Welcome aboard the MF Andy.  None of us gringos know exactly what “MF” stands for, but we’re just immature enough to make a guess and stick with it for most of the plodding journey toward our ultimate destination of Iquitos.

The MF Andy, freshly unloaded in Pantoja

I’ve taught members of the crew three card games already, as well as shared my aji sauce with them, livening up the otherwise bland fare that’d be served aboard the MF Andy.  If my stomach churns at the idea of this stuff after just five days, how do they handle eating it for years on end?  If nothing else, my gift of flavor has endeared me a bit to the crew, which is likely to make the slow journey down the Rio Napo (eventually becoming the Amazon) more easygoing.  I’ve listened to audiobooks by Barack Obama and Artie Lange, played countless games of solitaire on my iPod, befriended a parrot and napped for several hot, breezeless hours in my hammock (purchased wisely, and out of necessity in Quito).  It’s late afternoon on Monday and the MF Andy is still silently docked in Pantoja.

It seems agreed upon that these boats take at least a day to recover from each journey, docking in town to restock on petrol and food and give the boat as thorough a cleaning as you’re likely to get in the jungles of Peru.  As the scrubdown goes on around me, all I can think is “polishing a turd,” but if some of the recent human waste that might otherwise enhance my trip can be scraped away a little, I won’t complain.  Part of me hoped that this would be completed by morning and we’d still be out of the city by early Monday, but late in the afternoon, they’re still scrubbing the deck just under my hammock while I try to sleep through the soft misty shrapnel coming at me from the hose.

A Russian girl with a large gap between her front teeth, fresh from the trip from Iquitos, gives me some basic information and warns me that the boat will be uncomfortably full by the time I hit Iquitos.  Right now, there are only four hammocks set up, tied to thin metal rods along the ceilings that somehow will support thousands of pounds of human weight.  The room’s fully open on the port and starboard sides, breezy when the ship’s in motion, though when it’s not the excess of entryways are taken fully advantage of by sandflies and mosquitoes, who go on to take full advantage of my arms and legs.

Bathrooms on the MF Andy. Note: This is also the shower.

There are three bathrooms — as no-frills as toilets can be — and a kitchen down by the stern.  Each bathroom does have a makeshift shower directly above the toilet, but if I can learn to ignore everyone else’s body odor for a few days, I’m sure they can figure out how to ignore mine.  Besides, like all water on the boat — cooking water included — shower water comes directly from the Rio Napo.  I’ve seen few people swimming in this river, despite the muggy heat here, so why attempt to bathe myself in it?

As I’d been informed, the trip costs only thirty dollars, which seems like a steal when you consider it’s a five day boat ride including three meals a day.  You get what you pay for.  This is a cargo ship, and I am now nothing more than cargo.  The first few plantains the boat picks up may rest comfortably by themselves in on the ship’s roof, but by journey’s end, they’ll be part of a massive mountain of yellow, buried away under the crushing weight of several tons of South America’s favorite carb.  Pigs get about the same overcrowding treatment here, as do chickens.  As do people.

Anyway, I’ve got twelve soles left — about 4 bucks.  The boat makes a stopover in Masan before heading down a long, looping stretch of river that eats up twelve painfully cramped hours along the MF Andy.  I’m told I won’t want to be on this thing a second longer by that point, so I’m more than willing to go with Plan B: A quck motorcycle ride in Masan over a three-mile stretch of land connecting to the other side of the Amazon, followed by a quick jaunt downriver in a speedboat to Iquitos.

The hammock arrangement at the beginning of the voyage. It almost looks comfortable here.

The crew of the lancha is mostly male, though two women tend the “bar.”  It doesn’t have any alcohol, but somehow has cold sodas, and were I not desperately broke, I could really use a cold bimbo (the popular brand name of soda here, sold in orange, cola and strawberry flavors).  The blog of someone that’d earlier made the trip mentioned that the kitchen worker is almost always a flaming transvestite, but in this case he only seems to be mildly effete, wearing a fairly normal jeans-and-a-t-shirt combination.  It’s hard to tell the sexual orientation of anyone on this boat, as the men all seem fairly huggy with each other, though one of the deckhands shares his hammock with a woman and it’s often writhing in the background by the kitchen when he’s not at work.

