Iquitos, in all its... grandeur? Not too many buildings taller than three stories, here.
Should you ever be in the market for a new kidney, or a kilo of uncut cocaine, or perhaps a howler monkey, might I recommend Iquitos? If you want a good pizza, an iPod or pretty much any modern convenience that is legal, go anywhere else — apparently this town doesn’t waste its time or shipping lanes with petty, lawful wares. Not that I came close to anything more bizarre on the streets than a purse made from a hollowed-out jaguar paw, but I was assured by many a shoe-shine boy that the most exotic merchandise could indeed be found just off the beaten path. Not seeking to be beaten myself, I avoided these paths.
“Be careful around them. They’re keeping tabs on everyone,” I’m told.
“What? Who are?”
“The shoe-shine kids. It’s a network of spies for the government. They know what tourists tried to buy coke, who’s sleeping with a twelve-year old — EVERYTHING.”
“OK.” I look over at the kid who keeps offering to shine my flip-flops, despite A) my protests and B) the fact that I am wearing flip-flops. He doesn’t look that astute to me…
Motorcycles and moto-taxis breeze by in a steady stream.
My upcoming excursion into the jungle to sample strange and unusual Shamanic medicines is already poised to fulfill January’s quota of weird, so I’m going against my typical travel calling and avoiding the shadier sections of town this go-around in favor of the standard tourist fare. Almost nothing but motorcycles and three-wheeled moto-taxis dominate the thin, city streets here. Roads lead out of town into smaller villages, but none of those connect beyond the all-encompassing jungle, making this the largest city in the world only reachable by boat or plane (the tourist pamphlets all seem fairly proud about this fact).
All supplies are therefore shipped in, explaining why it’s far easier to get a pet sloth here than it is to find a Snickers bar. Some vehicles — service trucks and vans, generally — have clearly been shipped in, though there are at least two auto plants in town making and distributing motorcycles and the three-wheeler taxis that were all the rage in Mazan. An old VW bus passes by with a Bob Marley sticker on the back, and I’m impressed by the wherewithal involved in its transport that goes far beyond what the average stoner can generally muster.
I probably should
Back when I lived in College Park, MD, my neighbor Constantia would chastise me regularly for passing by on my bicycle, unapologetically helmet-less. In all of my time in Iquitos, despite an unending flood of motorcycles flying by dangerously in every direction, never once did I see a single element of protective headwear. Upon requesting a helmet while renting a motorbike, I first had to pantomime what it was as they didn’t recognize what my guidebook clearly stated was its Spanish translation, before the woman finally caught on. I assumed from her ensuing laughter that none were available.
In the city center, my whiteness singles me out as a mark. Kids try to hawk bracelets and necklaces generally made from local shells, teeth and claws. But persistence is the watchword here in Iquitos, in every form of begging. I never feel unsafe or threatened here, as I did in Quito, but it’s rare to walk around in sunlight here without a steady stream of followers, determined to win my attention after days of repeated ignoring.
One kid speaks English almost fluently, despite nearly living on the streets selling repellantly bad t-shirts in red or blue. He’s got a good sense of humor, but it can’t make up for the shirt’s terrible sense of fashion, and I eventually make a deal with him that if he never pushes the shirt on me again, he can have all my leftovers for the week. From that point on, every large meal is boxed up and handed over to him when I’m through with it, and in turn, I’m granted a reprieve from stern, repeated “NO”s each day. It’s mostly a good trade, though at times he forgets and holds the ugly smock up at me for my perusal, despite my repeated assurances of its hideousness.
The MF Andy got me here just in time for the weekend, though the cold that started up toward the end of the boat ride left me mostly horizontal for much of my first few days in town. My “jungle medicine” tour kicks off on Friday, leaving me with a full week to explore one of the continent’s wilder cities.
Or I can blog. Good times.
The Market
In Belen market, looking down over the floating houses.
