The port at Coca, Ecuador
Coca
Like every other night bus I’ve ridden in Ecuador, this one careens through the Andes at uncomfortable speeds as I drift into and out of sleep, loud Latin pop blasting through the speakers throughout the night. I have earplugs this time, and they almost work. Ten dollars for a ride that last ten hours. Somehow it always works out perfectly like that. [Note: Now that I'm in Brazil where the rate's around $5 per hour, I miss this.]
Main Street Coca, at dusk
Coca, named after the plant cocaine is derived from, isn’t like most of my previous destinations. The long river journey has a minor following here, to the point where gringos aren’t quite scrutinized like pale, lanky aliens as they pass down the street, but we’re still a rarity, and this is definitely not a tourist town. It’s just past six AM when the bus stops along a fairly non-descript street in the heart of town, marked by two-story buildings (far more rare outside the city center) housing restaurants and butcher shops, hardware stores and tiendas selling cheap plastic toys and candies. I step out from the bus, just feet away from a wooden bucket containing three cow heads stacked loosely upon one another, coated in a swarm of flies. The butcher shop looks fairly sterile otherwise.
I’m tired and don’t feel like wandering aimlessly through a jungle town known for having a bit of a rough side, especially with my every worldly possession dangling across my slumped shoulders. A taxi offers to take me to a decent hostel for only a dollar, which seems like a great deal until he stops less than two blocks away from where he picked me up at The Oasis. Eight dollars per night seems high for a hostel, though I’ve since talked to people from other lodging spots near the city’s center and the price seems about average. There aren’t regular backpackers here, so there aren’t any dormitory-like places to put them
My room, bed pressed up against the door to keep uninvited guests out
There’s ostensibly hot water in the room, but none comes out of the juryrigged shower. Reaching up to investigate, I discover with a shock that one of the wires feeding the heater is loose; the jolt’s enough to keep me from investigating further. The biggest problem with the room, however, is the lack of a working lock mechanism on the door. Actually, the lock works fine, but the housing is loose and easily can be turned aside, granting anyone access. My paranoia at an all time high after the New Years mugging attempt, I lock my belongings to piping along the wall whenever I leave, and sleep with my bed pressed against the door to deny unwelcome nighttime visitors.
I’m allowed to be here until January 5th, and it’s already the 4th — a Sunday — when I arrive. This leaves me exactly one day to handle getting an exit stamp from the immigration office. A blog entry from another traveler in 2001 documents how to go about this trip fairly well, but I didn’t account for how much things could change over time. Back then, immigration was handled in Coca; now there is an office in Nuevo Rocafuerte which is the “official” spot. Here in Coca, the official’s only on duty from 3-4 in the afternoon and clearly isn’t used to playing the role. This almost works to my advantage, as he is ready to stamp my passport, no questions or money asked. The negative side is that his stamp is busted, and refuses to move past 2008. He offers to write me the immigration equivalent of a “Doctor’s note” to explain the situation to those in Nuevo Rocafuerte. It’s a nice offer, but ends up amounting to nothing.
The bridge across Coca. Not much to see on the other side, actually...
It’s late Monday now, and I’ve missed the guaranteed 12-hour boatride to N.R. At the docks, I was assured emphatically that there would be another boat in the morning tomorrow, but the Internet and guide books all seemed to agree that Mondays and Thursdays were the only opportunities for such a trip. I buy a ticket, though for $12 — for a twelve hour trip, it seems to follow the same rule that Ecuadorian buses follow — and hope for the best.
The city’s much more built up than the description of it from 2001 led me to believe. It’s still a petroleum town more than anything else; a long bridge across the Rio Napo leads to most of the oil work, and long crowds of bedraggled workers head across it each morning, then steadily make their way back throughout the afternoon. But there are Internet cafes now, and food options stretching past the traditional one-dish almuerzo places (though these still dominate the restaurant landscape).
“What’s there to do here?” I ask an American girl over dinner on Sunday.
“Walking, looking at the river.. uh.. being hot..?” she answers.
“Shit. I’ve already done all of those.”
