Chapter Twelve

AT the Bolivian Border post, our passports were stamped with two entry visas. We were now legally visitors. We were leaving La Quiaca in Argentina which has an altitude of 3,459 metres (or 10,723 feet) above sea level and walking towards its sister Border town in Bolivia called Villazon. It's almost like one town divided by a river, a Border and two countries.

Because there is no ATM facility in Villazon, we went to a money-changer located just metres from the Border and exhanged our Argentinian pesos for Bolivian Bolivianos, yes, that's right, that's what they call their currency, of which there are abut 10.27 to our Euro. The name of the currency and the name of the country both have their origins in the great South American liberator, Simon Bolivar.

The change in atmosphere, economic circumstances, cultural habits shocked Tony and I, but it was little compared to the even greater shocks we were to witness later.

Old men and women on their way down to the Border crossing into Argentina carried heavy loads on their backs, some almost bent in two with the weight. Shops selling Bolivian materials, tacky sourenirs, and gifts lined both sides of the street on the hill up towards the bus terminal where we were heading. Outside the shops on the narrow and broken pavements, their owners sold coca leaves.

These leaves are produced in great quantity by Bolivian land owners and sold for the purpose of making mate de coca tea which South Americans who live at high altitude say helps with the relief of stress and altitude symtoms. They also claim it gives them more energy. And who were we to doubt their wisdom. We constantly drank this beverage when at high altitudes. Some people chew the leaves to get the same effect.

But the coca leaf can, with some modification, be easily converted to cocaine.

At the bus station we purchased two tickets for the 200 km journey to a place called Tarija, a city located in a valley in the mountains. We were embarking on what was the most dangerous, scary, breath-taking, and frightening bus journeys I have ever taken. I would even venture further to say that this must be one of the most amazing and terrifying bus trips in the world. For as many of you already know, Bolivia has some of the most precarious roads anywhere and our day-time trip lived up to this reputation.

We had undertaken long journeys before into and over the Andes in Peru, and into the jungle, but nothing had prepared us for what lay ahead. We were the only tourists and gringos on board an old , smelly, dusty bus filled to capacity with passengers and their belongings. Up on the roof, bales and boxes unable to fit ito the holds of the bus were carried. Virtually everyhere in South America, trafffic is stopped and inspected by transport police but their inspection in this instance, ten minutes outside the bus station, seemed cursory and we were left to continue our journey unhindered.

Instantly, we were onto a dirt track which was to be our road for the entire 7-hour journey. Our bus rattled, shook and vibrated so much that all I could do was laugh at the situation we found ourselves in. Our two-lane dust track brought us deep into the mountains and down a steadily declining pathway that wound snake-like through the seemingly barren, rocky mountain landscape. I was not prepared for such a dangeous and terrifying ride.

At first, I was excited and delighted to have the opportunity to make such a trip and witness such scenic beauty all around us. At times, our bus was only feet away from sheer fall-offs of thousands of feet below. It was scary but thrilling. Out of my window, which pulled sideways, I glimpsed indigenous mountain people, their mud-walled and thatched houses, tending their flocks of llamas, goats, alpacas, sheep, cattle and even pigs, all grazing on God know's what for vegetation which in these parts is pretty spare.

The women were dressed in traditional clothing of bright colours, their skirts of wool or velvet covered many layers of petticoats trimed in lace, often exceedingly dirty, with woolen leggings. These were complimented by blouses and jumpers on top, around which they invariably wore multi-coloured shawls and bultos in which they carried infant children or goods. Their black hair was woven into two plats at the end of which they wore tassle-type decorations. Perched on the heads were decorated bowler-type hats in many colours which always seemed two sizes too small. Nothing semed to match but the combination was exremely bright and cheerful.

On we travelled, our driver who must have been familiar with the track, taking each bend in his stride, hooting the horn loudly to warn of our approach. The moutains were all around me. The views were spectacular. I got the impression our driver was going too quickly through these mountan passes. The bends were extremely sharp and the sheer magnitude of the fall-offs just feet away became intimidating. I became frightened but did not say anything to Tony who, as you all know, is so scared of heights that he could panic even going up a steep flight of stairs.

Then I saw what I did not want to see - the sight of an empty wrecked bus resting on the edge of a steep mountainside. I nearly panicked. Many people must have died in this accident. The camera was produced to capture the fatal and tragic accident which apeared to have happened some time previously.

Down and down we lurched into the valley of a huge dried up river-bed which funnelled the melted snow and rains away from the mountains into fertile valleys. At the bottom, as we stoped for refreshmnt for many of the campesinos on board. "Thank God", I thought, we were now safe.

Pausing in the sunshine and enjoyng the peace and quiet of this roadside stop, I reflected on the thrilling but dangerous bus drive we had taken. I was glad to have taken it but frightened of what lay ahead. With good reason.

Our rest stop over, on and on, this time upwards, our bus travelled, now much slower than the plunge down to the valley, passed isolated mountain homesteads. The people who live in these mountains have my utmost respect. Their lives are very hard. It is difficult to see how they can make subsistence livlihoods out of their mountainside holdings. Their isolation is total. Many cultivate tiny scraps of land from which they have to clear boulders, stones and rocks.

