Chicha Morada Recipe

1. Wash the corn and place it in a pot with the water, the clove, the cinnamon, the chopped quince, the pineapple shell and the chopped apples.
2. Let the mixture boil until the grain of the corn bursts open, then remove it from the heat and strain it.
3. Let it cool to room temperature and sweeten it with the sugar. Then add the mandarine juice.
4. Serve it thoroughly chilled, with finely-chopped fruit.

Trails End

Only moments ago I stepped into the raucous of Lima, Peru. After adventuring in the jungle for nearly a month, being back on a bus for fifteen hours was tortuous. Ah! The crisp fresh air of a lancha at sunrise, and the beauty of lightning storms through plump la selva clouds. The monotony of hiking through mud ridden- mosquito infested forest, and coursing back and forth over flooder river terrain. We were paddled up stream though one of the longest rains of Lagunas ´reckoning. Seven straight hours the drops pelted out of the sky, natives conjecturing, ¨mucho lluga, mucho!¨and then smiling at me listfully with the pride of the forest in their forceps and mind.

We left Iquitos on a Thursday evening after spending the previous night on the town with my friend Nara (a local to Iquitos whom I met on the Rio Napo) walking the Plaza de Armas, admiring the fountains along the river, feigning some interest in street performers and Michael Jackson impersonations, and questing through the Artisans market for an old shaman with porcupine quills and Siete Reices. We feasted upon a tipica jungle chicken dinner, fire roasted and served with a multitude of sauces. Then, later a welcomed visit with her family. Sitting in the dirt on a noisy sidestreet in the warm late night air. Discussing English and Spanish phrases, a tearful goodbye amongst a friendly invite to return with full lodging and meals included. Then, spending Thursday fully stocking up for a pleasant boat trip downstream to the small village of Lagunas on the border of the Picaya-Samiria reserve.
We had Uely´s daybag stocked on rum, local beverages, pineapple juice, peanut butter, jam, knife, lighters, bowls, cups from Popayan, spoons, my mother´s spanish dictionary from college, our South American Handbook for inspiration, and his journal for memories sake. We lounged quite giddy and content, as this boat was a palace compared to the one on the Napo. It towered a full story higher, and another lancha longer. It had space enough for my stretching and dancing in the early mornings. The bathrooms were usuable and there were even shower heads.

Then-

IT WAS GONE. From right under our hammocks. Urgh. Rattas. Theifs. Everyone around us saw it happen, and no one said a thing. Shrugging their shoulders, laughing at my horrid gringa-speak as I inquired, ¨Rattas tomar nos bolsa- Por que no dices me?¨Not a friend in sight.

Hence, a grim, but adventurous journey to Lagunas, we spent our time trying not to sulk as we kept full guard over our remaining belongings and shared a melancholy mediocre book for distraction. And tried not to think about Uely´s irreplaceable journal and the Peurto Rico rum that walked away (it is a brilliant solution to killing whatever lives in the river water cuisine served on board). Also, we had positioned our hammocks on the top deck with only a tarp cover above us. The nightly storms raged at all angles, and we were glad to have our luggage wrapped in a heavy duty garbage bag with 15 liters of water on top for better keeping.

We found ourselves in Lagunas late Saturday night, and were immediately befriended by Clever, who happened to not only have been raised in an indigenous village in the surrounding jungle but was wise with medicinal knowledge carried on from his father. We hired him as our guide a very agreeable rate that is unheard of in Iquitos. He took us into the forest for three days and two nights. Which was more than enough time for me in the deep jungle. Mostly because I got another bout of food poisoning. Can you imagine the misery of my being sick on a tiny three person paddle boat for 6 hours? Yet, this was still an experience to remember the rest of my life.
The beauty of the small silent crevices penetrated by the slow dipping tempo of the wooden paddles. The bright jungle birds, large eagles, black vultures, soaring in the air. Plantain palms, huge Ceiba trees, root masses protruding out of vines and flourishing like chunks of snarled witch hair in the water current. The brown river growing steadily higher, the night sky overreaching our heads, the sky lighting up with thunder. The exotic smells and sounds of unhindered wilderness. Monkeys of their many sizes colors and shapes constantly darted through the treetops. Us- turning our heads at the sound of kerrrrpluunck! and crrrraack! to see them stuffing their faces in sublime satisfaction of lazy siesta haze. The constant threat of piranhas swimming in swarms below. The caimen, turtles, tarantulas, and oh yes- about fifty varieties of mosquitoes. There were the obstinately hungry ones, appearing like those in California, yet more vicious and desperate. Cunningly clever in their achievements on my flesh. Then in the heat of the afternoon they flew grandly about my face in hysteria. Larger, with bright blue and yellow coloring. The evenings were infiltrated by armies of these beasts in every shape and size. My legs are quite a pocked wonder.
Clever, I think, was sad to see us go, though his ego said otherwise to his friends and family. Small side gestures and laughing of ¨touristas¨¨gringos¨you´d think I would be used to it by now. However, Clever decided to join us at the docks with rum and mandarin treats. He saw us off like a true Father figure, helping with our bags, waving, and one last offering for aiuawska, which we have not partook in.

