Carlos and Cornelia

Tambopata River, Puerto Maldonado, Peru – Altitude: 256 metres

Delbert McClintock: “There ain’t no spiders here.”
Collins:”Look! There’s a giant spider web over there in the corner.”
Delbert McClintock: “Well yes, a spider web would reveal an arachnid presence.”

ARACHNOPHOBIA, 1990 – Delbert McClintock (John Goodman)

The 10am Aero Continente flight to Puerto Maldonado for the Cusco Crew went ahead as planned, despite the seat allocation on the plane being a case of Rafferty’s Rules. Just sit wherever you want! It seemed the seat allocations on your boarding pass meant as much to Aero Continente as my Spanish did to the Cusco locals. Just a mere thirty minute flight from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado. It was difficult to imagine the difference in both terrain and temperature we would experience when arriving. Puerto Maldonado is situated in the south east of Peru, and lies in the thick of jungle at the very foot of the Andes, and on the rim of the Amazon basin; the Tambopata River to be precise. Where Cusco sits at a lofty 3400 metre in altitude, Puerto Maldonado sits at a much more comfortable 256 metres above sea level. Plenty of oxygen there! Excellent we thought, until we set foot off the plane. The heat hit you like a blast from Hell itself. Sure you could breathe for a while, but you soon forgot about your new source of enriched air when walking across the tarmac to the terminal. Searing 40 degree heat, sweating like a Pisac pig and we were back in whinge mode; looking to don our shorts, sun-screen and mosquito repellent. Peru a country of opposite extremes! Young Mountain, Old Mountain! No oxygen, cool temperatures! Lots of oxygen, frickin’ hot! And it would get worse when approaching the jungle, as it was here that we would experience 95% humidity.

After meeting our jungle guides, Mateo (Teo) and Freddy we had a quick snack and water stop before journeying for twenty minutes on a winding red-dirt road, through a village, to the banks of the Tambopata River. At the river’s edge our motorised canoe awaited us, as did our three and a half hour journey up river to our jungle lodge. Margaret and I boarded the canoe first and sat at the back exchanging quick hellos with our navigator and the lodge kitchen-hands. The latter included a short, barrel-chested local man whose name I didn’t get, and a pleasant woman, Linda, in her early forties complete with 3-year-old son. Enter Carlos. Well Juan Carlos actually, as I soon discovered when Dany our tour leader boarded the canoe and Carlos eyes lit up with a welcoming “AMIGGGGOOOOHHH!” and Dany replied “Ahh, its Juan Carlos! Comestas?” The exchange was very cute, and Carlos quickly endeared himself to the entire group. I must admit though, I was a little confused over the pronunciation of Carlos’ name. When Dany pronounced his name, it sounded more like “Young Carlo”. To add to the confusion, his mother pronounces his name in Italian, “Gian Carlo”, and his father pronounces the Spanish. Nonetheless, I will remember him as “Young Carlos”. Margaret and I gave the little guy one of our souvenir koalas that we had anxiously been waiting to give to a native South American. Carlos was the first recipient.

 

Young Carlos and Linda

The journey up river was a pleasant one. The soft breeze blowing over the Tambopata took the edge off the stifling heat we had experienced when alighting the plane. We were all eagerly anticipating spotting our first sign of Amazonian wild-life, but the journey revealed little in this regard. I and others had the camera and binoculars held with much anticipation. The river actually turned out to be quite a busy little route: a few other tourist boats, but for the most part motorised canoes bursting at the gunwales with locals and/ or bananas. There were a great number of banana plantations on both sides of the river, and so any wildlife we were expecting to see would no doubt have fled on hearing the whine of a canoes motor. We were all expecting to see a capybara or two; the worlds largest rodent and apparently akin to a rat the size of a pig. The animal was purportedly meant to be seen frequently drinking at the river’s edge. But, we were totally denied. Capybaras there were none.