Losing Monday is unfortunate, but the crew doesn’t seem to mind my company a day early, so at least I can avoid paying for another night in the janitor’s closet of the hotel.  It wasn’t comfortable sleeping there (I awoke one night to find my bed hosting an orgy of small ants), but sleeping there did give me access to the supply of sheets, and I filched one to deal with cool nights aboard the moving boat.  A little shady, sure, but karma paid me back by having the sheet smell strongly of stale, garlic-y human sweat, which sometimes was too potent for me to comfortably sleep through.

This parrot befriended me for part of the trip. He smelled a little, but was entertaining enough to make up for it.

The sound of a car alarm rocks me from my sleep early on Tuesday.  It’s not even six yet, but I can barely make out the morning wake-up call from Pantoja in the background under the shrieking of the boat’s alarm.  Apparently, this is how it alerts villagers of an approaching departure, and within five minutes, we’re moving.  Glad I opted to sleep here!

The couple from Wyoming have set up their hammocks close to mine, and we spend most of our days rocking slowly in our hammocks, reading or napping.  It’s dull, but the steady passing of lush, green land to either side of the boat at least give us a sense of purpose — that we’re not simply sitting in one place, waiting.  It’s better than Pantoja.

The food is better as well, suprisingly, but not by much.  One meal consists of plantains, potatoes, rice, yucca and noodles — five starches.  Nothing else.  No meals come with vegetables.  The meat is tough and hard to place — probably pork.  It’s got a strange aftertaste the first day, and I don’t even bother trying it again after that.  One breakfast is a hot liquid made solely from water, flour and sugar.  Some meals I simply skip, in favor of a granola bar from my dwindling personal food supply.  No water is served on the boat, so I was careful enough to bring along a three litre bottle, with some Tang for flavor and vitamins.

Loading swine.

Every one to three hours, through both day and night, the lancha slows down to add more cargo to its rapidly shrinking storage space.  It seems full by day two, but by the fourth day it’s still picking up every kind of river cargo.  Again, people are included in this category.  I don’t mind the loss of time that these stops cause, but the rise in temperature caused by a lack of breeze is incredible, and combined with a sudden onslaught of mosquitoes, causes the trip to take a strong turn for the way-more-miserable.

We may stop at a small village, made up of six to seven huts alongside a riverbank.  Similarly, we might stop for a lone figure standing on the edge of a muddy precipice with two small bunches of plantains.  The boat doesn’t seem to be that discerning.  Plantain stops are fairly quick, as the crew is well practiced in jumping out to load them up either below decks or on the roof — whichever has the most space.  Stops for livestock are far more problematic, as none of the pigs seem particularly interested in going for a boat ride.  The crew drags them aboard roughly by their legs as they shriek and squeal, kicking them forcefully into their pens.

A standard riverside stop for plantains.

By trip’s end, each pen is full to the point where many pigs stand upon their hind legs with much of their body atop a neighbor due to the small area they’re being held in.  Chickens are held in much the same manner.  They crow loudly at all hours, but at least for much of the trip, the chickens are held on the roof deck where their shrill caws are somewhat muted.  Iquitos is known for its strange animal markets, and many travelers coming aboard bring all varieties of monkeys, birds and turtles from the jungle, ostensibly to sell in the city.

Passengers mostly stick with the people they came in with, and there seems to be little trouble between anyone despite higher stress levels.  More babies than expected make this trip, though they don’t become a major problem until the last night.  The only problem passenger makes himself known the first day by leaning weakly out of his hammock to throw up on the ground.  Later in the trip, there would be people and cargo below him, but it’s early enough that his vomit hits a mostly empty floor, though a nearby woman looks on with disgust in her eyes.  She makes no move to to assist him, and it turns out that he’s traveling alone.  Later in the day, the crew questions him sternly, and his answers are weak and shaking.  He nearly vibrates with fever, and as they walk away, he covers himself with the fullness of his hammock for warmth, despite the hot daytime sun.

