I ventured forth anxiously. Most likely, this oblivion, which I now see as a wonderful ally, lent to my ability to discover at least a few of the personal realities (which often reflect general/overarching Realities) I would not have been privy to if I hadn't been in such a naive state.
I started my trip from the Central Peruvian city of Huancayo, located in the beautiful and peaceful Mantaro Valley. After a few days of getting to know this relaxed city from my Lima to Huancayo bus-trip acquaintance Pamela, and her son Josue, I felt as ready as I would be able to feel. I took my malaria pill the night before and went to bed with a mix of emotions flowing through me. I slept well that night; it was a good thing given the adventurous eight-hour bus trip in front of me. First, we went North from the high mountains of the Junin Province. Then, we dropped East-ward into the jungle region of San Martin and La Merced. Eventually winding South to the jungle city of Satipo. The ride was a visual/historical/archaeological pleasure for all of the reasons to be shared now.
Satipo has its own varied history not immune to conflict. Most recently, during the 80's and early 90's, the Shining Path Revolutionary Group and Peruvian Military were very active in their extremely chaotic and deadly conflict to weed-out culprits on whichever side of the affair, be it revolutionary or military. Families, communities and the bonds of each were thrown into question: who was Shining Path, and who was not. Many died, and all lost loved ones. In the end, what remained was an utter frustration in all cases. This uncomfortable and unsettled feeling still bombards any visitor to this distant jungle city. (Note: for an extensive discussion of the Shining Path, refer to Steve Stern's -editor- "Shining and Other Paths" [1998, Duke University Press])
The Shining Path intentionally targeted areas where they thought they could rally the most support. Therefore, mostly rural, poor and indigenous-populated areas, like Satipo and the jungle in particular, were their target. Satipo is also home to the Ashaninka and other smaller indigenous jungle groups; these groups have been notorious throughout history for resisting and rebelling against the infringement of outsiders, be it the Incas, the Conquistadors or the Peruvian Government. Conversely, the outsiders have been equally hesitant to venture into Ashaninka areas due to fear of not coming back! Like many conquistadors, explorers, and travelers alike have said over the last five-hundred years, "It's easy to get lost in the deep jungle."
(Note: For a masterful discussion of the Ashaninka and their realities and rebellions, refer to Stefano Varese's "Salt of the Mountain" [English version, 2002, University of Oklahoma Press]).
Everything within my field of view was new, exciting and foreign; from the moist soil to the high-reaching canopy, from the people to their rack-sack homes.
As in many cases while traveling with an open mind and positivity anticipated, one finds breaks and good fortune handy. Opening my guide book to the Satipo page, and pointing to the first hostel coming into view, it read, "Hostel San Jose." "Great!" I exclaimed to myself while seeing the personal connection between this hostel's name and that of my Californian birthplace.
So off I went. I hopped into a parked rickshaw whose insistent driver lived up to his description even more so on the road; we hurriedly ventured off a few blocks into the distance. The Spanish grid-patterned layout typical of most city/towns in Peru was that of Satipo's as well. After taking a shockingly late left turn, we had barely finished our straightening-out when the driver abruptly stopped. I promptly paid and hopped-out of the vehicle determined to enjoy the promising feeling of solid ground and control retaken!
I immediately looked up at the large, two-storied hostel, by my judgement a rarity in these parts. I walked toward the front door and entered enthusiastically. I greeted the female attendant, inquired of any single-bed vacancies, and subsequently followed her to its whereabouts. After being awarded the keys, I thanked her and entered the room, relieved. I say relieved because I feel there is nothing like the sense of completion and security one feels after having set his/her belongings down in the certainty of one's hostel following many hours of travel and its concomitant uncertainties.
In my drab and window-less room, I rested for a bit, regained my composure, and then grabbed my guide book. As I read about the "excursion options" in Satipo, my attention focused to one of particular interest: a five-hour morning journey to the small port town of Puerto Ocopa. I spontaneously decided to go. I swiftly grabbed my wallet and proceeded to the front desk. There, I inquired about the excursion and was quickly and familiarly informed, not by the attendant girl, but by her very knowledgeable friend. Actually, to put it best, her friend, a forty-or-so year old local man, exploded into an information schpill that more than satisfied my inquiry. He covered everything from time, to location, to destination, to what to expect, to pretty much everything. In seeing that I was content with his monologue and sure of my day-trip on the morrow, he asked if I had seen the city yet. I replied, "no," and after accepting his offer to show me around the city, we exited the hostel.
