Fear and Boating on the Rio Marañon Part 4

Paradise, lost.

On every river trip I've ever been a part of, the main event of night time activity is staring at a glowing bed of embers after a lengthy fire that is as large as rules allow. Not on this trip. The thought of creating more heat in this place seems utterly masochistic. Even after the sun has disappeared for hours behind the mountains and the moon has slung itself across the span of the sky, the ground continues to release heat in shimmering waves. We set up tents merely for bug prevention, though if it were possible to fall asleep while submerged in the cool flowing river we certainly would have.

The scenery in some areas was reminiscent of the Southwest rivers of America. Turning a corner, however, one could find gigantic Mango trees or Palms swaying in the gentle wind.

Throughout the day the sun scorches any skin left uncovered. That is, the skin which can be found between the spotted red raised flesh of bug bites which covers everyone in the group. They particularly go for the ankles and after only 48 hours in the valley Laura is sporting two softball sized ankles which wiggle with every step. Strapping into her Chacos and going for a side hike is a lesson in pain tolerance. Despite these conditions, we find ourselves singing mother nature's praises once again as we pull into camp on day two.

As we round a bend to find ourselves in a hallway of stone with thousand foot vertical walls on either side, the inside bend of the river spills out into a fan of trees and a small clear tributary appears. We hug the shore and wait in formation as one boat at a time leaves the eddy at the mouth of the creek to pull into the beach of our camp, guarded as it is by a thick crop of bamboo. Once all the boats safely pull into harbor, we unload gear in a hurry and run up the luscious bank of soft sand to a pathway through the greenery which leads to a clearing beneath two massive mango trees. Between the two trees is a fire pit and a small fruit bearing tree which appears to have plump limes. I climb up to poach a few for our beers and open them up to find that they are deliciously sweet oranges. As we explore our new oasis, Pedro and Ariel ponder the cataraft once again, as it is still unable to hold air for even the few short hours we are on the water each day. They deflate it and begin repairs yet again.

A ukulele is brought into the clearing as the kitchen is set up and Jake begins to pluck the strings and fill the air with melody. The crew sits around beneath the shade of the mango trees and drinks beer, some with wedges of fresh orange poked into the tops. While we float along on the current of Jake's strings, a smell wafts through the air which is immediately picked up by Pedro who has been relaying information like where the best camp sites are and where the groover (read: bathroom) will be set up. He lifts his nose and yells, "Ariel! Let me come help you!" It is 4:20pm, Pedro's favorite time of day. In fact, there is a small but fun rapid found at Kilometer 420 on the river which is named Pedro's.

This interaction represents a turning point on the trip where the guests and guides both realize that smoking weed is good to go. A few of the others found weed in Huanchaco and brought it with them, though it is not even enough to fill a prescription pill bottle. Ariel and Pedro both have their own stashes as well and this night is the first of the trip where everyone smokes openly and shares what they have. This is great news for me as I promised my Mom that I would not solicit drugs from anyone in a foreign country (which I still consider sound advice) and I'm really not much of a drinker.

I've never seen as much boat repair in a lifetime of trips as I saw on this one.

I follow Pedro over to the cataraft repair shop and take a few tokes of Ariel's doobie while I weigh in on the problem at hand. In my opinion, it's a blown baffle, which is the wall that separates the two chambers from each other in each tube. Pedro disagrees and believes that it's just a hole that escaped their thorough search at the put in. Ariel is flummoxed by the whole thing but stirs up some soapy water to pour over the rubber to see if he can find a leak. Over the course of the next six or seven hours the two of them find and patch a few more holes in the boat while the rest of the crew swills Peruvian cold ones and tells stories of previous river trips.

That night I join in on a dice game that the others have been playing since the van ride to the put in. It's called Old Mexico and consists of shaking some dice in a cup, taking a look at what you've got then lying about it or telling the truth. If someone thinks you are lying, they call you and lift the cup. If they are right, you lose a point, if they are wrong, they lose a point. There is no way to gain a point. If you've got a 2 and a 1, you say "Old Mexico" and the person after you has to decide to call your bluff or not. If they lose, it's two points against them. It's a simple game and it can be played by anyone, but the real fun comes from the banter and constant braggadocious behavior. Matt in particular is excellent for this game because for him the thrill is calling Old Mexico blind, then passing it to the next person to see if his gamble paid off. Most times it doesn't and he loses two points, but every once in a blue moon he actually gets it and the cheers can be heard for miles.

I fall asleep early and wake up with the rising sun. We are ready to hit the river by nine while still enjoying a leisurely pace in camp for our morning chores. As we pack our things, Pedro tells us about his pre-dawn wake up to find a white donkey in camp eating from our organic waste which was filled with banana leaves spattered with corn from a feast of tamales. He chased the donkey out three times. The donkey, for his part, probably never found a meal more delicious and can't be blamed for enjoying a little midnight left overs.