Various black markets and red light districts can be found throughout Iquitos, but it’s the market of the Belen district where you can go for all the “normal” wares. You know, fresh turtle and rodent meat, perfumes that will increase your chances of making love and money, powdered barks and vines with expected and unexpected medicinal properties… The good stuff.
A vendor sells perfumes and tobacco products
All of this overlooks Belen’s famous floating neighborhood. The poor, compelled for some reason to set up shop in Iquitos, make their way here for their first home purchase. There’s a premium on waterfront property here, but there’s no mortgage at all on the water alone, and new neighbors show up on a weekly basis to start work on the most basic of floating lodgings until they’ve worked hard enough to make it up onto dry land. Some never do, but many of those denizens had no desire to; once you’re used to the smell and the mosquitoes, having access to a prime fishing spot literally just outside your front door is a huge perk to most locals.
I’m slightly upset by the lack of snakes for sale here — apparently all exotic animals are sold in the unlisted markets — but there are stacks of fresh piranhas mixed in with all the other fish. One aisle in particular is of interest, as it houses all medicines, spices, tobaccos and perfumes. The latter are pushed with the same enthusiam that the street children were selling their cheap jewelry, and it takes effort to be white and pass by without my general body odor accumulating a few new and interesting. In my case, I received squirts of Luck and Money. Not sure how much either worked…
A woman at one of the markets measures out some San Pedro cactus powder for gringos seeking a unique experience in Iquitos.
Two local psychedelic substances, ayahuasca (brown powder made from a local vine, known for inducing visions) and San Pedro (a hallucinagenic cactus) are sold throughout the market as though they were no more than another of the many jungle medicines. And I suppose that is what both are considered to be.
The floating houses of Belen
It's just like Venice!
Monkeys and Other Animals
The monkey and its friend (whose name I forget) freaked out on me right as this picture was taken, making the awkward pose almost entirely genuine.
There’s no shortage of options here for zoophiles, assuming that word means “fans of zoos” and not “fans of bestiality.” Though technically, the zoo-heavy area would naturally be a treat for those people too, so I suppose Iquitos is win-win on the animal front. Two official animal sanctuaries are a fifteen minute motorcycle ride away from the town center. An unofficial butterfly farm now houses monkeys, birds, anteaters and jaguars as rescued animals keep being donated there for safe keeping. Others are even less off the radar at tourism spots due to animal occupants being hunted and brought in from the jungle (a no-no), but it’s not too hard to get to any of them if you’re willing to take a 15 minute boat ride.
Apparently, these guys haven't changed much in the past few million years...
The dock is teaming with boat operators that gang up around fresh gringo-bearing taxis. English speakers were hard to come by in Ecuador, but a surprising amount of Peruvian locals related in some way to the tourism business, which doesn’t hurt my chances of getting around. The men huddle around us, practically forcing us to bargain. Starting price for a trip to the Serpentarium: S/.20 (Note: “S/.” is the equivalent of the dollar sign for soles).
The Serpentarium only had one hands-on Anaconda, but he was pretty photogenic
“Who will take us for NINETEEN soles?” In unison, they all call out loudly. Yes. YES! Nineteen!
“Ok, how about EIGHTEEN soles?” There’s no pause as they all agree to the new price. Eighteen! Come! Come!!
“SEVENTEEN!?” Finally, a pause. One man says “yes” and then another quickly follows suit. Then a third, though you can tell he really hopes we don’t call on him. There’s a big difference here between seventeen and eighteen soles apparently.
“aaaaand SIXTEEN…?” It takes a long pause for a single “captain” to offer his services. He’s alone in answering this time. We’ve found our boat.
The motorized canoe seems like it’s taking water for much of the trip, even as we pass alligators, but that’s all part of the experience here. Or something. It’s still a good deal, especially considering the driver sits there and waits for us as we wander around the Serpentario (which has far more mammals and birds than serpents, of which we got to play with one).
And now, lots of pictures of animals:
I actually managed to coax this guy onto my shoulder, but he gracelessly fell off immediately afterwards. His wings were recently clipped and he's not dealing well.
Manatee! About as alien as any animal I've seen so far.