My first impression was that we were going to check out the night life by foot or, at most, by the luxury of the rickety rickshaw ride. But, as it turned out, in place of calluses and hilarity respectively, I was in store for much, much more; a ride on the back of my new friend's moto was the call of the night! My emotions in that moment were conflicting and chaotic. About twenty-seven simultaneous questions, mostly of caution, manifested, one for each of my cherished years of life. About three of my inner-children called out "no!", two of my saboteurs conflictingly said "no and yes," and among the hodge-podge of other voices and yelps, I heard and felt a resounding "yes!!!" This democracy had overwhelmingly voted in favor of FREEDOM as its representative, and I had no other choice but to obey the call of the people!
So I followed the Satipoen man's order as I mounted the little space left on the tail of the moto. Luckily, I had a metal-bar support to grab onto at the caboose of the bike instead of the always suspect Ace and Gary method of "Engage and Conquer!" For Goodness sakes, I had only known the guy for ten minutes (joke, no really...just a joke!). So off we went, separate yet together, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Okay enough of that!
What a rush it was to cruise through the dirt streets of this alien jungle town, winding our way through the various city blocks seeing just what this city was made of. I saw numerous restaurants represented by the steam-wafting stews always present at the shop entrances. Couples and families tooling through the streets on their way to myriad places and the simultaneous cries and laughs of their youngsters in normal states of fight, flight, or delight. In my view, and in spite of my normal anxieties when traveling, it appeared that there was an underlying sense of peace in this city. An easy-goingness, a calm, maybe originating from the people or, as I really feel now, stemming from the inherent calm found in all natural jungle surroundings. My friend and I continued our journey through the main plaza of Satipo, eventually coming to a stop just a few doors down from the border of the main plaza.
We dismounted the bike and entered the restaurant situated in front of where we were parked. It was a normal looking Peruvian deli/restaurant with a bit of a generic look to it (very normal in Peru, haha!). We took a seat at the soon-to-be only occupied table in the joint. Carlos then formally introduced himself to me and we shook hands. He quickly ordered us two sandwiches and two Inca Kolas. Only after-the-fact did he check with me as to my consumption preference. Just letting it be, I figured he knew what was good given his nativity to the city and knowledge of all of its hot spots.
Carlos started off the conversation telling me about his experience as a sociologist in the region and his work with various indigenous groups. After studying in Lima and working there for a number of years, he decided to return to his native Satipo after having missed the ambiance of the jungle. I listened intently as he discussed some of the current issues that affected the realities of inhabitants in the area.
He then asked me about my interest in the area. I told him that I had studied Cultural Anthropology and that my main interest was Peru. He quickly interjected (I mean interrupted) and told me that it was necessary to visit the farther reaches of the jungle region so as to connect with some of the rural indigenous groups. The Ashaninka in particular were the main group in the Satipo area of whom Carlos was familiar. He told me he knew a number of the Ashaninka and that I would have to return one day to visit them for at least two months. Being excited and a bit skeptical, I nodded my head and let him pitch his ideas (/sales?).
We finished up our dinner and I told him that maybe one day I'd return. He gave me his phone number and told me to contact him in advance so that he could plan to take the necessary time off work to join me. Unsure of my new friend's sincerity, I politely affirmed that our tentative at best plans were a possibility, even though I questioned everything from the method of travel, to its cost, to even the real possibility of it ever happening!
I was given the check after Carlos' gesture to the waiter, as if to say "he's got it." I hesitantly paid after rationalizing the equation as: a moto ride for dinner. "Fair enough," I told myself only to calm my reactors to my new friend's questionable manners. We thanked the staff and left the restaurant.
Carlos and I took a few different streets back in the direction of Hostel San Jose. He told me of all of the beautiful girls that blessed the region and invited me to pay attention because of their "easiness" especially with gringos. I laughed off his caution and, as we sped on, I continued my enjoyment and overall contentment with my first night (ever) in the jungle. I got off the bike back at the San Jose as Carlos wished me luck for the following morning excursion to the deeper jungle. I thanked him for everything and within seconds my first jungle friend sped off into the dust-ridden streets of the faintly-lit city.
