The "dock" at Pantoja

The primary difference between the mind-numbing boredom felt waiting in Nuevo Rocafuerte and the similarly dull boredom spent here in Pantoja is the loss of control.  Sure, I spent three days in N.R., and sure there was almost nothing to do in all that time.  But my waiting was optional; there was never a point where I couldn’t alert any of the canoe owners and head down the Rio Napo to Pantoja.  That luxury isn’t afforded to anyone waiting for the lancha, a large, plodding cargo ship, to arrive to pick him up.

The blue hotel

There’s no set schedule for the vessel, either.  It generally shows up in Pantoja every 10-15 days, but all sorts of river and boat conditions can make this timetable impossible, and the lancha has no means of communication with the small, nearly electricity-free town.  Nuevo Rocafuerte had power and water during the daylight hours.  Pantoja’s generator only runs from 6-11 each night, at which point people from all over town huddle around the television in the common room of the hotel to watch whatever might be showing on the lone channel that reception brings in here.

Despite no power getting to anyone else in the mornings, an exception seems to be made for the local municipal building, perched atop the hillside that looks down over the small town of leaf-thatched, wall-less huts.  Each morning, typically arond 6-6:30, the building graciously decides to pump scratchy Peruvian music out at gravely distorted volumes, with breaks between each song for a similarly distorted speaker that often rants for as much as 5-10 minutes between songs.  The songs aren’t the typical modern fare played on buses, but have a much older, 60s feel to them.  The rants, I’m told, are Peruvian propaganda being fed out daily to remind the populace how truly lucky they are to be Peruvian.

My room / broom closet

Despite the ramshackle look of most of the other buildings in town, the hotel is finely constructed, with relatively new looking blue tiles that make it stand out starkly against the buildings surrounding it on all sides.  While it’s a fine hotel, all things considered, it’s also currently filled due to a Petroleum company staying in town this week to canvas the area.  Seeing my hammock, the hotel manager offers with a smile for me to set it up in the gazebo out back, but I’m far from excited by the prospect of this, and I think he senses that without much difficulty.  He tries to explain something else to me that I can’t grasp, before just taking my arm and dragging me to the front of the building, where he opens up what I first take to be a closet.

It’s not far off from a closet, actually.  Shelves are stacked with sheets, blankets, pillows and cleaning supplies, and all varieties of tools necessary for the care and upkeep of the largest and most modern building in Pantoja.  For the next four days, I’ll have regular visits from housekeeping, in each morning to collect new sheets and cleaning supplies, but it beats sleeping in the gazebo.  And for three dollars a night, I can’t complain too much.  Now in Peru, currency has shifted to the sole, meaning I finally have to do simple math with every purchase to get an idea of the actual cost of things (3.2 soles — pronounced so-lay — to each dollar).

The view of Pantoja from the water

Like Nuevo Rocafuerte, this is a one-restaurant town.  Unlike Nuevo Rocafuerte, that one restaurant is terrible, and the senora in charge doesn’t seem to care much for gringos.  Plates with moderate servings of chicken meat go by on their way to other tables, though when my plate eventually comes out I find myself staring down at bones and chicken organs not usually served to paying customers.  Another night, plates of hot chicken soup cover the tables around me; I receive a plate of cold, yellow rice and chicken bones.  Lifting a forkful of rice to my mouth, I watch as strands of sickly looking food matter stretch from the rising fork to the unappetizing plate below.

“[Can I have soup, please?]”

“[There is no soup.]” she says.

Shortly after, I watch as two more bowls, steam rising from their tops, are brought out for locals that only recently arrived.

A standard toilet. The ones in the hotel are modern, but all other ones in town are set up like this. No water flows to the toilet, requiring a bucket of water nearby to be dumped in to induce the flush.

It’s not all chicken bones and broom closets here.  An American couple from Montana arrived five days ago, just after the last boat for Iquitos departed, so their Pantoja boredom is in full swing, and they’re only too glad to have new English-speaking company.  We watch downloaded television shows from my computer until the battery dies, teach each other new card games and down two bottles of cheap rum, listlessly lamenting the cloying nature of Pantoja all the while.  And that’s just to get through Friday.

Sleep’s generally an excellent way to pass the time, and it’s possible I could’ve wasted the hours doing this until noon, by the morning PA blast has other plans for all of us, and by 6:20 it’s clear I won’t be getting back to sleep, ear-plugs or not.