Uely had decided to splurge and surprised me with first class tickets to Yurimaguas. A whole new world with dinner served at a table with plates and cutlery, even tea cups. We decided it would be best to make headway for Lima as we are missing some futile supplies (try hiking through a hot, dusty foreign town slum with no address of where to go, and taxi drivers who cant understand your accent ¨hospedaje-hotel-hostel-residencia-resturante-catedral, por favor?¨). The journey to Lima was not uneventful. However, the only part I feel worth mentioning is the collectivo from Yurimaguas to Tarapoto.

The usual- being pulled by multiple persons in different directions before I have even climbed out of the tiny motortaxi. "Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!" they exclaim. I give a tiny, discreet nod of my head, while glancing sideways to see what Uely makes of this. We had been headed for a bus station....Our bags are hoisted- flung- onto the top of a pile of other cargo. The usual chickens, parrots, cola, and square-plaid-waterproof bag covers. One man even carries baby turtles in his pockets, which he occasionally spits on for comfort. The children are gathered around him, guessing prices he might fetch for them at market in Tarapoto. The drive is somewhat paved to begin with, but our truck was not in such good condition. There was first a long wait for someone willing to pay twice as much for indoor seating before we could leave, then a flat tire, then another half hour wait for the construction of a toll booth. Then an hour and a half stop to replace the damaged tire in some small sleepy jungle town with an excellent restaurant that actually served us beans! All this in the first 60km.
On the road again- no more pavement now, though there is definite progress underway as the construction was so fresh the red dirt wasnt even a smidgen compacted on the ´roadway´.´We twisted and turned, I practicing patience, bending my knees to keep steady on the bumps and twists, reminding myself that I was about to embark on a series of bus journeys, so I should be ecstatic that I am doing pli`es in the back of a dusty Toyota pickup truck. The canyons stretch a good 100 feet below us in a flurry of green and red jungle abyss. Above was the other 200 feet of mountain about to crumble back down and heal her wounds. I could hear my Dad telling me no when I was five, ¨no, it isn't safe to ride in the back of a truck.¨ The beauty of tropical waterfalls falling through the roadways, under makeshift cement bridges, then cascading the rest of its way down the canyonside. All around, the rich red earth freshly exposed and breathing the misting sun spotted air. Out ahead, a long caravan of traffic; Many collectivo pickups, vans, freighter trucks with multiple cars too large for California laws; A flourishing rainbow of bananas, red jungle fruits, Peruvians, soda pop, and personal baggage in baskets, coffee sacks, and bamboo structures. If only I had my camera ready and also a third hand- to steady the jostle! Past every group of construction workers a large holler, whistle, ¨hey! Gringa!¨Uely got a ¨Buy a sombrero¨ for his T shades in harsh, vowel-laden, Peru-Inglais. I griped the unsteady rail so hard that I got blisters, yet found myself safe and bored in a dusty dry town called Tarapoto before two in the afternoon.

Two long bus rides overnight, and lot of waiting, and additional hassle having no guidebook for addresses to give cabbies, I now find myself in a gringo infested abode in the heart of Miaflores, Peru. Here is where there are DVDs, internet, traffic, and bitchy girls who give me smack for ordering a beer at one in the afternoon. As if I know what time it is after all that! Heh.

A Clearing in the Bush

I left this saga last, in the jungle town of Coca, where we departed Ecuador on the Rio Napo to Puerto Rocafuerte. The speedboat was full with 70 people, a lot of bananas, oranges, eggs, a generator, and other thick bulsas of various cargo. It took 15 hours to reach our port, and we stumbled into a half organized mass of habitations with old broken lamp posts lining the few streets. We found ourselves lodged in a small, filthy room with a peruvian military immigration guard on leave, hammocks, mosquitos, rats, cochroaches and a chorus of dog fights all night long. Upon early rising the next day, and a fried fish and papas breakfast, we nearly emptied our pockets to pay for the gasoline to get us the hell out of Ecuador and into Pantoja where we could get a Peruvian entry stamp in our passports. This ride was brisk, and our driver Juan Carlos drove us purposfully into some river bushes numerous times to collect small fruits which look like green beans and taste like sugar water in cotton, mmm. As we were occupied in the bushes, with VERY big braches looming around our heads- so that we had to dodge under, over and around as the river current pulled us along- a storm rolled in and Chuzo (Juan Carlos) pushed the motor to the metal as we screeched into Pantoja around noon.