I went to bed that night with a mix of feelings, anticipating the exciting and really unpredictable day (or days) that were to come.
"Gooooood Morrrrniiiinngg Satipoooooo!" rang through my head as I received my far-too-early intro to the day. It was 4:30 a.m., an unheard of and unseen reality as far as my travels go, and I was surprisingly ready (after a few minutes of breathing and stretching) to embark on this crazy journey further into the jungle. I dressed quickly, put my things together, and sat down to calm and collect myself. Next thing I knew it was 5:15 a.m. I exited my room and went down to the lobby. The car was waiting outside with three other passengers in it. I entered and said hello to the driver and my three co-venturers; our taxi scooted on.
Our initial attempt to exit Satipo was stunted; as we traveled down the usual road that cuts through Satipo to our direction of destination, we were abruptly and shockingly stopped by three men carrying machetes and guns! If I wasn't fully awake prior to this occurrence, you better believe that I was afterwards! I quickly felt out the reactions of my friends in the car, for they were, needless-to-say, alarmed. The weapon-toting men demanded to know the reason for our presence on "their" road. Our driver pleaded to the inquisitors of our innocent truth. We were authoritatively instructed to take the alternate route or suffer the consequences of our apparent mistake! Our driver apologized and without pause punched the car into reverse and headed in the opposite direction. In fact, he didn't let up on the accelerator for the next two hours! Although I'm still unsure of his motivations for this, I would imagine that until we safely excited Satipo, via our alternate route, part of the motivation was literally to escape to freedom! In any event, our trip had commenced; we were in motion.
The landscape was beautiful during our bumpy and at times jarring journey, for it was a great look into this previously unknown territory; at least for me personally. The houses and structures, raised five feet or so off the ground, were basically the same; they were simple constructions with boards hung length-wise forming the rectangular shape and with adorning thatched-roofs. The leisurely disposition of the people, matched equally in dress, was very apparent as most entrances to house and store alike were guarded by somebody. I watched very attentively as we passed through these old villages that most definitely held much history and lore. My co-venturers kept to themselves for the most part, only speaking briefly, while mostly watching and "meditating" in the semi-trance state brought on by our shaky and tremor-like ride.
As we descended deeper into the jungle basin, the space between towns expanded as did the space between houses/shacks within each town we came upon. After hour two, I checked my watch; I knew our destination was coming up quick. My anxiety struck me in large and energetic pangs. I was truly testing my boundaries with this trip and my interior characters informed me of it! I started to really focus on breathing, self-parenting, and reassuring myself that all was well! After all, I was in a truly beautiful place, albeit foreign in cultural and geographic terms.
The taxi pulled into our destination town. As the parade of chickens and dogs cleared out with our push forward, we finally came to a halt in front of an area where a crowd of people waited. Automatically I felt a sense of self-consciousness as it seemed that all eyes peered on me, the only gringo within one hundred miles!
I nervously got out of the car, took my backpack and walked in the direction opposite the mass of thirty-or-so people that eagerly waited near the water's edge. As I walked away, the name of the town came to mind: Puerto Ocopa. The reason for all the raucous was exactly that, it was at a port! Probably a pretty important place for the businesses and the people in this area. I pressed on. As I did, I observed the different shacks housing businesses and homes along both sides of the dirt street/strip of Puerto Ocopa. I decided to seek refuge in a river-front restaurant a half-block down from the noise.
She told me of her trucker husband who doesn't come around much since he travels often to Lima, which is more or less on the other side of the continent to these people (Lima is very much another world). After moving from Lima herself a few years earlier, Carla was finding it difficult to adapt to the loneliness that went with living in the jungle. For this reason, she made a great day partner for an equally lonely gringo traveler! We conversed for a few hours sharing our experiences from such distinct poles of the world. Naturally, she had a number of questions to ask me of my origins. To no surprise either, another Puertoocupan got involved. A girl of twelve, Mariela, stopped by in passing. Our company consisted of three. And after initial introductions and the like, we spontaneously agreed to go on an expedition down river to a set of waterfalls that was said to be a wonderful sight to see. In no time, our company had shifted to an expedition! And within a few minutes Carla, knowing all of the town's inhabitants, got in contact with Michel, a local canoe driver, and our soon-to-be guide, to negotiate plans.