"They call me the Sloth"
Not quite sure what was up with this monkey. He seemed comfortable enough, though.
A tapir with a monkey on its back
And myself, with a similar affliction. Note the heady jaguar claw necklace I recently picked up in town.
Capuchin monkeys are the smartest in South America, known for their ability to use tools and, as shown here, pickpocket as well as any street Ecuadorian. He was able to get my zippered pocket open in one smooth motion and filch ten soles before it was recovered by one of the volunteers. Later on, we saw this guy drawing in the dirt with a stick.
Grubbing it
Slight addendum to: “Things I Have Eaten.” Suri. Grubs. Not Tom Cruise’s kid, though with these in mind, that’s a possibly unfortunate name. Suri are very popular around here and known for having high nutritional value, making them a local favorite. How are they gathered? It’s simple. When a particular type of tree is downed or falls in the woods, local women will squat over it and walk along its body, urinating wildly over the thing for maximum coverage. Something about the fresh urine coating inspires the grubs to swing by for a piss-wood feast, growing to a nice, thick ripeness over the course of several months. The wood is then opened up and the grubs are culled from it, primed and ready to be put on a stick and served up for special occasions.
Fresh grubs, just chillin' in rotten wood
Freshly BBQ'd. DAMN, that's good eats!
Mmmmmm
Despite the look on my face, it really did taste like chicken. It was only the head that was unpleasantly crunchy.
The Peruvian Girlfriend
The waitress keeps smiling at me, going out of her way to make small talk, which is all the more small as neither of us speak the other’s language. I’ve never asked a waitress out before, and lack a Spanish vocabulary that includes the word “date.” Cidalit, a local girl who apparently posesses the ability to ward off insomnia in others by breathing nearby while they sleep (I’m told…), happens to be along and offers to help me with the initial request. She comes back from a quick chat with my waitress to explain her success.
“She will go out with you. I think she will sleep with you.”
“You asked her that??”
She doesn’t answer at first. “She will sleep with you,” she repeats, nodding her head thoughtfully.
I just figured we’d start with ice cream.
Back in my hotel room, we kiss for a time while Peruvian hip-hop plays in the background from her cellphone speakers. She pushes me away.
["I can do no more. Only with boyfriend. Will you be my boyfriend?"]
["You are pretty. I leave on February fifth. I want to be your boyfriend, but I am an honest person. I go to Brazil. I cannot stay and be your boyfriend."]
["No. Do not go to Brazil. Brazil is terrible and the people are stupid. Stay here and be my boyfriend."]
["I have to go. I have the ticket already."]
["Oh."] She gets up and walks over the window, staring out pensively.
["I have an idea. I can be your boyfriend and then stop when I leave on February fifth. Yes?"]
["Ok!"]
My temporary girlfriend and I go out three or four more times, and while I never do the standard boyfriend things like send flowers or learn her last name, she laughs at my Spanish enough that it feels like she’s getting something out of our short relationship. The conversations alone make me realize that dating someone down here would do wonders for my speaking skills. Watching The Simpsons one evening, we discuss subtle plot issues through the entire episode, and it almost feels as though I’m truly speaking Spanish, though if anyone were to overhear the ostensibly adult conversation, they’d likely feel as though they were listening in on the retarded:
["So Homer is called Omero here? That is funny. He likes donuts, you know? Yes. Do you like donuts? I like donuts. He likes beer and I like beer and do you like beer? You don't like beer? Beer is good. Oh look, it's Marge. She has blue hair. Bart is so bad. So funny. You are pretty."]
Our last date is scheduled to be at 3:00 on the day I leave at her restaurant, sharing a pizza and a kiss before or regularly scheduled break-up. Sadly, my flight is moved up to 1:15, and we are all rushed off to the airport in a mad dash, still packing slightly along the way. Cidalit tells me at the airport she will give my regards to my ex, but I can’t be certain if this actually occurred, leaving a part of me troubled at the thought of a small Peruvian girl staying late at work for the gringo boyfriend that never showed.