“Malaria,” one of the crew tells me as he passes.

I’d been told I didn’t have to worry about that here, and didn’t take my Malaria pills.  Great.

The next day, the boat stops at one of the larger towns we pass and a small, faster boat is there to take him off their hands, ostensibly to the nearest medical center.  His hammock was in a prime spot, and travelers zone in on it with their gear, despite the menacing air of sickness associated with his prior location.

A ladder leading up to the roof comes with a sign informing passengers not to climb it, but no one seems to mind that I regularly do.  The breeze is better, and the view is the best on the vessel.   As the sleeping area fills more and more, this becomes the only place to relax and get some privacy, as not many people venture up.  It’s a good place to put on some headphones and watch the jungle go by.  Sadly, by late in the third day, this becomes less of an option.

The view from the rooftop

No one seems to care that I’m up there, and despite the increase in plantains along the roof, there’s still room to stand comfortably.  But space in the sleeping area is at such a premium that newcomers have begun hanging their hammocks at absurd angles above, below and across existing hammocks.  When no one is around, they have no issues taking liberties, moving hammocks already in place uncomfortably close to one another in an attempt to make space where there is none.  The only real way around this is to stay in the hammock constantly, widening my body as much as possible to make it clear that there is no spare room here.

This makes it difficult to go for dinner or bathroom runs, but both of those options are already far less accessible than they’d been for much of the trip.  Hammocks now fill the room like a massive human spider web.  The kitchen is accessible through a series of awkward squats pressed up against the side of the boat, like a limbo competition in Hell.  It’s difficult, but passable.  The bathroom is far more of a problem, as two hammocks, one directly above the other, block the small hallway completely except for a two foot gap between the gap and the lower hammock.  When possible now, I hold it in.

Relaxing in my temporary new home

If it sounds unpleasant, that’s because it is, and definitely not a trip that I’d recommend to anyone seeking even a hint of luxury with their vacation.  But until the final night, it’s possible to look past the lack of basic Western conveniences and the almost inedible food and appreciate the journey for being a true taste of jungle living in the Amazon.

I would never wish the final night aboard the Andy upon my worst enemy.

Freshly back from dinner, there are now two new hammocks touching mine.  I ate quickly with this possibility in mind, but apparently I didn’t scarf the plate of rice down fast enough.  One is set directly above me, such that its occupants ass will be dangling right above my chest.  The other is slightly below me to the right, and the cords holding it aloft press deeply into my shoulder.  It’s irritating, but far moreso is the fact it holds a woman and small toddler, just under two, I’d guess.  As I shift throughout the night, it rocks their hammock to the point where the lightly sleeping infant wakes, crying, screaming “ma-MEE!  mah-MEEE!” relentless until wearing itself out.  On the floor, a tarp has been laid and a family of five — two parents and their three children — sleeps directly below my hammock.  The groundwork has all been laid for a terrible night’s sleep.

Hammocks, near trip's end

10:00 pm.  I’m tired and have nothing to do.  The iPod’s dead and the boat’s docked somewhere, the comfort-sustaining breeze that makes the ride somewhat palatable now halted, giving way to the muggy thickness of the combined body heat of 150 dirty, tired travelers.  As someone that generally sleeps on his side, the hammock’s not playing nicely with me, though I’ve managed to find a position at an angle that would almost allow me to fade at some point into unconsciousness were it not for the light and noises of the room.  But the worst thing about the situation is the fact that I’m shivering uncontrollably and it’s not cold at all right now.

Malaria.

