| VACATION #7 THE BIRDS! On the west bank of the Amazon River, carved out of the jungle, sprawls the metropolis of Iquitos, Peru -- reachable only by air or water. When you arrive you stop at the Amazon Lodge Safari's office to tell them you are there, since you aren't part of a tour. It takes two hours for the canopied motor launch to take you to your destination. The Amazon Lodge is a collection of bamboo buildings on stilts with thatched roofs made of palm leaves. A bridge connects the kitchen, bar and dining areas at one end with the bedrooms and shower room at the other. Embraced by the jungle, the whole complex stands on the bank of the River Mom�n, a tributary of the Amazon. With no telephone or electricity, the only contact with the outside world is a two-way radio. When the one-day tourists leave, you are alone in the camp, except for those who work there. You walk down the rickety wooden stairs to the river. You slip silently into the still brown water -- out of place in your city bathing suit. You wade through the shallows, feel the warm mud between your toes, then let your body go and float out into the middle. The River Mom�n is narrow at this point. You are surrounded by the jungle and its sweet perfume. The water is a brown mirror that reflects the green of the trees whose arms extend over it. Pollen dances through the heavy air, then falls with the fallen leaves to float downstream. It is sunset, your favorite time of day. You look up to see the same blue sky that is reflected in the dark water. A flock of parakeets flies over. You feel as if you are in a five dimensional painting. A canoe floats by soundlessly. The two Indians smile at you. You wave. You don't feel like an intruder anymore. Later, at twilight, the tranquility remains. Lying in a hammock on the veranda, you gaze at the river. A quarter moon lights up the landscape, maybe it is more intimate with the jungle than it is with the city.A little quenquillu (kenkijew) climbs into the hammock with you. The cuddly marsupial has come to play. It looks at you mischievously, a little bear with a monkey's face and tail. A man comes up to you, "My name is Reynaldo. I'll be your personal guide tomorrow. There will be no tours coming. Would you like to take a canoe ride in the morning?" "Yes, that would be wonderful."You are sleepy. You say good night. Candles in paper bags filled with dirt light your way as you walk along the bridge that leads from the public area to the rooms. The night is filled with the loud chirping and buzzing of insects. They lull you to sleep -- the swim, the river ... The next morning your guide, Reynaldo, is paddling through an area of water off the main river."Is the canoe stuck on those roots? Will we be able to get out of here?" You're just a trifle worried. "Are we lost? I can't see the river anymore." You are surrounded. Vines stream down, entwining with the roots that grow up and fallen branches bar your way."Don't worry," he says. I can't even see the sky. This is like a cave, you say to yourself. "Calm yourself," he says, "we are near the Yagua Indian village, but I agree it is tricky." He gets out, balances on a fallen branch, and pushes the canoe, freeing it from the debris. "People have been lost for weeks wandering off the river like this. You have to know what you are doing." "Are there any piranhas here?" you ask, feigning casual interest. "No, not here, but farther on down the river, s�. But they are not dangerous. They will only bite you if you are bleeding or have a wound. There is something more dangerous. It is the big black worms. They mostly kill the children. They go in the river without their clothes. The worms enter their orifices and then climb up to their brains and make their homes there. Then when they multiply the person goes mad! Oh, yes, those worms are much more dangerous than piranhas, and you never feel them. They just enter with the water." "Oh, no -- I went swimming yesterday. Do you think there were some there?" "No, it is safe near the camp, don't worry. No harm will come to you here," he says. "Look! There's another one of those electric blue butterflies! I've never seen a butterfly so large. It's almost as big as a piece of typing paper. It doesn't seem real." you say, forgetting about the worms. "He's attracted to you. He thinks you're a flower," his eyes twinkle. Finally the bank is in sight. You sigh, "Oh, I can see the sun again." "Of course. I am a good guide. Let's go see the Indian village. I'll show you how they make their liquor." In the afternoon you are back at camp. All is reduced to the same rhythm under the weight of the heat, voices are hushed, steps muffled. Siesta time. You need it after the busy morning. The canoe trip, tromping through the jungle, swinging from the vines like Tarzan. All those things to see and do and feel and taste. That sweet white cotton in that eighteen inch long green pod with those frightening black seeds inside that looked like giant insects -- guava, the guide called it. Those blueberries as big as grapes, that wonderful lunch, fish straight from the river, the beer ... you drift off to sleep. When you awake you don your shorts and go out to the lounging area to write a letter. The macaw, Pepito, perches on the back of your chair and snuggles your neck. Then climbs down on the table to bite your turquoise pen. He follows you around and comes when you call him, or he calls to you, then comes over to see what you're writing.You put on your bathing suit and go down to the river. After a hundred tries, you climb up on a log, straddle it, and ride the current down the river like a little kid. You feel sorry for the people who only get to see this on television, even though the mosquitos are devouring you day and night. The next morning a new crop of one day tourists come. You ride with them in a launch to see, or rather witness, the Amazon River. You see the grey and brown of the two rivers, running side by side without blending. A pinkish-brown dolphin pops out of the water to your surprise. Then you all become silent. Traveling at ten knots per hour, the Amazon is an entity that seems as large and as powerful as the ocean.Then you head for Iquitos. It's almost six in the evening when you get there. Frantically you pile into a city bus, shouting, "Hurry!" to the driver who honks the horn all the way, swerving through the rush hour traffic. Just at six o'clock you arrive at the Plaza de Armas, the town square. You jump out of the bus at the insistence of your guide. "Watch!" he says, "See that bird -- "At one second before six o'clock one swallow circles the square to make sure everything is all right. Then hundreds, thousands of black or grey birds come out of nowhere and descend on the park. The sound is incredible even over the roar of the traffic. The trees, the huge trellises, the surrounding office buildings are all black with birds, each flying around and around until it finds its own special spot to sleep for the night. Once the city cut down most of the trees and when the birds came, thousands died from exhaustion because they had no place to roost. The townspeople got up in arms and made the city put up the giant trellises. The swallows do this every single night. Alfred Hitchcock, you've been outdone by the real thing. After dinner in a small local place, you walk around town. Your guide, Reynaldo, has by now become a friend. Iquitos is hot and still, neither charming nor romantic. It is filthy and rundown. Piles of trash and garbage four feet high are collected at the street corners. It's night, but in the oppressive heat there is not a breath of air. It seems that everyone is outside, standing in doorways, sitting in chairs on the sidewalk, walking, riding motorcycles, sometimes five to a cycle. They buzz around in the night like flies. Women walk, carrying their sleeping children, older ones have gone inside to watch television. The glare of the TVs and fluorescent lights radiate out of the doorways. The lights outside are fluorescent too, except for the dim incandescent street lights, making the town look even uglier. The smell of urine, of rotting garbage, of mold growing on the walls remains constantly vivid to the senses. You walk down by the Amazon River. A soldier struts by carrying a rifle. He seems oblivious to the lovers who are on every corner, on every bench, in any obscure place, and places not so obscure. Everyone old enough to be interested in making love is out. In the heat you lose your inhibitions. Reynaldo walks you to the taxi. You say good by, and head for the Tourist Hotel, a letdown after living in the jungle for a week. You have to stay overnight in Iquitos because the Aeroperu plane blew all four tires when it landed and it blocked the runway. Your Faucett airplane can't take off until morning. You don't sleep very well that night. There is no insect chorus to lull you to sleep, no sweet smell of the jungle -- the tranquility is gone. But mostly you can't sleep because you keep hearing that sound and seeing the sky and the square -- Black with Birds! -- and you can't help wondering -- what if? ***** |
| Carol Ann Howell ...page 9 |