I do them again throughout Monday, taking occasional breaks to stock up on water and snacks (intelligently) and not to stock up on cash from an ATM (very unintelligently). After the initial boat ticket, I have approximately $115 to get me to Iquitos, the next city with regular access to an ATM machine (or regular electricity, for that matter). Not getting more money was a mistake. In addition to the snacks, I also have some new regular equipment for my journey that I picked up from the craft market in Quito. Eight dollars got me an especially colorful hammock that seems comfortable enough — a necessity for making it through four nights on the lancha. I also purchased a leather hat for the jungle. People have pointed out that it makes me look like Indiana Jones. Peruvian children in Iquitos chased after me yelling “INDIANA JONES! INDIANA JONES!!” I assure you, this was my intention.
Lastly, I got a one dollar haircut in Coca. It wasn’t the best cut I’ve ever gotten, but it’s far from the worst, making it the best value for the money by far.
The boat from Coca to Nuevo Rocafuerte. All of these children were quiet and well-behaved for the entire trip. Nah, I'm kidding.
The boat’s about sixty feet long, but not even ten feet wide, comprised of two wooden benches facing one another for passengers to spend the far-from-comfortable 12 hour voyage. We’re mostly loaded by the scheduled 7:30 departure time, but it takes an additional hour to actually leave port. I’ve got some full Howard Stern shows on my iPod, and at five hours each, they make for a perfect way to start passing the long stretches of free time. Food vendors rush on while the boat sits at port with marginally fresh seco de pollo (rice and chicken stew) in small plastic cups, but my stomach just isn’t ready for it yet. I’ll stick to pringles, which are somehow ubiquitous here.
I hate these shades, but needed a pair
Nuevo Rocafuerte is the final stop, but not by any means the only one. Over the course of the day we’ll stop at small towns and random dirt outcroppings hosting a single hut, cut off from all other signs of community or basic civilization. Every exiting passenger makes the ride a bit less cramped, and by afternoon, I’m lounging out horizontally on a makeshift life-preserver bed, as the thick river breeze flows over me and through me. Mid-day is a longer-than-normal stop allowing for a quick almuerzo (surprisingly not bad) from the unnamed town comprised of about six huts that we’d just stopped at. Other than that, the boat plods through tenaciously until reaching N.R. at dusk, only about eight of the original eighty passengers still aboard.
Sunset on the Rio Napo, just before reaching Nuevo Rocafuerte
Nuevo Rocafuerte
At first glance, Nuevo Rocafuerte is a single road perched alongside the river made up of a single municipal building, followed by a row of houses and tiendas. There’s a second road parallel to the first that leads deeper inland, but very little more to the city than those two main drags. I wouldn’t put the population past a couple hundred. They claim that some tourists arrive here to visit a local lake teeming with piranhas, though it’s close to two hours away by dirt road and requires a 4×4 to access. Realizing already the dire state of my funds, I don’t even bother to ask the price.
The "hostel" in Nuevo Rocafuerte
There are supposedly hotels here, but nothing is marked. I break down and ask a family, who point to the nearest house and inform me of something in Spanish that I don’t quite grasp. Walking into the designated house, its occupants freeze and stare at me quizzically. This isn’t a hotel. They don’t seem to mind the intrusion, but it’s clear that they rarely receive a gringo-gram. More queries lead to me a large wooden house with a thatched leaf roof. That style of roof will end up being all the rage in Pantoja, Peru, but here it’s a much less popular style, making my “hotel” stand out next to all of its neighbors. The cost is five dollars a night and the room comes with a kitten that I can’t seem to evict, despite my associated allergies.
I’m pointed out to a local named Ricardo who has a passing understanding of English, which helps me out immensely during the three days I’m stuck here. He’s got a ship, and tourists like me are his meal ticket. The trip from here across the border into Pantoja is the smallest distance I’ll cover by boat over my entire journey (just under two hours), but it’s also the most costly: Renting the boat will cost $50.