After a few rations of rice and chicken for our lunch, the canoe arrived at a checkpoint three hours into the journey. Here we signed into the Tambopata National Park, although in reality we had only entered the buffer zone of the park. Thirty minutes later and our canoe had been moored at the shore of our lodge. The lodge contained several wooden cabins and a large common area and kitchen. The cabins were complete with cold showers and mosquito-net equipped beds. Everything you needed to combat the two biggest buggers of the jungle, the humidity and the mosquito! It wasn’t long after making our way up the clay-baked embankment and into the jungle verge, where our lodge was located, that the humidity hit. Once we were allocated our cabins, it was a case of dealing with the curses of the jungle. I had bought a long-sleeved cotton drill shirt in Cusco, in readiness for the mosquito-riddled jungle, but the humidity was far too high for me to even consider wearing this. So, it was only to be a short sleeved shirt and any exposed skin was doused in 30% Deet. Margaret was playing devils advocate as she normally does with mosquitoes (because the feckers love her so), so she donned a long-sleeved shirt, and the repellent went on the shirt as well as her face and hands. Deet is a marvellous repellent. It not only prevents mossies from biting you, but it also eats through plastic and renders your skin the texture of a caiman with a bad case of hives. Glenn reacted quite badly after applying repellent to his face and consequently turned the brighter shade of a denuded Peruvian frog. In fact, Glenn didn’t have much success with his mosquito combat strategy. He also had to stop taking his anti-malarial tablets – Mefloquin after it surprisingly didn’t agree with his tummy.

This brings me to the subject of Malaria. The Amazon region extending from Brazil, to Peru and Ecuador is a region endemic to Malaria. It’s well documented that the mosquito carries the parasite that is Malaria. However the mosquitoes that bite during dusk, dawn and at night are the ones likely to be carrying it. Those mosquitoes that are obliging enough to drop in on you for a blood-donation during the day are only likely to carry Dengue Fever; of which there is no prevention. That’s another story. All is not as sinister as it seems for the Cusco Crew though given the Tambopata River is on the fringe of the Amazon Basin, and so is considered to be a low-risk Malaria area by locals. However, it would appear depending on which country you were from, what doctor you had, and what side of the bed that they awoke on, determined whether or not you in fact needed to take anti-malarial medication. While most in our group were taking them, some had been informed by their GP that it was completely unnecessary. Something to think about as I popped my third Doxy tablet of a two month supply. Margaret on the other hand was about the only one in the group that had braved the big-daddy of all the available anti-malarial medication: Larium. It was difficult to determine whether Margaret was actually affected by the consumption of the drug. The following gives a bit of an insight into the anti-malarial medication available.

ANTI-MALARIAL MEDICATION TRIVIA

Mefloquin

• Dosage: Daily
• Side effects: Occasional intestinal twist and bowel warp.
• Efficacy: Not 100%, but probably more effective than Doxy.

 

Doxycycline (aka Doxy)

• Dosage: Daily
• Side effects: Increases your sensitivity to the sun. Drug of choice for fair-skinned, ginger-haired people.
• Efficacy: Not 100% – But if you get enough sun, a mosquito won’t even look at you.

Larium

• Dosage: Weekly
• Side effects: Transforms you into a somnambulistic paranoid-schizophrenic, unless of course you already happen to be one, i.e. Norman Bates with a bad dream.
• Efficacy: Almost 100%, the H-bomb of anti-malarial medication; i.e. very effective, as the patient will invariably experience enough night trauma to frighten not only mosquitoes but every living thing capable of being bitten by a mosquito within a radius of 50 metres.

 

Okay so we’re perspiring like proverbial pigs, and lathered in Deet. Out we venture for a short tour of a local farm and orchard. If there was to be any test of our mosquito armour this was it, for dusk was upon us. Mateo and Freddy gave us the run down on some of the local plants which we learned are used today in western medicine. One such plant called Cat’s Claw is used in the treatment of cancer and HIV; and another Dragon’s Blood, aptly named for its viscous red sap, is used in the production of treatments for tuberculosis and bone cancer. It was somewhere in this jungle classroom that I was bitten twice through my shirt by mosquitoes. Feckers! I prayed that my less than 100 percent effective anti-malarial medication would not live up to its disclaimer. Margaret was not bitten at all. A minor miracle in the jungle!

That evening after dinner, Juan Carlos, introduced me to one of the older residents of the lodge. Miss Cornelia her name was. She proved to be a bit uncommunicative and had a real hair problem. The tarantula the size of my hand, and legs as big as fingers, had taken up lodgings in the corner of the kitchen, where she guarded her nest. Way cool I thought. Margaret wasn’t as nearly impressed as I. The massive hairy beast would be absent during the day (no doubt skulking in our cabin) and without fail would return to her corner at 7 every night. That’s the tarantula. Not Margaret!

