is like the one highway that runs through it; if people live in the desert, they live on that highway. To leave the river means risking losing all touch with the outside world.

By the third day, the boat starts feeling like a prison. You notice how the day revolves around mealtimes (a bowl of oat water for breakfast, bone soup for dinner, and some rice and a few beans for lunch), and you notice how people stare at you, sizing you up as you stand in line. The bars on the kitchen window don´t help the feeling. People talk about what they´ll do when they get out, or what they were doing before they got in.

As the boat slowly pulls in to Iquitos, a curious thing happens. From the bottom of their luggage people bring out dress clothes and makeup, shoe polish and eyebrow tweezers. They bathe their kids and touch up their hair in the mirror over the dish sink. They use cologne and deodorant for the first time in days. And so instead of ending with a prison break, the boat arrives with the appearance of luxury; as if this were a cruise ship and not a cargo boat.