It’s hard not to think of it, given the sick man from two days prior, though I’ve already had one Malaria scare since being down here and don’t want to give in to another.  It’s probably just a standard, run-of-the-mill fever.  As far as comforting ideas go, this one fails me utterly.  There’s a slight headache and weakness as well, but those are the only other symptoms so I attempt to just sleep through the discomfort.  It’s probably not Malaria.

The light here is managable, as I’ve got an eye mask.  But ear plugs can’t seem to effectively block the din of the boat, which only seems to get louder the longer I lay there.  Several feet away, one of the kids has a toy that plays a five second clip of music through a cheap speaker, playing on repeat.  It fills the air, but no one close to it seems to mind enough to complain, despite my fantasizing about smashing it with a hammer while the kid looks on helplessly.  An infant is crying somewhere nearby, but it’s the muted cry of baby that’s just about cried itself to sleep.  I know from experience that the screams of the monkey in the basket near me will halt with a single banana, but no one seems to be rectifying this situation, and I’m too afraid of the children sleeping at my feet to attempt leaving the hammock.  It’s 10:10.

11 is lights out.  I’m beyond exhaustion but far from being close to sleeping.  Roosters, now here in the room with us as well as above decks, set one another off with each crow as though in a competition.  I’ve noticed this sonic battle before, but only now realize that crying babies play the same game, with each attempting to outdo the others in terms of noise levels once a single infant utters a cry.  As the night progresses, I learn to fear that initial cry with a deep sense of dread in my stomach, knowing the cacaphony of cries to unanswering parents won’t be silenced again for the better part of an hour.  From below, pigs make love throughout the night, celebrating their sessions with some of the loudest, most inhuman grunts of pain and ecstasy imaginable, their squeals providing an unending soundtrack to a nightmare.

I can’t fight the need to urinate any longer, despite knowing what this will entail.  My initial thought is to let loose over the side, but the boat is filled to such capacity that people sit up against all the open railings, and I can’t find a spot where an unsuspecting head wouldn’t be at crotch level, with a warm misting for them being the best case scenario.  I’ve been viewing the actual bathroom as an impossibility, and a deep panic starts to set in as I realize that it’s the only possibility.

Walking, crawling, contorting myself through the maze of hammocks in the dark, I finally stop at the entryway to the bathrooms with no clear view of how to proceed.  Two hammocks, one less than a foot above the other, fully block entry to the three seatless toilets.  Below the bottom hammock, there’s a gap of about two feet between it and the floor, though the floor is wet and muddy here.  It’s probably just water from the Amazon, but as the wetness extends into (or outward from) each bathroom, I can’t be sure.  My need for release borders on explosive, and I slowly lower myself down and begin the crawl, propeling myself forward slowly, wetly, by my elbows.  The journey is no more pleasant on the way out, but it is at least peppered with a feeling of deep inner relief.  I change my shirt upon return to my hammock and resume the poor charicature of sleep I’d been enacting for the past couple hours.  It’s not midnight yet.

One of the many characters I

The night continues like this, unending.  From two to three, I climb to the roof and look up at the cloudless, night sky — the first I’ve seen since being on the boat, due to the general cloudiness here.  My chill from earlier is gone, though a scratching sensation in my throat remains, keeping the Malaria fear from fully dissipating.  It’s probably just another weird South American bug, though.  I can see the Milky Way, Orion, the Southern Cross, and a myriad of unnamed constellations blanketed over me as the cool, night breeze along the Amazon rushes over me.  It’s so pleasant that I fill with genuine nausea as exhaustion forces me back down to the sleeping area.

I don’t “wake” so much as “get up” the next morning, as sleep was sporadic at best.  I’d give myself two hours… two and a half, maybe?  There’s a quiet weariness that’s overtaken the entire boat, and those that slept upright on the side benches through the night look lost and miserable, almost making me feel guilty about my comfortable (only by comparison) night’s rest.  People are being unloaded en masse and elation fills me at the opportunity to be free of the Andy, almost energizing me to normal levels.