Pantoja has no streets. Being so far upstream on the Rio Napo, there are no vehicles, and villagers were working hard at carving their canoes on the shore. We hiked up a long hill to immigration as the rain came pouring down. We have more luggage now than ever because of all our ¨neccessaries¨ (primarily 20 liters of agua and crackers) which really arent all that neccessary for the jungle after all (rubber boots, mosquito nets, pots and pans, bowls, cups, towels). We found ourselves sleeping on the Lancha which had only just arrived a few minutes before us. This was lucky in some regards. Sometimes travelers wait weeks for a ride to Iquitos. Also, it was a free place to sleep. BUT the banos are in horrible condition, and by the time the Jeisawell set sail on Thurday morning, I was already sick of her. One day I awoke at first light to someone sweeping, only to realize in my groggy-headed haze that they were pushing blood maggots off the floor and overboard, sort of. Those nasty critters were EVERYWHERE, including my socks which I had lazily left on the floor the previous night.

As we sailed southwards, the lancha stopped at every jungle establishment for cargo. Cargo in the jungle means pigs, pigs, pigs, chickens, turtles, corn, bananas, pigs, pigs, Oxen, ducks, roosters, pigs, and pigs. The smell was overwhelming. The screams of the animals was horrifc. I tossed in the cold jungle air enlessly through every night. Hammocks were crammed one right next to other, I had not two, but four sleeping partners. A person on every side of me, spooning my head, shoulder, hips, and feet. Food was served in the gallows near the pigs, and right across from the mess of a bathroom. Fish guts and maggots littered the floor, and even local villagers made clear their protests by refusing to eat those meals cooked of river water on the worst lancha in the Amazon.

I spent my time drinking aguardiente mixed with an orange crush type soda or citrus tonic water. I would climb onto the roof (though it was speedily filling up with chickens in cages, and the metal was too hot on their feet to avoid their rampant rejections of squakings and cockadoodledoos). I took pictures, observed cargo loading methods (nothing like watching a village full of men, plus the ship crew, and captain haul an oxen across a small wooden plank suspended 4 feet in the air above the river from the grassy bank), talked with my friend Nara from Iquitos who is a biology major at University, crochet with llama yarn bought at the Latacunga, Ecuadorian market, read Mary Oliver, and then mixed another drink.

We evacuated the lancha on Saturday evening just aftersundown. It was a nice farewell. Nara and I sat on the roof, looking at the vast variety of stars in the southern hemisphere, and chatting together of Spanish and English phrases.

Santa Clotilda is another jungle town, smaller than Coca, and larger than Pantoja. There was a single motorcycle who navigated these streets among the scattered ramblers of the sidewalks of the evening town frollick. We stayed for free with our hammocks in the loft above a wonderful little family restaurant. They fed us well, and we spent a day taking pictures, exploring the networking pathways through palms, old fountains, covered bridges, along the river, and around a plaza in the hot hot sun. The evening held magic for me as I found some neighborhod children to play at dancing with, and then a friendly face from the lancha to meander a bit down the main strip with her three small children.

From Santa Clotilde we found ourselves disembarking on another speedboat, smaller than the rapido out of Coca, but much larger than the hand carved canoe from Nuevo Rocafuerte. This trip was 5 hours to Masan, and I sat next to a large spider.

Masan was an unintersting little town, hot, and covered with some kind of workforce who were singing near the docks. This is where I met Anderson. He is a driver of a mototaxi. A motorcyle with a trailer attached at the back for a seat. He took us on one of the funnest rides Ill ever have. It was winding sidewalks, poorly maintained with potholes and half paved with rocks and dust. The 20 minutes we held on to our bags in the back of his cab were spinning with banana trees, jungle ferns, thatched huts, and villagers, then a darker part of the forest, into sunlight, and around a bend to Indiana where I saw the Amazon river for the very first time, flowing strongly, and pushing huge masses like islands along in her current.

So long! Coca, Ecuador

Our final goodbyes are to Ecuador this evening. This Sunday we spent in some relaxation amid the horrendous heat as we got most our supllies taken care of yesterday. We meandered across the river past military residencies, hospitals, spiritual alters, and other establishments. There was a breif moment (very breif) of solitude over a bridge of a Rio Napo tribuatry. Then we hopped on a bus conveniently rolling and bumping along. We hurried through afternoon market crowds and visited some monkeys who I am quite fond. They loiter in the treetops of the walk along the river. There are a variety of different species (five maybe), and they allow me to hold them, pet them, and play with their fingers. One monkey fell in love with me, grabed my breast one moment, and challenged Manuel or anyone else close-by with snarling teeth and monkey pounces.
We have grown accustomed to the places we inhabit here. After changing hotel yesterday, because our bed broke for no good reason, we find ourselves closer to the river and the places we enjoy eating out (as we have no kitchen argh!) There is a small bar with sidewalk stools, mirrors, fresh air, good tunes, and a gritty old sign up on top. We sip gin and tonics between meals, and eat at a restaurant with friendly owner for tipica breakfast and lunch. Our dinner spot has open fire grill, and manuel ate some kind of foot tonight. The pickins are slim, but my heart has grown a deep fondness for Coca despite.
We leave on a canoe for Puerto Rocafuerte early tommorrow morning, and will spend some time in the jungle away from civilization for a little while. Wish us luck!