We gained some respite from the mosquitoes and the humidity by venturing back to the canoe for a spot of caiman spot-lighting. A caiman is a South-American alligator, and there are a number of types in the Tambopata region. There was the Black Caiman, which can grow up to 8 metres in length, the White Caiman, and the Speckled Caiman. The speckled caiman is a relatively small crocodilian at a maximum length of only 2 – 3 metres. The caiman in general is a very placid alligator. Nothing at all like the notorious Saltwater croc that inhabit the estuaries and rivers of remote Australia. A large black caiman would be unlikely to bother a swimmer unless provoked. We were fortunate enough to see two caiman that evening. They were relatively easy to spot, as their eyes would light up like a pair of LEDs when any light was cast in their general direction. On attempted closer inspections of the caiman, they proved to be quite small speckled specimens. I say attempted, because the blighters disappeared after Gerhard, another older German-Australian on our tour would let go with a persistent-phlegm-packed cough. The evening finished with me conducting the Fecker Inspection*. After a relieving cold shower, and rigging the mosquito netting, Margaret and I were soon in bed, drowning in our own sweat.

* A FECKER INSPECTION involves me running around the room, staring at every nook and cranny for minutes at a time to ensure there are no mossies, spiders or any other 6 or 8 legged feckers about. Thankfully there were none – that I could see. The Fecker Inspection would become my nightly routine for the remainder of our time in South America.

 

Up at 5:00am for a quick breakfast of papaya and unpleasant bread. Then into the jungle for everybody except Graham, who had become quite ill overnight with, you guessed it, a nasty tummy bug. Mateo and Freddy lead us on a 4-hour trek on a meandering trail through the jungle to a lake where we would have a go at piranha fishing. The trek was still interesting despite being a little disappointing due to the lack of wild-life we saw. But to be fair, if I was an animal, I would scarper if I smelt, let alone heard a hoard of twenty chatting primates marauding through the jungle. We did see a number of birds, but it was a case of hearing them more than seeing them. We mostly saw butterflies and bizarre looking insects. The closest we came to seeing a mammal was spotting a set of tapir tracks. The tapir is South America’s answer to the European wild boar – the key differentiating feature being that the tapir has a hair-lip and so does not welcome onlookers. Perhaps the most entertaining part of the hike was walking precariously along the busy “leaf-cutter” highway. The path in parts was occupied by a veritable army of ants, each carrying the part of a leaf that they had chewed away. Hence, the name Leaf-cutter ant. Also entertaining were the true Army Ants, and only because they delivered a couple of bites to Gerhard, after he stood too close to the tree they inhabited.

After stalking a make-believe caiman (Helen Wright claims she saw it, but funnily enough no one else did), and traversing carefully across a few log bridges we made it to the lake and prepared ourselves for a spot of piranha fishing. There were three rowboats available for twenty of us. Two of the boats were sea-worthy, which could be a problem given we were on a lake. The last boat, the largest, was not worthy of anything but a good fire. Of course that was the boat that Margaret and I ended up boarding, along with ten other lucky travellers. As Mateo edged our boat out into the water, there was a mad flurry of plastic bags – makeshift camera protection – as we saw that our backsides were no more than one inch from the surface of the water. For some reason unknown to me, we all feared for our cameras more than for our own wellbeing; for a minute at least. Sure, we were only sinking into a lake that was teeming with piranha. Mateo had tried to lessen our fear of piranha by indulging us with a few facts. Apparently only the less vicious yellow-bellied piranha inhabited these waters. Its red-bellied cousin, who had a more voracious appetite wasn’t to be found here. Thank God for that! In truth though, the piranha doesn’t deserve the aggressive reputation Hollywood has given it. It will only go for you if you had an open sore. Like, for example, if you pricked your finger on a fishhook and then your boat happened to sink. Plausible enough, I thought as the water swept into the bottom of our boat at an alarming rate. Mateo, our guide and navigator, was unfazed. In fact according to Mateo it was quite safe to swim in the lake. According to Dany, however, it was possible to swim in the lake, but it was not a pastime he recommended. Not for the piranha, but for the anaconda. The anaconda, an extremely large aquatic snake; a constrictor; that inhabits the tributaries of the Amazon basin, and is perfectly capable of ingesting a cow at one sitting. No swimming Mateo, por favor.

As you might imagine, it took a while, but our minds wandered from flesh-eating fish, man-swallowing snakes and our sinking boat, as Mateo handed some makeshift fishing rods and bait to us budding piranha pescadores (Spanish for Fisher-person). We were soon fishing. After a surprisingly short time, The Incredible Horst landed a piranha; and a red-bellied one at that. The people on our boat roared in excitement at landing one so early on. This was soon followed by other roars from across the lake as one of our other boats was also successful. Meanwhile, Margaret and I had no success. We seemed to be just feeding the fish with large chunks of beef-steak. No sooner did we bait the hook and castaway when we’d pull up our line to find our hook devoid of lure. It seemed my zero percent fishing record, held for 32 years, was at no risk of being broken. Towards the end of our fishing foray, Michelle, who was also in our boat landed a yellow-bellied blighter. After that, the bites stopped. The piranhas had obviously had a belly full of beef. With the cessation of biting our minds reverted to more pressing dilemmas like the scorching sun and the implications of our sinking boat. Out came the bailer. A tin tea-mug. Dwelling on the potential demise of our boat quickly gave rise to some vociferous complaints and protests from our boat crew. Mateo took the hint and took us in to shore. Relief! After a photo-shoot of the two Pescadores with their catches we returned back to the lodge. Only two and a half hours this time. In time for a lunch of chicken and rice cooked in banana leaves. The afternoon was ours, so while a few relaxed, I wandered down to the shore to see if I could spot any wildlife. I saw one caiman and many tracks from the elusive capybara, and this, only after sinking almost knee dip into mud at the river’s edge.