At times our bus stopped to leave individual people off. But it was difficult to see where such people might live, there not being any hint of habitation around in the area in which they were dropped off. We were in awe of their ability to survive. We wondered what they might do for entertainment, for mental stimultion, what they read, if anything, and what they did for pastimes or pleasures. These people are very poor, they do not have homes like people in the West do, they do not have shops to go to except by travelling long journeys for which they must pay.

They seem to live by consuming what they cultivate and rear, by selling what they make such as knitwear, or by selling food and drink to passing travellers like us. Whenever the bus stops, two or three of these women from a cluster of houses or villages come on board selling drinks, food cooked by themselves. Passengers purhased what was on offer. Tony's pevious brush with diarrhoea and subsequent ill-health politely persuaded us not to sample any of these home-made goods here in the dusty high Andies.

On and on we travelled, sometimes in first gear sometimes in second, but rarey above third. I loved and was simultaneously frightened by our hair-raising and dangerous trip along the edges and sides of the mountains. I loved the views, was in total amazement at the vey basic lifestyle of the people who lived there, pitied the non-existence of any level of basic comforts available, was saddened by the hardships suffered, loved the women in their traditional clothing but was sorry for their harsh lifestyles and the apparent lack of soft comforts in their lives.

Our bus carried every type of item, blankets for the cold, raw meat chopped into chunky pieces from which blood leaked, animal skins stuffed into into sacks and put in the luggage hold. Our bus was an old primative vehicle. It did not have a toilet on board. One simply went to a banos at the side of the road whenever the driver chose to stop.

After climbing several tousand feet, we emerged onto a flat high altiplano. I was too busy taking pictures to see the sign at the summit telling us our altitude. Tony said to me: "We are at the top of the world". He was right. We were at the top of these mountains. We rattled, shook and vibrated our way across this plane as dust filled our nostrils and the inside of the bus.

After about five and half hours we spotted the shimmer of a city in the far distance, thousands of feet below and perhaps up to 10 miles away. The view was spectacular. It was Tarija.

Finally, our dirt tack give way to a paved road on the outskirts of the city. I was feeling dusty and dirty. But as I looked at the people on the streets, I knew our lives were a world away from theirs. I watched as some of our fellow pasengers took their plastic bags, sacks, boxes and bultos from our bus.

At the bus station we hired a taxi to take us to our downtown hotel.

Fear still gripped us. We were shocked by what we had witnessed and endured. We decided to stay two days to chill out.

more next chapter.

More follows later

Chapter Eleven

ON our way out of Brazil we had our entry visas cancelled at the Border and after crossing a bridge over the Iguazu river which divides Brazil from its southern neighbour, we stopped and were granted our Argentinian entry visas. It might of some interest to know that all citizens of the EU, and that includes Ireland, of couse, get virtually automatic entry visas to most countries in South America unlike, say, citizens of the US, Australia, New Zeland and South Africa as well as others who require pre-entry visas. A bit of a chore when you are visiting many countries consecutively.

So being a citizen of the EU does have its advantages, another of which is the strong value of the Euro against most, but not all, world currencies. When one goes into a Casa de Cambio , literally a Money Exchange House, either at an airport or at the border, you can exchange your 'old' money for that of the country you are now entering. In most countries, we instead used our plastic Cirrus cards to obtain the currency of the country we had just entered, with one exception - Venezuela - where some unofficial money exchangers were offering up to 50% more than the official exchange rate provided one was selling either Euros or US Dollars. It is a measure of the respect with which the European currency is now regarded around the world. We had dollars to sell.

On the streets of Puerto Iquazu one noticed indigenous Indian men, complete with feathered headgear sell their artisanal work to visitors and tourists like ourselves. But on reflection it was a sad sight to see these 21st century descendants of a once proud people sell their craftwork for little money to those whose ancestors claimed to be the 'discoverers' of their 'New World'.

On to the Argentine side of the Falls where Tony and I, like thousands of others, walked along a specially constructed and extremely safe platform right over the top of a section of the Falls. Tony, as you may know, has a fear of heights. But he plucked up the courage to 'walk the walk' over the Falls, though it was quite obvious to other people around him that he was extremely nervous.

For myself, I had no difficulty but I was emotionally overwhelmed by it all, especially that part of the walkway which took us to a spot known as Diablo Garganta or, in English, The Devil's Throat. And well it might be called by that name, for the roar of the water as it plunges to the deadly depths below is, if I may borrow a phrase, gargantuan in all respects. I was, I am slightly ashamed to admit, overcome with mixed emotions, both with the sheer terror and danger of theis natural wonder and the beauty and energy of it all and, I must add, I cried a teaar.

The bus journey from Pureto Iguazu to Buenos Aires was over 1,600 kms or 1,100 miles in length. That may seem like a terrible long distance to spend in a bus. In all, it took 17 hours to make the trip. By the way, the tickets cost the equivalent of 37 euro each.