Nuevo Rocafuerte
With fellow travelers, the total cost would be split down to as low as ten dollars a person, as the boat seats a maximum of five beside the captain. However, I’m the only one in town right now, and the next boat out of Pantoja is expected to be on Saturday. Knowing now there’s no ATM machine there either, missing the lancha would be terrible, as I’d run out of funds for lodging long before the large boat returned. This meant I had to time this perfectly, leaving no later than Friday morning. Each night offered another chance for fellow travelers to split the killer fee. But each night none arrived left a deeper sinking feeling in my stomach as my viable options continued to shrink.
Ricardo loves his town and keeps encouraging me to stay until Saturday regardless of anything else.
“Our food is better here. Our people, they are nice. This is a… nice place. Is better than Pantoja. Much better. You don’t want to be there long. Don’t worry, my friend, don’t worry!”
But I worry. There is a single “restaurant” here. Each day, for lunch and dinner, a tent is set up outside one of the tiendas offering barbequed meats with rice and plantains on the side. Still no vegetables, but the meat is freshly killed and cooked to perfection, and seems to be marinated as well, giving it far more flavor than the average Quito restaurants had. It’s also about a dollar more per meal, which definitely matters at this point. The bottled Aji sauce complements the rice nicely, and I pick up an extra bottle after remembering how bad the food on the boat supposedly is.
My first bribing
Ricardo offers to take me to his “friend” in immigration, and his wife, small son and sister in law come along for some reason. Besides any other help he might’ve been, just getting me to the office was invaluable, as it was located literally in the last building in town, at the end of the long inland road, past a brightly colored school and a small indoor soccer arena that seemed to be in disrepair.
A picture of the sky, taken just after a rainstorm.
The official seems less than enthusiastic to help me, a card game with friends being interrupted by my problematic arrival. He puts on a t-shirt as we walk and Ricardo explains my position with the help of my official “note” from Coca. He’s less than swayed so far by my translated story, and a glance at my passport leads to some worrisome looks. Ricardo and the official’s argument seems to get a little heated, despite my only picking up every third word. At one point, I’m certain Ricardo just offered his sister-in-law to the official; I’m sure I misheard, but after the statement, conversation stops and he stares at the girl while she blushes furiously.
Something is upsetting the official, and I can only surmise that it’s my note from Coca, as Ricardo picks it from the table in a grand gesture and rips it into confetti, tossing it down to the floor dismissively. The official doesn’t seem to mind the trash.
“Um, I wanted that…”
“No no, it was no good. He says instead this is difficult. He needs fifty dollars.”
I don’t have it.
Well, I do. But if I spend it here and now, I’m trapped. Then again, I’m similarly stuck if I don’t. This isn’t fun. I explain the situation, and it is passed on to an impassive official. He gets up to leave and Ricardo seats him back down. They continue the game for close to ten minutes, and near as I can tell neither argument ever alters or evolves, just as neither appear to be moved by the other.
I take out my twenty and do my best impersonation of the most pathetic market beggars I’ve seen since arriving here.
“Senor. Por favor. Poooor fah-voooooor!”
Ricardo grabs up the twenty like some kind of physical epiphany that just dropped from the sky, and immediately reaches over the table, and down, reaching into the official’s pants pocket with the now balled-up cash, as though rewarding an exceptional stripper. I’m hoping he knows what he’s doing, but doubting this more and more with each passing second. I don’t catch everything Ricardo says, but the gist is:
“There, there! How perfect! Now we are agreed and you will stamp! Wonderful!”
Main Street, N.R.
But the official is face is unreadable as he sits there. Ricardo puts the stamp into his hands, and while the man looks agitated by this, he doesn’t set the stamp down. Instead, he slowly — almost imperceptibly at first — moves his arm over to my battered passport, thumbing through to the page with the prior Ecuadorian stamp, and begins to adjust his stamp. January 6… January 5… January 4. Ricardo translates his explanation that the fifth was already too late. Opening his immigration journal, he finds an open spot near the bottom of the page from January fourth and adds my name to the roster.
My first official bribing is a resounding success!
I am not a ghost
By Thursday night, I’m waiting at the dock as rain pours down, a lone gringo vigil under a fairly ineffective umbrella. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I can’t afford to miss a potential fare splitter. Earlier today, the hostel employee yelled that there was a boat to Pantoja for me for ten dollars, and I rushed to catch it despite catching the news during my daily cold shower. My gear spread throughout the room, I jammed everything in as quickly as possibly, only to find out upon finally exiting my room that the moment had passed. These boats do come into town on their way to Pantoja, but additional passengers are low on their list, and they rarely stop for more than five minutes.