My initial introduction to Michel was a bit stiff; it was a classic example of the water and oil situation. Michel, a twenty-something gimp from the area, didn't take kindly to my easy-going and loose Californian (a.k.a. Gringo!) attitude. I invited him, through my demeanor, to be my friend. He, on the other hand, wasn't so welcoming. This was evident when I asked him the going rate for a ride to the waterfall site. In keeping in mind that the trip was quite short, maybe two miles round trip, he told me straight-faced "1,000 soles!" Or in American terms, $300 plus dollars! Gas alone was probably fifteen soles (or $4-$5) if that, plus his service. I thought no more than 100 soles would be sufficient. After a bit of razzing from Carla, who was almost his sister given the intimate reality of their town, Michel gave in. Our, or better said my, service charge for the expedition would be 150 soles. "Fair enough," I said, shook my guide's reluctant hand, and we were off to the boat.
By this point, quite a crowd of onlookers was developing in the vicinity; however, I was fixated on the whereabouts of Michel's boat and its current condition. After my initial anxiety subsided, my underlying excitement was evident. Carla, Mariela and I all climbed into the long canoe in anticipation of an equally novel adventure.
Soon after our trifecta was formed, the trail dropped down a long slope. Apparently Michel had considered this at the moment of and during his decision to return to the canoe. As we would find out, this slope, which was quite steep and slippery, would have been impassible for Michel. In fact, the three of us each had our difficulties while descending the trail; all of us at a certain point fell onto the wet yet compact trail. During it all, the one thing that was reassuring was the closeness of the river below. As we pressed on through the vibrant and increasingly humid jungle, the river came into view; a sight that we celebrated given our arrival to the water's edge all in one piece.
The lush jungle-scape opened up before our eyes; and we were in! With the space now available by way of the river clearing, we were privy to all of the typical views to be expected: a calm-running river, multi-layers of trees and nearly impenetrable shrubbery. We also noticed the echoes of birds and monkeys, and the noises of insects; all coming from near and far. Probably the most notable of all jungle characteristics was the strange and nerve-racking feeling that we were being watched; if not by a slithery or creepy friend moving at our feet, then by a deceptive jaguar in the many shadows of the forest! Once I handled and dismissed this feeling as being a variable out of my control, I was able to just experience and be in this most magical of environments. I mean, this was my first time in an actual jungle. And the place at which we found ourselves was definitely as deep as I had ever been before; it would be the furthest point that I would travel to in the jungle during this particular trip.
At first I was a bit tense given that I would be no match for a group of men of their size and number. With the men looking on, I assumed a cautious stance while exiting our lancha. I decided to break the ice immediately. To my relief, all of the men matched my smile with one of more or less equal openness. After acknowledging the men, I approached one especially large one who happened to be wearing a New York Yankees' baseball cap. I asked the giant-of-a-man and his immediate-standing friends what they were doing. The especially large man told me that they were banana pickers and that they had been working all day far back on the other side of the river. Soon after, they inquired about my presence in the jungles of Satipo, it was what they called a "far-out" venture for a tourist such as myself. I told them that I enjoy the far-out places because it is where I can connect with the local people more so than in the tourism-heavy places in the bigger towns and cities. While shaking the hand of this large banana worker, who had the customary light handshake of most jungle dwellers (contrary to my expectation), I thanked them for their time and we parted ways.
This is when things got interesting. When we finally reached the outskirts of Puerto Ocopa, the driver, a sixty-something man named Juan, and his friend and my fellow passenger, Martin, a forty-something ex-policeman, and I began to talk at length about the area and its tainted history. The small-talk eventually gave way to the big-talk. Actually, it was within seconds after having asked the last of the personal information questions, that I went right to the heart of the matter when I asked Juan and Martin, "So how are things after the whole Shining Path era?"