But I discovered that by paying extra, and going to a bus operator which provides more comfortable reclining seats, one could take much of the tedium out of such journeys - though not in all cases. On route to the Argentine capital, for instance, we were served a hot dinner by an on-board hostess with accompanying red or white wine. While it was not Chateau Neuf de Pape or Chablis, it was palatable and welcome. Dinner was finished off with a free whiskey. Then it was out with the blankets and pillows, supplied by the bus company, for pleasant dreams while our drivers drove through the night.

Not all bus journeys were as civilised as this.

Next morning we arrived relatively fresh in Buenos Aires, a city with a population of 13 million, accounting for about a third of the 39 million population of the country. It is the most 'European' of South American cities. It's people look like Europeans and well they might, since many of them are descendants of the Spanish, German, British, Italian, not forgetting us Irish, who helped found this once great and still proud nation that is a shining beacon in sports, the arts, culture and literature.

Our hotel was in a pedestrian shopping street called Lavelle, just a few ninutes away from the beating core of the city - Avenida de 9 de Julio (9th of July Avenue). The taxi man who drove us to the edge of this precinct smiled and joked and said he understood the name Lavelle was a French one, but Tony mentioned its popularity in the West of Ireland.

On the mention of Ireland, he asked how the former bette noir of the Argentine military - Margaret Thatcher - was doing. On hearing she now had Alzheimers Disease, he laughted and said it was rather funny that she was now 'loco'. We did not share his amusement. But, truthfully, neither had the steel-hearted and brass-necked former Iron Lady impressed us and millions of others when she held power.

The weather in Buenos Aires was pleasant and temperate, like a pleasing May day in Ireland. It was now Spring in the Southern Hemisphere and it took some mental gymnastics for us to accept the sun was coming over the northern horizon to greet us each day. We were comfortable in this city. Our visit was not in the nature of a culture-vulture one; we ate the traditionally big Argentinian steaks, drank the national wines, and I took the opportunity to buy jewellery and trinkets from hippies and indigenous people who sell from the pavements from 6pm onwards.

The city of the Southern Cross newspaper and the Buenos Aires Hurling and Social Club is not, however, without social problems; timber shacks serve as home for the poor on the outskirts, within the city we have seen hungry children grasp partially-eaten left over meals and drinks on tables in cafes and flee. Street begging is also a problem.

Peugeot 504's are still a frequent sight on the streets of the capital. Outside BA, old Renault 12's are still plentiful. A Renault 16 of the type we once owned was spotted and Tony said he saw several very old Fiat 600's, one of which he owned sometime in the 19th century. But, me being a young one, I know nothing obout motor antiques !!!!!

A free open-air concert of circus-type music held our attention one day in the theatreland section of the city and on another we were treated to exhibitions of the tango - the sensual dance that has a long association with this country. We resolved that should an opportunity occur in the future to re-visit, we would grasp it with open arms, no pun intended.

Now on another long journey, almost 1,200 miles, this time to a city in the north called Salta. Some might describe it as an undistinguished place, though it does have a population of 465,000, and a Swiss-made cable car which climbs 1,016 meters (3,150 feet) to the top of San Bernardo Hill on the outskirts in just eight minutes. Needless to say, we could not resist the challenge. Tony again turned up trumps and came to the top with me. But he hung on for dear life on the way up and turned his back to the city on the way down in order to avoid sight of the sheer drop underneath.

It was in this city that we first tasted Salta negre cerveza, a 100% black beer, not a stout mind you, with a head on it that disappeared much quicker than that of a Guinness. Naturally.

Next it was off to an Argentinian Border town called La Quiaca, with a population of 15,000 and standing 3,640 metres high or 11,285 feet above sea level. We had, after all, to accommodate ourselves to the much greater heights that were yet to come, and there was no point in 'parachuting' in to these places at the last moment. That would only be a recipe for disaster. Before leaving Ireland we decided not to fly into countries or locations at great altitude but to gradually accommodate ourselves by climbing steadily on a graduated basis.

La Quiaca was a sad, forlorn and miserable border town. Some streets were dug up, pavements were broken up, and it was hard to find a decent place to eat, though the accommodiation we stayed in was impeccable. Above us the sun shone brightly with great heat and intensity. Not a cloud in the sky. But it was the absence of those clouds at night and the great height of the landscape that quickly changed the heat of the day to the cold of the night, as anyone whos has lived in high altitudes knows.

Next morning it was up bright and early. Apart from having to adjust and take a deep breath after minor exertion, we werre feeling no altitude ill-effects.

As we made our way out of this characterless town to the Argentinian border post to have our entry visas cancelled, for we were now leaving this pleasant land, the sun was again shining.

We crossed a nondescript bridge over the almost dried- up Rio Villazon and, suddenly, a new country beconed us. We were heading for The Roof of the World.

Mas adelante (More later).

Chapter Ten

NOT everything in this paradise of a city is either tropical or semi-tropical. Today is what can only be described as a soft damp day, with no cold, of the type we typically get in Ireland in Autumn or Spring. The light rain began falling last night as we made our way home and now, 24 hours later, it is still softly descending.

By the way, this is the only non-Spanish speaking country in South America and the story of how this came about is interesting to recall.