Instead, this is the boat’s means of checking tickets.  All passengers are dropped off on a nearby bank and either flash their ticket or purchase one before being allowed back onto the boat.  I ask one of the mates I’ve been playing cards with if I can avoid the procedure and he gives me a reprieve, allowing me to watch from above decks as the interminably slow line proceeds.  I’m told we’re two hours from Mazan.

The passengers of the MF Andy wait to be allowed back on board. Somehow, I avoid this irritation. Â This is only about half of the crowd.

The long ride almost at an end, the other Americans and I begin taking down hammocks and gear, checking supplies to ensure nothing “disappeared” while we slept.  My toothbrush is gone, but Josh is missing an expensive Swiss Army knife, and apparently one with sentimental value.  It’s a shame, but unsurprising.  As the boat zig-zags through the river (it never just goes straight, as the captain knows every high and low point along the journey, and getting stuck would be the only way to make this trip more miserable), with Mazan — practically glowing by this point — finally in sight.

The tremendously overloaded ship, at Mazan. I was glad to be off by this point. Â All 150 or so passengers slept on the middle level, where the orange tarp is hanging down.

Getting off the boat is temporarily made difficult by the swarm of vendors that rush onto it as we dock.  They’re competing for who can get fresh breads, fruits and meats to hungry passengers, and have no qualms about knocking anyone over to get in the quickest.  Off the boat, an equally large horde of men approach us about transportation across Mazan.  The bulk of the town is here, though a road stretches across the thin peninsula to where the Amazon reconnects on the other side.  Our passage to Iquitos awaits us there.

The road through Mazan, by rickshaw

The taxi is basically a rickshaw combined with a motorcycle, with parts from the latter taking up the front of the contraption while the back is a covered seat large enough for three people.  Gear is strapped in behind the seat by bungee cord.  Transport is three soles (about a buck fifty) regardless of how many people are riding.  As we’ve got three, it works out to a sole a person, which leaves me exactly ten to pay the speedboat for my final ride of this part of my journey.  It should be enough.  Halfway through, he stops at a roadside stand selling bottles of — is it tea? — something for one sole each.  The water bottles, filled with an unappealing brown liquid, are unlabeled, though everything starts to make sense as he opens his gas tank and dumps the contents of the bottles in.  This is a gas station.

The water taxi from Mazan to Iquitos. Gear is tied to the roof.

Boats wait in the mud, fighting for our patronage until one agrees on ten soles per person.  Perfect.  The downside is that these boats don’t run until every seat is taken, and we wait there for half an hour longer until the water taxi’s carrying its maximum of 22 people, children all sitting on the laps of their parents or siblings.  It’s an uneventful ride, but flying through the river is a refreshing contrast to the near-drifting we’d been doing for the better part of the last week.  We pass some of the city’s famed floating houses (they’re houses only in the loosest sense of the word) before arriving at the dock, which is itself floating.  I hit ground with the added weight of my backpack and shift awkwardly to the side as the dock lurches slightly, though manage to right myself rather than face more embarrassment/wetness.

“[Twelve soles.]”

“[It's ten]” I say. “[He told me ten.]”

“[Twelve.]”

“[No.  Ten.  He say ten.  I only have ten.  I only pay ten.]”

“You Pay TWELVE!” he yells in English.  He’s in my face now, but I don’t back down as I don’t have any more money.

Someone else reaches in and pays two for me, and I thank them shyly.  The stubborn part of me didn’t want to back down, as I was definitely quoted ten before boarding.  But the part of me that enjoys living was glad to have the situation work out the way it did.

I kiss the fresh bills of cash as they fly from the ATM machine and make my way to a mid-range hotel for the night.  My savings only allow for staying in cheap hostels and making due without all the creature comforts I’m used to.  But after the MF Andy boat experience, I’m treating myself nicely for a night or two.  Hot water, television, an oscillating fan — the best luxuries that Iquitos has to offer.

And it still only comes to eleven bucks a night.