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South American
After Action Report
by
Dr. Harold Wingo

   "Why not!", I thought when asked if I would like to accompany a group to South America. We would be spending time atop one of the highest mountain ranges in the world . . . the Andes . . . as well as spending a great deal of time living in the largest Primary Rain Forest known to man . . . the Amazon. The best of both lives. But what about disease and sanitary conditions? Well, I would simply have to be re-inoculated. Let’s see . . . that would be Cholera, Yellow Fever, Typhus, Typhoid, Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, US ARMY experimental Hepatitis non A non B, Plague 1, 2, 3, and I would have to begin Mefloquine as quickly as possible to help prevent Malaria . . . God knows I don’t want that again!! Both arms throbbed for several days from the "shots" and my gut twisted and knotted from oral medication. I wondered if the trip was worth the pain and agony.
   Proving to be a true trans-Atlantic flight I left Amsterdam, Holland crossing the Azores, located off the coast of Spain, which presented as volcanic islands surrounded by deep blue water their rimmed peaks covered with snow protruding through sparse clouds, and 17 hours later landing in Aruba (Netherlands Antilles) only 20 miles off the coast of Venezuela.
     Aruba, a small island no more than 8 miles wide and 12 miles long, is a Province of Holland and served as my R & R spot for two days before boarding the aircraft and continuing to my final destination. Accustomed to Deutschland’s spring temperatures I found Aruba to be sunny, hot, and humid and in retrospect proving beneficial in preparing me for acclimation to the Amazon jungle.

Aruba Sunset

Wind blown trees along Aruba's coast line

Volcanic Beaches My time in Aruba was spent resting and getting adjusted to a hot and humid environment. I spent a great deal of time exploring the island and taking pictures of coral caves and various cacti.
Throughout my island exploration a reoccurring theme continued that being indigenous flora consisted almost exclusively of cacti. What few tropical plants the island supported were imported and transplanted; essentially the island was a desert consisting of sand and large cacti some attaining heights of 30 feet.

Typical landscape of Aruba

Typical buliding style in Aruba

For all intent, the economy was exclusively based on tourist and the majority of transients were 60 to 70 year old couples from northern US and Europe. Time passed quickly and in no time I was aboard the jet that was to carry me for 3 ½ hours to Lima, Peru.
    After crossing Venezuela, the equator, and Columbia we entered Brazilian airspace. Large columns of smoke raced skyward from out-of-control fires in the Rain Forest bearing witness to the much publicized massive destruction and loss of Brazil’s primitive forest due mainly to foreign logging companies and their race for the "All Mighty Dollar". Crossing the northern most part of the Andes we began out descent over the corrugated landscape for Lima, Peru.
    The runway was in desperate need of repair and I was not at all surprised at touchdown having landed on many such runways in numerous other Third World Countries. The terminal was about what I had expected . . . generally run-down and in a state of disarray. The advanced party arrived several days before me and two of my colleagues greeted me as I fought my way through a massive crowd of peasants attempting to ferry my luggage with hopes to earn a few Soles for their effort. The transition was far from subtle as we immediately left the safety of a different lifestyle and began the rapid transformation of watching-each-other’s-backs and constantly looking over our own shoulder. The air was stagnant and thick with pollutants; my eyes watered and my lungs burned. The streets were busy and confused. Dirty. And traffic rules? . . . very similar to those in Cairo, Egypt and Mombassa, Kenya or Bombay, India and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia; simply stated, there were no rules.
    Danger lurked at every intersection and our driver "jockeyed for position" with other cars. What was intended to be four-lane-traffic was transformed into 6 lanes at most every intersection this evolution the result of self-preservation. In the event a robbery was attempted while stopped at an intersection our position was paramount to a quick-get-away and hopefully safety. Although it was hot and the car had no air conditioning I was strongly advised to remove my exposed arm from the open window and roll up the glass as my friend related an incident where by his cap had been stolen from his head only the day before as they passed a busy intersection. Broad-daylight-armed-robbery is an every day occurrence and while in Lima my colleague’s Peruvian friend (to include all occupants) were made to leave a bus at gun point and robbed of all money leaving the occupants without transportation as the thieves left in the bus. Placing my camera and travel bag at my feet I rolled up the window and locked the door. Our ride from the airport to where we would be staying would take approximately 1 hour and it would take us through the "bad" parts of Lima. Conditions were deplorable and rivaled that of Bombalulu, Kenya and most parts of Saigon, Vietnam . After almost 45 minutes we reached the Pacific coast and I thought that conditions would improve . . . they didn’t; it got worse. Dump trucks were dumping waste along the beach as bulldozers pushed waste and debris into the ocean. Ocean winds did not provide us with a familiar sea breeze but rather the smell of decaying organic waste and smoke from smoldering heaps of trash caused by spontaneous combustion. Passing through what I perceived as the most impoverished area of Lima our driver announced that we would soon be at the house where we would rest in safety before catching a 3:00 AM flight deep into the highlands of the Andes.