The King and Queen of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1493 - the year after Christopher Columbus 'discovered' the West Indies.....for there were settled peoples there before him.....they petitioned the then Pope, Alexander VI, to act as a referee and decide who should own and control the territories now being newly discovered.

In his wisdom, Alexander decided that all lands west of an imaginary line would belong exclusively to Spain on condition that the heathen of these lands were converted to Catholicism. All those lands to the east of this line, he declared, should belong to Portugal with a similar proviso.

This division of the New World followed an imaginary line down 300 miles west of the Cape Verde Islands, Portugal's most westerly possession at the time, and roughly corresponding to one from the mouth of the Amazon river to where Sao Paulo is now situated.

Eight years after Columbus reached the West Indies, Spanish and Portuguese discoverers reached the east coast of South American continent in the same year - 1500. So, it was virtually a 'dead heat' for the 'gold medal' to determine possession of South America. Thanks to the Pope, Brazil became a Portuguese-speaking enclave in the vast South American continent where Spanish is otherwise the dominant language.

It may surprise some people to know that Portuguese is the 7th most widely spoken language in the world with 218 million adherents, the great majority of them (191 million in Brazil, of course). Not bad for a language where only 10.6 million speak Portuguese in the 'home' country.

The name 'Brazil', incidentally, does not, as one might think, come from the nut of the same name, but from the word 'pau-brasil', a redwood prized at the time of its discovery for the type of dye which could be extracted from it.

Back to the present. Today the President of this economic giant is a man who rejoices in the name of Luiz Inacio Lula de Silva, popularly known as Lula. He handsomely won a second term as President in 2006 - not bad for someone who left school at 14 to become a metal worker, and later a trade union leader.

OK, so some of you might argue, the name or term,'Lula,' is not uniquely Brazilian and could equally be applied, with even greater justification, to one or more recent politicians, North AND South of the Border. And, you might be
right !

By the time you will be reading this, we will have left Rio and traveled more than 1,200 kms by bus to the border with Argentina, where we plan to see the Iguacu Falls from both sides (Brazil and Argentina). The transport is a plush executive tour bus operated by a company called Pluma, which in turn is a major transport provider in South America, operating services in four different countries.

Our bus was about 60 per cent full as it pulled out of Rio for the 22-hour journey. Rio's bus station has approximately 80 different bus platforms for the various services to every corner of Brazil itself and to other countries such as Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. The journey eventually took 25 hours because of fog and road works en route. Drivers stopped every 4 hours or so for meal and rest breaks. There is a specially-built toilet on board these buses and cold drinking water in sealed plastic containers is available for free from a fridge.

Because the air conditioning is on continuously, even at night, the on-board temperature drops considerably during the evening and early hours of the morning. It is important to wear warm jumpers and or jackets to protect against this coolness. More seasoned travelers than us who know the regime bring blankets and pillows with them. One young woman even wore a woolen hat and gloves!!!

Seats in this bus declined to about 45 degrees of the vertical, so it is possible to get sleep at night. There is also both foot and calf rests to help one relax.

Moving south, Trish noticed the landscape change from hilly jungle-type vegetation to broad open plains of huge hedgeless fields. On several occasions, she pointed out local farmers inspecting their crops and livestock from on top of the saddle of their favourite horse. They looked similar to the gaucho one associates with this country and and the Pampas of Argentina.

Temperatures here in the very south of Brazil, at a place called Foz do Iguacu - our destination - will vary between 22 and 25 degrees over the next four days, according to the local television tonight. But no sooner were the words spoken, than the sky crackled with lightening, the clouds accompanied with thunderous applause, and the heavens unleashed a cascade of non-stop rain. If one was mad enough, one could go out in a t-shirt, and we saw some who did!

Next day we traveled by local bus to the Falls and walked the 504 steps and twelve hundred meters to a specially constructed Brazilian look-out point. Across the Iquacu river and over the Falls we could clearly see the blue-white-blue flag of Argentina. Noise from the series of cataracts is truly deafening and can be heard from some distance away, depending on wind direction. An elevator carries tourists to the highest level possible on the Brazilian side in order to give a panoramic vista. So great was the noise from the thousands of tons of falling water on rock terraces below that it was almost impossible to carry on a conversation with a person standing next to you. Indeed, these waterfalls can be heard long before one catches sight of them. This whole area on both sides of the Falls was once the preserve of native Indians before the white man and others arrived in numbers in the early 1880's and later established a military colony.

Next day, the other side of the Falls beckoned. And so did a new country. Argentina. Join us there.

Chapter Nine

OUR next country of call is Brazil, by far the most important in South America. It is an economic giant in a continent which in the past has sometimes been peopled by pygmy and basket case economies.

At the outset let us declare we have a small financial interest in this country with portion of our AVCs (top-up-pension) invested in the precious commodities section of its economy; hence, we may be biased in what we are seeing and saying in this chapter.