The town’s small and encroached upon by jungle on all sides but the one along the Rio Napo, so exploring it seems like as good a diversion as any.  Two families seem to be erecting new houses and I briefly consider offering to help, until a boy at one house laughingly yells to me “Hey Gringa!  Gringa!”  I can’t tell if his understanding of Spanish is terrible or he’s purposefully calling me a white female tourist, but the little bastard isn’t getting any help from me with his shitty new hut.  The sidewalk gives way to a dirt path that gets narrower and narrower until it ends at a small swamp.  Something’s clearly on the other side, as planks have been placed in a long line in the water, leading deeper into the jungle.

Into the swamp

It’s a narrow walkway, and I come close to losing my balance several times, but generally find a tree or some other support structure to grasp onto before splashing down into the murkiness.  The makeshift bridge goes on for a surprising quarter mile or so before ending at a grass-covered hill, freshly cleared to be a cow pasture.  Newly made stumps mark the Greenpeace nightmare like little wooden gravestones.  Cows, capturing the boredom of Pantoja perfectly, keep motionlessly cool in small, muddy puddles, taking little interest in my passing.  The field’s surrounded by a barbed wire fence, though it’s open from the jungle side I just entered from.  I’m not sure if it’s to keep the cows out or people in, but I’m keeping my eyes open, just in case.

Taken from along the plank walkway. I like the reflection of my hat in the water.

The cleared land goes on for some time, ending at a hut that actually has walls unlike the open air vibe most of the other Pantoja houses seem to be cultivating.  No one’s home, thankfully, but it reminds me I really shouldn’t be here.  Making my way back up the hill, there’s a sudden snort, and I look over to see one of the bulls abruptly standing up with a focused gaze on me.  I quickly start surveying the area in case I’ve somehow offended the beast and need to make a quick exit.  Would hiding behind a tree be in any way effective?  Am I spry enough to hurdle the barbed wire fence?  The swamp path awaits me at the bottom of the hill and I think I can dart down to it before the bull could reach me.  I think.  It lumbers out suddenly from its muddy resting spot in my direction and I bolt down the hill, not stopping until I’m three planks in, my right foot now soaked from a missed step.  Looking back, the bull is still standing towards the top of the hill and no longer even facing me, staring out to the side as if in a daze.

The freshly risen bull

Adrenaline rushes make for nice diversions from the tenacious boredom I’d otherwise be feeling, but I don’t feel much need to return to the pasture any time soon.  Making my way out of the swamp, it’s not even noon yet and I figure there’s really only one thing worth doing in town.  I’m going to build a house.

Raise the Roof

My partners in home-building

Actually, the house is built already.  The open air hut architecture that’s all the rage here doesn’t require much effort.  A series of 4-5 inch thick trees, stripped of bark and branches, make up the support for the house, while slightly thinner beams laid out diagonally above are in place to host the roof.  Roofs here are made from long branches of dried leaves, stacked about three deep per row to mostly insure dryness.  As I arrive, only about three rows on one side have been completed.

“[Hello.  I am a tourist and I am very very bored.  Can I help you?  I am tall.]”

Laughter.  The eldest immediately waves his hand from above, gesturing me up.  He says something as well, but I grasp none of it and move in on the gesture alone.  There’s a handmade bamboo ladder leading up.  It’s got a slight diagonal angle that makes my climb seem awkward at best, but within moments of the initial invitation, I’m already barefooted and doing my best to slink around over slick bars of wood towards the group of seven currently tying a fresh row of leaves up.  As there are eight vertical ceiling beams, I can see why I’d be a good addition.

My shitty, yet somehow effective knotting technique

hojas - Spanish for “leaves.”  In this case, it applies to the long branches of leaves we’re currently tying up.

tsogas - long strips of bark, kept wet to maintain pliability.  Used to tie the hojas to the wooden roof beams.

The knot is a simple one, running through the main branch of leaves, around the roof beam once, before reversing back upon itself in a simple tie.  My early attempts are inelegant at best, and stand out visibly from afar compared to the work being done around me, but the knots hold and my mentor nods his approval each time he looks in on my work.