Neighborhood at Lima The structure in which we stayed was amidst congested shelters made of blue and clear sheets of plastic stretched over polls and planks as well as abandoned cars which had been converted into simple dwellings. Some structures had been erected from salvaged pieces of concrete; others from used, weathered plywood and the more sophisticated structures primitively built on preexisting foundations. The road leading to our over-night-stop-off reminded me of a washed out logging road which had long since been abandoned.

Road leading to house The air was filled with dust and a smell that can’t be described . . . only experienced. Toilet and bathing facilities were limited. Vendors for bread, fruits and meat lined the streets their products and produce exposed to dust and fondling hands. I watched a dog attempt to steal a slab of fly-swarmed-meat as the merchant retrieved his product and placed it back on the make-shift stand positioned at his feet. I was glad that I had taken the multitude of injections to which I had submitted.

Path leading to our house

My bed room

View from my bed room Though tired, sleep was difficult at best. At 2:00 AM we were awakened. Water was dipped from a 55 gallon drum and boiled to make coffee. Collecting our duffel bags we grounded our gear in the back of the car and made our way to the airport. Tickets in hand we boarded Aero Continental (a 727) and engaged in what I elect to define as nervous chatter. Hitting every deep hole in the runway and using every inch of concrete we lifted off without incident. Circling . . . rising higher and higher, the sprawling city of Lima became only a memory as we made our way south to Cuzco.

Airport at Cuzco, Peru      The flight had lasted a little over two hours when we touched down in Cuzco, a town situated in a shallow valley high in the Andes at an altitude of 13,800 feet. The air was fresh, cool and very thin. The mountains were lush and green . . . clean and well kept. Only a short walk from the aircraft to the terminal I found myself searching for oxygen as my breathing became increasingly labored. A little confused and giddy I gathered my gear and headed for our waiting ride. Thin air was rapidly taking its toll. My head had begun to hurt and concentration was notably absent. Robotic . . . growing more and more mechanical, I placed one foot in front of the other. My only goal was to make it to the car so I could rest and catch my breath. I was the first of our group to suffer Altitude Sickness.
    Our ride from the airport to where we would be staying lasted 30 minutes advancing me time to recover from dizziness and shortness of breath. The house which had been offered us was hidden behind an adobe wall and a large, old wooden door marked the entrance to the courtyard within. Walking through the door we were greeted by a Peruvian Indian and his wife who immediately began to walk us to our room. The courtyard was filled with piles of grass and goats roamed at their pleasure. Uncooked goat meat, drying in the sun, hung from wooden sticks above a makeshift concrete sink. A woman was bent at the waste washing her long black hair just below the meat. Raw sewage poured onto the walkway and chickens scrambled beneath our feet. Straight ahead was the entrance to a dark shed. It was where we were to say. The woman chased several chickens and a goose from the small room. Several small beds stuffed with straw had been placed on wooden frames and flies circled our heads. The flooring was packed-dirt speckled with white splotches of fresh chicken manure. They were charging us 30 Soles per night for the modest accommodations. After a very short discussion we decided to seek lodging at a nearby Hostel.
    There were 41 steps leading up to the rooms! I thought I would never make it to the top. However, it was worth the effort. The rooms were clean with hot and cold running water, a shower and a real flushing toilet. It even had a TV with cable. The room was $40.00USD a day and this was divided three ways and the cost included breakfast. There was no hesitation. We took the room. Those who know me are aware of my preoccupation with toilets. All over the world I have made a study of fomites and this time spent would be no different. When flushed in the Northern Hemisphere, water rotates clockwise as it is sucked from the bowl but in the Southern Hemisphere water rotates counter-clockwise. My colleagues, having tasted Life’s experiences less than I, regaled themselves flushing the toilet several time taking videos of this natural wonder. And I too enjoyed the site never tiring of my quest for more knowledge of toilets.
    I was getting sicker by the minute and I had become quite confused. I was having a difficult time remembering what day it was. We were advised to sleep for several hours and take it easy for the rest of the day. A lady at the Hostel noticed that I was quite sick and prepared a cup of tea made from ground coca leaves . . . the very same leaves from which cocaine is synthesized. Coca is their main cash crop and is grown high in the Andes and "exported" to Columbia and Brazil for further processing.
    After several hours of sleep we decided to take a gentle stroll around the town. I felt better but still confused. Time stood still and confusion left me with the feeling that I had already been there several days.

Me in Cuzco city

Fresh Gennie Pig, Corn, Beans & Salad We ate supper and Jason Lewis, my surgical assistant, was the first to become ill. Next was Jason’s wife (a medic with our group); later that night I suffered abdominal cramps and diarrhea. By first light our room reeked with the smell of vomitus and intestinal waste however we all felt much better and were able to perform our duties.