By far the biggest country in South America (SA), it has a population of over 191 million, with 17 million of this figure alone living in one mega city, Sao Paulo, and a further 6.5 million in Rio de Janeiro, one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

We are located 5 minutes from the beach in Ipanema, one of the swishiest parts of Rio. The city is dominated by water, surrounding hills, and forest parks. The south Atlantic waters kiss the beaches that fringe the city and a huge internal salt-water lake (Lago Rodrigo de Freitas) around which high-rise luxury apartment blocks are built, and which is linked by a canal to the sea. One day Trish and I walked right around the perimeter of this lake, a distance of 7 kms.

On the city outskirts, slum favelas compete with multi-million dollar apartments for some of the best views in the world. Often, the very rich and very poor live side by side, with the former protecting their homes with electronic fences, security guards, alarms and secure underground parking.

The beaches are cleaned daily and temperatures range from low thirty degrees 22 during the day to low 20s at night, all in all a very pleasant climate. If one could ignore the favelas, and one cannot for they are an integral part of this city, Rio could be compared to any chic Med-side city in France. Some rain falls occasionally, as it did when we flew in from Lima.

Next day, we went of to the Maracana Stadium, which up to three years ago, was one of the biggest in the world with a capacity of 200,000. But like most sports stadia around the world, health and safety provisions have been introduced to make it an all-seater, thereby reducing capacity to somewhere around 95,000. One of Rio's most famous football clubs, Flamingo, were playing the less-fashionable Fluminense and we were not disappointed. For sheer passion, excitement, enthusiasm and emotion, this ranked as a brilliant and unforgettable spectacle.

The game ended in a 2-2 draw but the 4 goals were nothing compared with the drama of what took place in the stands. Fire crackers, smoke bombs, giant-size flags, and highly passionate supporters, all singing their team songs, and jeering the opposition, were a sight to behold. One young Spanish man compared the occasion to a Roman Games. Trish was amazed at the sheer drama of the occasion. But not once was there any hint of danger or aggression. Everyone was in high spirits and happy. Soft drinks, food and non-alcoholic beer was sold within the stadium, along with scarfs, banners, flags, and the usual match souvenirs. Fans were carefully policed leaving the stadium to avoid any hint of trouble. Incidentally, Rio has put its name forward as a candidate to host the 2016 Olympic Games.

Earlier that day, Trish and I witnessed a street mugging as we strolled along the beach front with thousands of walkers, joggers, cyclists and skaters. The road nearest the sea is closed off from traffic on a Sunday to permit people enjoy it as a seaside pedestrian way. A woman screamed as a young man on a push bike snatched a necklace from around her neck and sped off through the crowds. But the woman's husband immediately kicked off his shoes and gave chase, with witnesses shouting and whistling to alert others on the street to what had happened. People in the path of the getaway cyclist obstructed his escape by joining hands across the road, forcing the thief to abandon his bike and attempt to escape on foot. But he was captured, given few digs, dragged to the ground, and the necklace retrieved. Police were called and they too searched his pockets and took control of the situation . To the congratulations of on-lookers, the husband brought the necklace back to his wife who was shocked by what occurred but who was comforted by passers-by while her husband gave chase. Being only 6 to 10 feet away, we witnessed the entire episode. But, we must add, that this was the only negative event we have come across since our arrival in Brazil a week ago. It was a salutory lesson not to carry anything of value around with us.

All in all, this is a very comfortable city and one which we would have no hesitation in staying any length of time, or returning to for a longer visit.

Next day, Trish and I took ourselves off on a major city tour. We went to Tijuca National Park, a protected 32 km square natural reserve on the edge of the city which has a population of bush dogs, sloths, capuchin monkeys, snakes, cobras, boa constrictors and - the most deadly of all female species - the preying mantis who, as you know, eats her male companion within seconds of her mating with him !!!!!

We then went on to what has been voted the third greatest man-made wonder of the world, after the Great Wall of China and the Pyramids in Egypt - the Statue of Christ the Redeemer, which dominates the skyline over Rio. Despite its near vertical appearance in photographs, it is possible to access the world's second largest statue (after the Statue of Liberty in New York) by driving up its steep and precarious hillside roads, and accessing the base of the statue by way of a lift and two escalators.You can if you wish climb the 217 steps from the entrance to the base platform but you can guess which route we took!

From this vantage point we had a 360 degree view of the entire city from a height of over 2, 400 feet above sea level. Being a warm, clear, bright sunny day, the views were stunning. We stopped to take in the sheer beauty and magic of the site and the occasion, amazed that we had managed to actually make it to this world-acclaimed spot. We hugged and comforted each other as if to re-assure one another that this was reality, and at our good fortune in making it here. It was awesome.

Helicopters buzzed around us, carrying their rich sight-seeing clients, determined to catch their bird's eye view of this phenomenon. Work on the statue began in 1922 and was completed in 1931. Pope John Paul the 2nd paid his respects in 1980. But even for non-practicing Christians, like us, the dramatic location, its dominance over the city, its vast size, the amount of sheer effort that went into its construction, made this a real, worthwhile and inspiring visit.

Included in the tour was a visit to the Sugar Loaf. As it can only be reached by a funnicular (cable car) from an adjoining hill, and because I suffer an irrational phobia of heights, Trish kindly passed up on this part of the trip. I was extremely grateful she had. Right now, we are heading off to soak up the sunshine and atmosphere on Ipanema beach.

