Chapter Six

Apologies to both our families and friends for the lack of new chapters in the past month. All will be explained in later chapters.

We left Huancayo in an old but comfortable bus which was packed to capacity with about 10 non-seated passengers being obliged to stand or sit on the floor, back to back. A young boy, of about 10 years, sang a song and then went around looking for contributions for his effort.

At this height in the Andean Highlands - we are about two miles high, above sea level - it seems strange to see trees growing. Perhaps more surprising is to see cacti thrive at this height, and even higher.

Five hours after we started our bus journey, the driver stopped for a toilet break for passengers. As there was no toilet on board this bus, men, women and children simply used the 'long acre' in the sight of one another, and without any sense of embarrassment or shame. Going to the toilet is no big deal here and we both regularly witnessed people, particularly men, do so in the streets of Huancayo.

Just after midnight our bus was boarded by a soldier in Army uniform and carrying an automatic rifle. In Spanish, he told the passengers of the dangerous but worthwhie job he and his colleagues do in protecting vulnerable passengers on board long distance buses such as ours, and which travel through territory previously controlled by the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) guerilla movement. In Peru up to about 10 years ago, this group controlled much of the countryside, with bus hi-jacks representing a common source of income and funding.

Finishing his speech, the soldier took up a collection. All adult passengers made a contribution; we were no exception.

The journey from Huancayo to Pucallpa took 19 hours. An hour was 'lost' during the early hours of the morning when the bus back wheel developed a puncture, one that was repaired on-the-spot in a country garage. The 900 km journey (approximately 600 miles) cost us 50 Peruvian sols each or about 12 Euros.

After Huanuco, the road developed into a pitted, rutted nightmare. Its corrugated surface shook and rattled our bus. The discomfort was transmitted into every bone of our bodies. Driving was now down to 10 miles per hour or less. Throughout it all, a 10 year boy slept on the floor in the centre isle.

For several hours in the approach to Pucallpa, heat and humidity were prevalent since our bus had no air conditioning. We were glad to be disgorged at our destination from what had become a dirty and smelly vehicle.

The city of Pucallpa sits on the banks of the Ucayali river, a major tributary to the mighty Amazon in Eastern Peru. But to describe this provincial enclave of 350,000 people as a city in the accepted European meaning would be to flatter it in the extreme. Founded by the Franciscans as a river outpost in 1840, one could be forgiven into thinking this was what a medieval European city must or might have looked like.

It is the most up-river navigable part of the Amazon waterway. Banana boats bring their cargoes from the jungle to steep sides of the Ucayali river where impoverished men, women and children physically drag the produce up the red, dusty earthen sides for sale either at the top or at the market the following day.

There is no romance or dignity in these unfortunate people's labour or lifestyle.
There is no beauty to behold in their savagely cruel existence. Children grow from babies into premature units of labour. Young women become old long before their time, ground down by early childhood and hard physical labour, while men are only as good as their muscle-power.

This is a place where the moto-carro is king. Thousands ply the city streets for hire for a pittance. The noise from their motor cycle engines is deafening; the pollution from their exhausts suffocating. Their presence is a firm reminder that this is most definitely a second, if not a third world enclave.

Our bedroom is the top floor of a four storey cheap hotel. When we enquired where the fire escape was, we were met with laughter.'No habla, Senor', we were told. Only a cold water shower is available.

Gone now are the colourful traditional costumes of the Andean and Highland women. A different sort of people live here. They are those of European descent, the native jungle indigenous peoples and a mixture of both. Stature is taller and that of a well-fed people. Few Inca descendants around here!

Next day we go to the dockside to enquire if can get a berth on board one of a fleet of four steel-hulled vessels which ply between here and Iquitos. We are in luck. The Henry-3 is being loaded for departure next day, and after meeting and speaking to its Captain, we reserve a claustrophobic twin-bunk cabin with a semi-clean shower. The ship carries about 300 passengers, with most sleeping in hammocks slung from the deck ceilings. Food, a form of gruel is served, but we decline this option. But we did stock up on water, buying almost 20 litres litres for the 4 day journey.

From high up on the riverbank, young men carry ferociously heavy loads of plywoood, potatoes, fish meal, bananas, steel girders, paleted goods, their bodies aching with the strain, their faces covered in perspiration. Water is gulped every ten minutes or so. One false move with their inhumanly heavy loads and serious injury is inevitable. No social welfare here. No health insurance. No health and safety inspectorate. The slightest accident or damage to muscle-power, these men's only ability to feed their families, disappears.

Nearby, a fully-functioning crane stands idle. Ships are loaded by body-power. It's cheaper. But by 40, these men are a spent force, their bodies wracked by pain, hardship and exhaustion. Their labouring lives come to an end, replaced by younger, more agile and just-as-cheap other young men.

Extraordinarily as it might seem, this place was once visited by Marxist revolutionary Che Guavara in 1952. The young Che recalled this in his book 'The Motor Cycle Diaries', recently made into a film, and which many of you may have seen. Had he the misfortune to visit this Godforsaken place 56 years later, as we had the doubtful pleasure of doing, he would have despaired at the apparent lack of any real social progress and of the grinding poverty which many of its unfortunate citizens were still enduring. The more things change, the more they stay the same!

Incidentally, Che who joined with Fidel Castro in ousting the detested and corrupt American-backed Batista regime in Havana, later became a member of the Cuban Communist Government, only to leave in 1965 to promote revolution elsewhere in South America. In October, 1967 he was tracked down in Bolivia where he was wounded in a gun battle with the Bolivian Army. Next day he was executed.

We boarded our ship that morning for the 4-day trip to Iquitos. Six hours later our vessel, the Henry 3 cast off. We were on our way down river at last. But, unknown to us, trouble was looming. And we would be shaken to the core when it did arrive.

More Next Chapter......don't go away!