At ten feet up, I’m awkward.  At twenty, I’m slightly paralyzed by the fear of falling, with one arm crooked around the top beam for support at all times.  The round wooden post I’m standing on doesn’t give in any way with my slow, clunky movements, but the long drop below me, broken only by the occasional support beam, keeps my heartbeat racing with every wrap of the tsogas.  A fall from this height wouldn’t kill me, but something’s definitely gonna break.  My adopted Peruvian family senses my fear — they all uniformly seem at ease up here, bounding briskly around the rooftop beams like tree monkeys — and seem amused by it.

Looking down from my work area

“[The tall gringo does not like... tall]” I say.

The Spanish isn’t perfect but they get it and laugh.  One, who goes by the name Bateria (battery) repeats the line several times, taking a break to laugh after each repitition.  He does this with things I say that he finds funny several times throughout the day, repeating until they can’t possibly be amusing to him any longer, despite his continued laughs.

We finish one side and steadily climb down.  I’m the last to hit ground by well over a minute.

Only a single female ties leaves with us, though two others watch from below, occasionally throwing up new tsogas when requested.  They walk off as we descend only to return quickly with a large bucket of milky white, opaque liquid that I assume (correctly, it turns out) is chicha.  Unlike the corn versions I’ve tried in the past, this variety is made from yucca and, unfortunately, spit.  The saliva is only in the drink in small quantities, at least.  Yucca is chewed into a small ball, and as much of the spit and other liquid is sucked out before the balls are placed out in the sun to ferment.  After a few days, they’re mixed with water becoming a tangy, almost pleasant drink.  It’s definitely not my taste, but I politely finish the bowl that’s offered to me.

Enjoying a fine bowl of thick, spitty chicha

The second half of the roof is completed much more quickly than the first, as we’ve found a good rhythm, and we’re racing the rain clouds slowly gathering above us.  I stick with the job until the builders begin climbing back up to the top beam again to finish.  Rain is coming down now and the slick wood is finally losing its friction, at least with me — none of the others seem thrown off by the wetness in any way, moving every bit as smoothly as they did before during optimal conditions.  My hand slips as I attempt to pull myself up, and my left foot kicks out a bit into loose air.  It’s enough for me.

We’re close enough to completion that my exit doesn’t throw things off much.  In fact, from below I put my height to good use by raising up new rows of hojas for the crew.  They don’t seem put off by my caving in to survival instincts, at least.

Our work complete, I start to gather my gear to leave, but my efforts — over four hours worth at this point — were apparently enough to warrant dinner.  The largest building in the area has a wood stove used to make all the break in town and a large firepit for boiling a wide assortment of foods simultaneously.  As I arrive, three pots are already over the fire which are later revealed to me to be rice, chicken stew and a thin soup.  The kitchen seems to be a communal one, as several families are inside, and the children quickly all hover around the gringo until their fascination with my whiteness eventually fades.  I know other tourists come through this area often, yet the children react to my camera as though it’s the first one they’ve ever seen, and I let them play with it.  It is shockproof, after all.

The kitchen area, just before dinner

There’s a cucumber and lime juice salad lead-in to the standard Peruvian dinner of rice and chicken, though this time with a side of beans and peppers to round the meal out.  My Spanish is too poor to allow for long, deep conversations, but we at least cover the basics: What did I do back in the States?  Why am I here?  What are my parents like?  How are things different there than here?  The increase in conversational comfort as the meal goes on really hammers in that I should’ve stayed with a host family down here if I really wanted to learn Spanish.  It’s probably not too late.

I don’t want to rush their hospitality, but the nagging fear of a lancha arriving (and subsequently leaving) has been tugging at me for hours.  I know everyone tells me it’ll stick around to clean up and restock for at least one full day, but down here anything can happen.  Back at the hotel, I realize my fears were pointless as I see the Americans playing cards with one another blank looks upon their faces.

Maybe tomorrow…

The final product

Maybe Tomorrow…

Sunday drags longer than any day yet, and I have nothing to say about it.  Rain poured down throughout the day as I lay in bed reading, rising only to disappoint myself a few times an hour by looking through the window at an empty dock.  The lights and power shut down at 11, and I lay there for an hour unable to sleep.  At midnight, I neurotically rise to peer out one last time in desperate hope of my way out.  There’s a commotion by the water and various colored lights floating in above the mud and water.

My ride is here.