Well................someone's got to do it !

Chapter Eight

EARLY test results showed that, contrary to earlier assumptions, Tony did not have dengue fever or malaria, but instead was suffering from a kidney infection, based on his urea count and creatinine level. His condition was not helped by his reluctance to eat the food offered or consume the highly flavoured tea. His drinking water came in an open jug; it was not bottled.

His bed was highly uncomfortable and hospital staff professional standards left a lot to be desired. Tony was put in a two bedded room and I occupied the second bed. I watched as one nurse gave Tony his medication for his cough using a little plastic measure, rinsed this container in his glass of drinking water, stuck her finger in the water and swished it (the finger) around, before handing him the glass of water to drink. I could not believe what I had just witnessed.

When Tony pointed out his cough was getting worse, the air conditioning was switched off on the basis that this was making his condition worse rather than better. He was given an anti-biotic but when he went to take a shower, the water in the pipes heavily stank of stagnant water.

We were told there was something not quite right with his blood; his urea count was 11.8 when it should be about 2.5. When it came down to between 3 and 4, he would able to leave hospital, I was told.

On day 4 in hospital, the kidney doctor who had taken over Tony's care announced this urea count had come down to 8.6 and, on this basis, he could leave hospital. This conflicted with earlier advices but we were glad for any good news,and there had been precious little of it in the last 10 or 11 days. Come back in a few days, they told us, and we'll see how he is getting on.

We found a giant-size apartment with panoramic views of the Amazon in a quiet part of Iquitos where we thought Tony could gradually recover his strength and energy. But on a visit to the hospital two days later, it was found his urea count had climbed back up to 9. Tony was now drinking over 2 liters of water a day but was still having difficulty with the local food. It was as if his body was telling him 'no'. A trip to the local zoo, by motocarro, turned out to be a disaster - Tony was unable to get around without great difficulty and had to pause for breath many times. In fact, we only stayed half an hour or so. The occasion had been planned as part of what was a slow recuperation

Throughout all this time, our good friend Maria Elena kept in touch by phone and advised it might be best in Tony's best interest to return to Lima to get a different medical opinion on his condition. Her invitation was gratefully and readily accepted. Within 48 hours we were on the plane back to Lima, Tony exhausted and sleeping for much of the one and a half hour journey.

Let me say a little about Iquitos (Population 430,000). This is a land-locked city, that is to say there are no roads into or out of it. It is the largest land-locked city in the world. They only way of getting in or out is either by boat or plane. Cars are scarce on the streets here ;the sheer noise from the thousands of motorcarros is deafening and a serious pollutant. It has few redeeming features.

During the 19th century it was a rubber boom-town with one of its heroes being swash-buckling adventurer and businessman Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, the son of an Irish navvy, and known as Fitzcaraldo in Peru. His life story was loosely made into a dramatic movie in 1982, also called Fitzcaraldo. The Irishman earned admiration and fame for having a 30 tonne steamship dismantled and towed piece by piece between two rivers by the brute strength of the indigenous peoples whom he hired for the task. Today in Iquitos a street has been named after him as has a local restaurant.

In Lima, Maria Elena was surprised by how pale and gaunt Tony had become. Over the past three weeks, he had lost 9 kilos in weight,, much-too-quick shedding of what was admittedly surplus weight. Within an hour of touching down, he was asleep and resting in the Salazar's home. That evening we brought him to a doctor friend of the family who ordered further blood and urine tests. The results were not good. Tony's blood was toxic, his kidneys were not functioning properly, he might need dialysis.

Tony was referred to a kidney specialist who told us our sick man had come alarmingly close to kidney failure. The urea and createnine measurements indicated his kidneys had only been functioning at 15% of normal. The situation was serious. Very serious. He ordered Tony not leave Peru and scheduled further tests and examinations for a week's time. These latest results showed his kidneys had recovered to a 50% functioning level.

On this basis, he said, we could continue with our trip but Tony's situation would have to be carefully monitored with further tests ordered for Uruguay and Argentina in the weeks to come and the results sent back to Lima for examination. Straight away we resolved to resume our journey and two tickets from Lima to Rio de Janeiro, with an interim touch down in Sao Paulo, were quickly organised over the Internet.

It has taken two weeks of slow rehabilitation in Lima before getting authorisation to proceed. Tony was still not better but was improving, if slowly.

Murphy's Law quickly kicked in, however, and despite assurances by Lan Peru staff in Lima that our luggage would be automatically transferred in Sao Paulo for the second leg to Rio, no such transfer took place. Consequently, we missed our connecting flight but obtained a later one the same day.

Arrived in Rio (population, 6.2 milllion) on a damp, wet Saturday afternoon and straight away took a taxi to our hotel in Ipanema, (Remember: 'The Girl from Ipanema' ?), one of two parts of this city made famous in music (The other being, Copacabana).