As the sun sank, casting shadows over the river and putting a dent in the strong Peruvian sun, someone mentioned the word “Football”. And so, Michael, Richard, Glenn, Joanne, Mateo, Freddy and Freddy boarded the canoe and crossed to the opposing riverbank where a nice sandy beach awaited our game. By the way, there is no typo above. Another lodge-hand appeared from nowhere at the promise of a game of football, and his name too was Freddy. It was the Peruvians and Jo versus the Rest of Us. It was tough going as the humidity was a killer. I almost avenged the bashing of Margaret’s nose from the previous day, by letting a ball fly at the opposing keeper. It was Jo and narrowly missed taking off her nose complete with head. OOPS! Despite Mateo and the two Freddy’s showing great touch on the ball and having the home ground advantage, the Rest of Us ended up winning by a golden goal. At four goals a piece, Michael secured the match winning goal. The crowd went wild. One of the Freddys, in his disgust at the result braved anaconda, caiman and piranha and swam back across the river. Well, actually we were sweating so profusely a swim seemed like a great idea. Curiously our team was comprised of entirely Lima Lightweights so not surprisingly the cold shower was chosen instead. It was heaven.

That evening, after dinner, and a quick Spanish lesson from John Carlos it was time to go tarantula hunting in the jungle. Low and behold, we saw two nests, and one tarantula. It was kind of novel, seeing some wildlife that you had actually sought out. Granted the tarantula we saw was not as large as Miss Cornelia, but it was still exciting to watch Mateo taunt the hairy arachnid from its lair. Our spider hunt concluded with Mateo requesting all of us to shut our gobs for ten minutes and extinguish our torches. This was very cool, for within a couple of minutes of us following Mateo’s request the jungle came alive with the noises of the night. Perhaps the most prominent sound was that of the Amazonian Bamboo rat, which gave a bizarre but rather sonorous grunt. Not quite as loud as Gerhard’s snoring apparently. The evening concluded with us spotting a huge tree frog, and finally on performing a Fecker Inspection, we discovered a smaller tree frog in our shower. It was soon removed, without the slightest thought of a blender.

Tarantula, Amazon Basin

Amazonian Tree Frog

The following day, we left the lodge at 8am and ventured back down the river towards Puerto Maldonado. It was a rather poignant farewell saying cheerio to John Carlos, as he had proven to be quite the entertainer. Indeed Juan Carlos and Miss Cornelia were the highlights of our Tambopata experience. Mateo gave us a quick tour of the local market. Some of the plants that were on sale here we had seen in the jungle, like the Cat’s Claw and Dragon’s Blood. Gerhard whose cough was still causing him and Glenn, his room-mate problems, decided to knock back a local remedy. It consisted of honey and some sort of opossum extract. I don’t think it helped much. The remainder of the group braved their well being on some sugar coated Brazil nuts.

To the airport, where Margaret began to have some chronic tummy problems, resulting in a few visits to the loo. While I felt fine, it didn’t augur well for Margaret, as in less than one hour we would be arriving back in Cusco and so be reacquainting ourselves with the ridiculous altitude. Upon arriving in Cusco, it was also time to farewell some people from our tour. Richard & Michelle and Nicola were carrying on to Lima. So three of the original Lima Lightweights were now gone. The Cusco Crew arrived on time as expected. That evening was a quiet one for Margaret and I. We consulted the Diarrhoea Instruction Manual once again and then decided a course of antibiotics and “Gastrostop” was probably the safest strategy at this stage. Gastrostop! There’s a name and the chemo-equivalent to a butt-plug; quite handy when you have a long bus journey and are on the run so-to-speak. As it turned out we did have a long bus journey ahead of us the following day. Seven hours to Puno, on the verge of Lake Titicaca. I pondered this as I packed both of our rucksacks, now jam-packed with Peruvian souvenirs and, like Margaret’s stomach, threatening to explode.