The only good news comes in the form of Juan Carlos, another boat owner who assures me that he’s mentioned in Lonely Planet guidebooks and runs the best boat to Pantoja. Normally, he would charge fifty as well, but in the event that no other tourists are in town by tomorrow morning, he’ll do it for twenty. There’s a slightly morbid catch that I discover the next morning, but all things considered it could be worse. Knowing my financial woes, he also offers to handle my lodging for the evening. A raggedy hammock in a barely screened-in room wouldn’t be my first choice for a good night’s rest, but it’ll work in a pinch, and at two dollars a night, it gives me dinner money. I feel slightly bad for not going along with Ricardo after all of his help, but business is business.
All night long, the worst storm I’ve seen since arriving beats down on Nuevo Rocafuerte, as marble-sized balls of rain pelt the thin roof of the wooden shack I’m trying to sleep in. I toss and turn, causing the hammock to shake the rafters of the house, and there are noises now in the room next door. Talking. Then footsteps. I hear them as they make their way around two sides of my room to the front of the house, and then the small knot I tied on the door — more to keep dogs out than effectively block any people — steadily falls apart, letting the door swing open on its own. A short, slumped-over figure is silhouetted by weak ambient light occasionally made stronger from regular flashes of lightning.
“ho-la?” [hello] I’m either greeting an intruder or someone that thinks that I am one. Neither prospect is ideal.
“AHHH Madre de Dios!?” [AHHH Mother of God!?] I’d never heard anyone use this term outside of a movie, so it was kind of cool to inspire such a reaction. Still, this guy’s gotta get defused quick.
“No no. Juan Carlos dormitorio. Esta bien! ESTA BIEN!!” [No no. Juan Carlos room. It's good. IT'S GOOD!!]
No response. He’s just standing there looking at me. Then he backs up out of the room and reseals the door.
Esta bien.
Enough already
Juan Carlos greets me with bananas at 6 am. I’m running on about three hours sleep, total, but my strong desire to leave grants me enough energy to look past my exhaustion.
“I talked to my Dad and he told me. You scared him. It is my fault. I didn’t tell him you were staying with him last night, and did you know a man died?”
“Huh?” I mumble through my banana.
“Yes. The night before you come, a big storm. Lightning hit a fishing boat and hit a man. He fall out and they no find him yet. My father, he think you are the ghost. Very scared. Very scared. He OK now, though. Glad to have two dollars.”
“Hope it was worth it…”
“Oh yes.”
The search party, on the way to Pantoja. I didn't know when I asked for this picture to be taken that the guy next to me just lost his father in the storm. What a gringo douchebag I am.
We board the small canoe (luckily covered for protection from the dwindling storm), but my connection with the dead fisherman isn’t over yet. The reduced rate I’m getting for this trip is due to our boat doubling as a search party. There’s absolute certainty that the man is dead, but until a body is found, no one will be able to grieve properly. We head out slowly, hugging the coastline as all eyes scan for any trace of clothing amidst the reeds and fallen trees. The one hour trip stretches to three, with no success. I make no complaints and search as well as I can for the entire trip. it’s not just that I received a better rate for the ride — as one of the sons of the dead man sits beside quietly for the entire trip, it’s hard not to stay focused.
Pantoja greets us in two parts: The town is divided down the middle, with a military section off-limit to civilians, and the town proper. The military port is a mandatory stop for all boats heading in from Ecuador, and we sit in the rain for a good half hour as the captain of our ship runs up to confer with the whomever was currently in charge at the base. I start to take a picture and am sharply told not to.
“No. No — Militario!”
Apparently cleared, our canoe heads back into the Napo, wrapping around an embankment before coming back around to the civilian side of town. Unlike with the military end, there’s no oficial dock here — just a long, muddy patch of land to jump down to. The town isn’t breathtaking by any means, but every successful stop gets me one step closer to Iquitos.
Welcome to Peru.
current remaining funds: $53