For many years, in the second half of the 20th century, Rio was home to former Great Train Robber, Ronnie Biggs who after fleeing the long arm of the law in Britain lived in a luxury penthouse apartment in the equally fashionable Butofogo area of the city. Many of you will remember he escaped extradition to Britain by having a relationship with a Brazilian woman with whom he fathered a little boy. That boy was a Brazilian citizen and as the father of a Brazilian citizen , the Courts in Rio ruled that Biggs could not be sent back to the UK to face justice there. Eventually, Biggs became seriousy ill in Rio and returned voluntarily to Britain, where he was promptly incarcerated, only to die behind bars.

The irony is that the son whose existence once saved Biggs from being legally extradited to Britain has since applied for, but been refused permission to settle in the UK and become a British citizen, on the basis of the nationality of his now deceased father. The last word may not yet have been spoken on this matter.

Anyway, we had arrived in Biggs' footsteps, not quite fugitives from justice, but certainly fleeing from the consequences of bad health. Even getting here had been an achievement in itself. Things were beginning to look better. We were ready to taste some of the pleasures this famous city has to offer.

Stay tuned.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Seven

Aboard the Henry 3 by 6.30 a.m. and left ourselves into our mini-cabin by opening a padlock on a steel door, the key to which was given us by the Captain the day before. By 8 am, sun is up 2 hours and temperature is already over 30 degrees centigrade. Tony lay down and rested. Two hours later, he is unable to stand up because of weakness. When the vessel finally cast off, he was confined to bed. It was quiet clear he was very unwell and in the grip of a tropical fever.

We were on our way down the Umcayali river and about to join the mighty Amazon river in 3 days. Throughout the morning, families erected their hammocks and did their best to make this their home for the next 4 days. Most of the 300 or so passengers on board our vessel were poor indigenous people. Most of the cabins were occupied by 'gringos' like ourselves, the Euro 12.50 per night travel cost being beyond the reach of most of those on board. But they were quite comfortable, perfectly warm, dry and watched television in their combined dormitory / refectory area.

We had taken on board almost twenty liters of liquid for the four day journey. We purchased two plastic containers (similar to lunch boxes) and two spoons in the hope, at some stage, to be able to avail of the food ladled out three times a day. But, on inspection of the greasy soup, we decided to forgo this option and although the 'menu' varied for cabin-renters like ourselves, we found it impossible to eat what was being served.

I carefully watched Tony's condition to ensure he did not become dehydrated. Day one drifted into day two, and day three, and day four without any apparent improvement in his health. He was still suffering from a form of dysentery and it was important that he replace all lost liquids from his body. His condition, however, seemed to deteriorate by the day. I did not know what to do and could not help him out here in the jungle, in the sweltering heat - temperatures were around 40 degrees by mid day. There was little one could do except to stay clean and hydrated.

Over the next few days the Henry 3 stopped continuously at riverside banks to pick up and drop off people and goods. It was like the 46A bus. At each stop, men, women and children came aboard. They were selling fruits of every kind, fish, cooked rice, ice pops, fruit juices in plastic bags, and other foods peculiar to our jungle surroundings. Sometimes boys came on board with small green coloured birds, the size of a canary and sold them to passengers. They wings were clipped and they could not escape back to the jungle. One boy brought on board what a fellow more knowledgeable passenger described as a Capybara , the worlds largest rodent. This animal which spends a lot of time in the water has webbed feet, and is capable of staying under the water for up to five minutes. It is found in much of central South America.

I watched as a young man in his early twenties personally fed two small birds he had purchased. First he chewed a mouthful of banana to pulp and then fed it into the birds mouth from his own mouth. Unfortunately, one bird was unable to completely swallow its meal. But its new owner now blew into its mouth and lungs and cleared the obstruction from its throat.

Everyday before sundown about 6pm I covered my body with mosquito repellent. Before leaving Ireland, we had taken a course of vaccinations against most tropical diseases we were most likely to encounter such as malaria, yellow and dengue fevers, rabies, and hepatitus. Despite the precautions, I was still bitten each night by insects. Tony miraculously escaped - perhaps they could detect he was unwell and kept away, thereby avoiding becoming victims themselves.

By 8 am each day the sun was so hot that passengers could only tolerate being in it for a couple of minutes before retiring to the cool of the shade between decks. I thought of Noel Coward's witty composition "(Only) Mad dogs and English men go out in the mid-day sun".

Our fellow passengers were lovely and friendly. There was never a threat to me or our possessions.

On the river there were always canoe-type craft with seating for either 2 - 3 people or up to 14 - 16 people. The small river craft seemed to be made out of hollowed out logs. In the rear a small outboard engine was attached to a paddle which moved right and left to give the boat direction.

Throughout our five hundred mile down river journey our cabin was like a furnace. Inside Tony lay sleeping and suffering with no apparent improvement in his condition.

I noticed from observing riverbank communities that people farmed, fished and lived in thatched roofed homes built on stilts, and with no interior or exterior walls. Hammocks hung under the roof space which protected them against the sun and tropical rains. These homes contained little furniture except for some cooking utensils and an odd chair. At one stop I purchased 20 bananas for one Peruvian sol, or about 23 Euro cents.

I noticed a lot of women on board had their teeth trimmed or edged in gold or silver. But these women did not wear any other jewellary such as bracelets, rings, watches, necklaces, or ear-rings. I never saw glasses worn by anyone in the jungle.