Juan, after initially showing an attempt to tackle the question, easily gave way to the younger and more assertive Martin. The latter commented, "It was a difficult time; all of us were intimately affected by the conflict; everybody lost friends and members of their families; all of us lost loved ones." Martin went on to tell me about his time as a police officer, and how it was dreadful to be involved at that level. "We (the police force) were connected to the community by blood, and to the government by contract. We had to take orders from the army who was much more detached than ourselves; we were forced to make very difficult decisions and take very difficult actions; all of which still tug at my heart."
Martin was referring to the fact that many civilians were thrown into question by the government as to which side of the conflict they were loyal to; quite a difficult question for many people. Many civilians had friends and family members who were part of or leaning toward the revolutionary ideas, and still others who leaned toward the government side given their affiliation with the State or to some local or regional official(s). This paints the problem for most of these civilians, most of whom weren't even given a chance to consider their true political leanings, for threats from both sides put them into a turbulent and atrocious situation. Many people died in tactical assassinations by the government, though not all were documented. Surely, in addition to Peruvian Government-related killings, the Shining Path revolutionaries too were guilty for their share of killings (for the similar reasons of uncertainty and questions of trust).
A few minutes of conversing over the topic eventually led to a lengthy pause. Juan, our trusty driver, finally spoke up after first having turned to Martin. He said to me, "To tell you the truth, we thought you were CIA." Upon hearing Juan's statement I immediately reacted with laughter; nothing else came out. Juan looked back at me through the car's shaky rear-view mirror, while Martin glanced back for a moment to inspect the look on my face. I responded verbally for sake of clarity and directness, "Not a chance in the world! I don't think I could ever work for the CIA!" Both men laughed with a hint of lingering distrust. But, after a few more comments clarifying my more progressive (leftist) political leanings, they appeared to understand my civilian (and forever civilian) status.
The rest of our trip was for the most part a non-verbal one. Numerous twists and turns over vicissitudinous roads wet and dry; the majority of the ride was like a real-life Indiana Jones jeep jaunt through the jungle! This was welcome for me so as to have time to consider the significance of my presence in this region of Peru, brought on by driver Juan's confessed assumption. Prior to coming here, I hadn't given it much thought as to how these people would view me, as a white American man coming into the distant reaches of a former Shining Path (who were anti-Capitalist/Imperialist) stronghold.
Juan's statement continued to reverberate through my mind. I found it strange in a way due to my self-identification as a universalist and my very progressive political stance and values. At the same time, I could understand where Juan, and anybody else making such an assumption, was coming from. In their eyes, a twenty-something white American man traveling solo through the Central Peruvian jungle was something to be weary of. And then it hit me: I would've thought the same thing! For one thing, usually tourists traveling through these parts are accompanied by one or more friends for the trip. Secondly, and more hard-hitting, normally tourists don't even come here!
The taxi ride, which eventually returned me to my intended destination of Satipo, was less about the landscape and more about my journey into the contemplative reaches of my mind. I analyzed, considered, debated, and learned many things about how history (personal and shared), memory, perception, appearances and the unknown, intertwine and congeal in a way that shapes the way we live our lives and how we view our present world. After thinking about how Juan and Martin could have potentially perceived me, I thought back to Mariela and Carla, Michel, the Giant, and the others that I had met in both Puerto Ocopa and Satipo. What was their perception of the lone gringo traveler? And, given each of their individual and shared personal histories, how did they interpret my presence in their land? Did they perceive me in a similar light to that of Juan and Martin? And, if so, what does this tell me and the readers out there of the importance of understanding the history of a place and its people? And, the importance of understanding the influence of our countries' political and economical decisions on those places and its people? It made me also consider: just what influence do I want to have while I travel to these various places; what is my responsibility to myself, my country and to humanity as a whole?
Wow, pretty deep!
Satipo, Puerto Ocopa, and the other in-between spots on my jungle trail were very much worth the effort. Afterwards, I felt like I covered much more than I sought out to; I touched various realms of observance and experience, through the varied lenses of a sociologist, a local restaurant-owner, an orphaned child and a military man. It's safe to say that without my ability to speak Spanish and my deep innate passion to connect with these people, it would've been next to impossible to even attempt to understand their various realities.
Copyright Patrick Roseblade 2010.
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