Rather than bring food on board, passengers purchased melons from riverside sellers where ever our vessel pulled in. I think this guaranteed a supply of cool, clean, safe drinking liquid.

On average, the Henry 3 stopped at riverside communities ten or fifteen times every 24 hours, often in the middle of the night. Where it did not stop, a lightly built tender sped off to the riverbank dropping off or picking up a family or individuals or small goods, to or from our ship. By the third day the Umcayali joined the mighty Amazon river. People came on deck to witness the confluence of both rivers which now had become one.

Sometimes our ship was guided into night time river side stops by two or three people on the riverbank holding torches. The ship's navigator was reluctant to use his spotlight for more than half a minute or so because of the hundreds if not thousands of flies it attracted to the deck and bridge areas when switched on.

Although our vessel carried approximately three hundred people, I shudder to think what might have happened in the event of collision or capsize. There were some life jackets available but not enough for all. They mysteriously disappeared on the first day of our trip, taken perhaps by wise Peruvian jungle people who better appreciated possible river hazards than we did.

Even with a life jacket, death would come quickly in these waters. Pirhana fish would strip a human body of its flesh within seconds of being immersed in the river. In such circumstances, life jackets in these waters might only serve to prolong the agony and tragedy.

As we neared Iquitos (population 350,000) the decks were cleared of hammocks as families prepared for landfall. We hurriedly packed our rucksacks and dragged them down two sets of circular stairs to the main deck. Our ship had now berthed along side a steep muddy bank. Heavy rain was falling. Tony was still very ill. He had no energy and had not eaten for four days.

I was shocked to see how we were obliged to disembark by walking across an unprotected timber plank thrown between the ship and the muddy wet riverbank.

With our rucksacks on our backs, further bags in hand, rain pouring down we had to negotiate this ordeal in virtual total darkness. A man on the dangerous riverbank reached out and pulled Tony upwards. Other passengers, used to such conditions had little difficulty scrambling off and up. When my turn came to cross I heard someone say in Spanish: "gringos", and I knew from the tone it was not intended as a mere observation. I did not blame them for their impatience at being held up by the likes of us.

I toppled as I got off the plank and tried to get a grip on the slippery muddy and steep riverside bank, scared that I might easily slip downwards into the dark muddy river only to become a surprise midnight feast for the pirhanas.

At the top we began our walk to the port exit. Tony was gasping for breath at this stage. He staggered under the weight of his belongings. He was very unwell. "I cannot go on. It's impossible to go further - I'm bunched," he told me.

We struggled to a covered area and put down our bags, Tony was exhausted.

A motocarro driver who was to pick us up and bring us to our accommodation failed to turn up. Another motocarro driver offered to help. Tony was in a very bad way. He was unable to stand up, even without carrying his luggage. Our situation looked desperate. The taxi driver and I held on to Tony to keep him on his feet. I heard him say something in Spanish and recognised the words "Dios" (God) and "Corazon" (Heart). He then started to pray out loud while holding on to Tony. He shouted to people nearby to call an ambulance.

Quiet clearly, Tony was in no position to continue. We sat him down on his rucksack. The taxi man took off his jacket and began to fan Tony to cool him down as he was sweating profusely even though it was cool and raining. His teeshirt was saturated with perspiration.

The taxi man ran to the port gate and got permission to bring his motocarro into the port area. He then helped me to get Tony into his rickshaw. My ill husband insisted he did not want to be brought to a hospital but rather to a hotel, instead.

The motocarro, as we explained earlier, is a three wheeled vehicle with one seat behind the driver for two or three people and their possessions. It is powered by a motorbike section in front which the driver rides.

Outside the port gate we were stopped by the emergency services who asked if Tony was OK. They were told he was, when he clearly was not.

It was now midnight, an hour after we disembarked and a search began for accommodation. The driver and I went to at least twelve hotels while Tony remained in a dreadful state in the motocarro outside.

After over an hour of searching and refusals, we mercifully obtained a room in a doubtful three star hotel. Tony was in a semi-collapsed condition. Between us we brought him in and sat him down in an armchair while I registered at the desk. The kind taxi driver brought all our belongings to our first floor room and then came back down to help bring Tony up to our room. In his distressed condition, but extremely grateful that we had now secured shelter and a bed for the night, Tony gave the taxi driver 100 Peruvian soles, way in excess of the appropriate fare.

When saying goodbye to us the taxi driver hugged Tony, and cried. Perhaps it was as much with his own relief at not having a fatality on his hands as it was with sorrow for Tony's pitiable plight.

Two days passed in our hotel, with no improvement. Unable to eat, and only drinking little, Tony agreed he needed medical help and was taken to a private clinic called "Clinica Ana Stahl" in Iquitos. He was immediately examined by a doctor, admitted as an inpatient, put on a drip and a series of blood, urine and other tests carried out.

The admissions doctor suggested he might have either malaria or dengue fever.

At last Tony was being looked after, his condition had been tentatively identified and he was under the care of a medical team. He would recover his health and life would quickly get back to normal................... we thought.

more to follow soon.

Chapter Seven