Me at 15,200 feet and I was sick!     We climbed in altitude to 15,200 feet to visit one of many Inca Temples. I wasn’t feeling too well. Peruvian Indians were at the temple with their lamas and trinkets offering photo opportunities but I spent my time hunting for coca bushes; my intent was to harvest and chew every leaf I could get my hands on with hopes this would lessen altitude sickness.
   Peruvian Indians are very small people . . . actually smaller than Vietnamese. Their skin is dark-red and not brown like that of most Mexicans or Amazon Indians; a completely different color. Perhaps this is due to an increased number of Red Blood Cells . . . a well documented fact from high-altitude-living. Their cheeks are VERY red. Their hair is straight and black, their eyes small, brown, and very penetrating. They don’t smoke and libation is rare among mountain dwellers. Their dress is unique and very colorful, especially so of women and children, and noticeably less regarding men. Most women wear a full skirt, the colors varying like that of a rainbow, with many layers of petticoats beneath and either a white Top Hat (like the one Abraham Lincoln wore except white) or a Black Durby like that worn by British men. Women are the ‘beast of burden’ as they wrap their loads in colorfully woven blankets and tie it about their shoulders, hence, serving as homemade backpacks. Most of their homes are adobe and are at 16,000 to 17,000 feet elevation. They begin their trek down mountain paths long before first light so they can arrive and set up their display before tourist began to stir. Late in the evening, long after the sun has set, they bundle their wares in blankets, tie them around their shoulders and make their way up the steep mountain paths.
    Climbing higher we reached an elevation of 16,420 feet, the measurement taken with my GPS. We were at a Sacrificial Temple. Although the Spaniards corporally persuaded the Incas to convert to Catholicism, many ancient Inca customs are incorporated into their "Catholic-way-of-life". Still today, chickens and rabbits are left at one of the ancient Inca sacrificial alters along with coca leaves. We stayed at this altitude almost two hours and our heads were "thumping". I was sick as a dog and were it not for pictures, and stories related after the fact, I would have little recollection as to what had transpired. Leaving altitude and returning to 13,800 feet we remained sick for the rest of the evening. Only after drinking several cups of coca tea did we find a smattering of relief.
    The next day, after completing our duties, we boarded a bus and traveled to the Sacred Valley and the Temple of the Sun God.

Me standing high above the Sacred Valley We passed an altitude of 17,850 feet as we crossed snow covered peaks and glaciers. Although only sitting, we became extremely giddy. In the valley (12,200 feet altitude) our confusion left us and we had a pleasurable afternoon at a large flea market. Later we boarded the bus and traveled to the Temple of the Sun God.

Me circled in red at the top of Temple of Sun God That was a "hoot"!!! It was 14,000 feet at the base of the terraces where they parked the bus and we walked up several trillion, unevenly spaced stone steps to reach the top of the Temple at 15,650 feet. We climbed 6 to 8 steps and then spent 3 to 4 minutes getting our breaths. And this continued until we reached the top. Remarkably, none of us got sick . . . only out of breath. Pictures were taken, we surveyed the surroundings for the last time and headed back to the bus. With the sun setting we crossed the snow covered peaks and made our way back to Cuzco.

Train to Machu Picchu Our last day in Cuzco was free time. We boarded a train at 0600 HRS for Machu Picchu, an Inca city atop a mountain, lost for centuries and recently uncovered of over-growing vines.

Workers searching for remains This area was recently hit hard by Elnino and environmentalist across the globe worried that this archeological find may be destroyed. Our train ride lasted a little over 3 hours taking us across mountains and deep into the Peruvian jungle. Disembarking the train, the path of Elnino’s wake was immediately manifest. Workers were still uncovering bodies from mud slides while others searched the river banks for relatives, friends and personal belongings. That area had been totally devastated. Boulders as large as two story houses had been sent tumbling from their mountain perch along with mud as deep as 100 feet. That entire valley, with orchids clinging to mountain walls and a plethora of air plants and ferns dangling from sheer rock faces, had been instantly converted to a death trap. How could something so beautiful harbor so much death and destruction? The tribal people were picking up the pieces of their dismembered lives and pushing on . . . they had little other choice.
We climbed on board a small bus and made our way above and along the river; its strong water was crashing into large boulders sending gushes of water almost even with our bus. The roar was deafening. Untamed waves were as much as 20 feet high and enormous boulders were being pushed and turned by the water. There were no guard-rails and deep trenches had been washed into the road. The ride was simply dangerous!! Shortly we reached safety but not for long as we began the switch-backs that took us up to the Inca city. We drove on mud roads for almost 30 minutes before reaching the parking area and again, there were no guard rails; should the bus have slipped over the side, we would have starved to death before we hit the bottom. What I am saying is, the mountain was high, steep and dangerous. I would have much rather walked the Inca Trail to the top but for even the best in-shape-individual, that would have taken the better part of the morning; I would have never made it. Back at high elevation I began my slow walk up stone steps to the lost city. And it was worth the effort. It was beautiful beyond all description.

The Lost City

Me next to walls in the Lost City I walked among the ruins and then climbed higher to take pictures. At 51 years of age I had lived to see what few had ever seen. A dream come true I settled in the grass, watched a condor soar high above the adjacent peak and thanked my ‘lucky stars’. It was time to go and the group made its way down the Inca Trail to the bus far below. As we boarded the bus a young Indian lad waved goodbye. At the first switch-back we spotted our young friend waving goodbye again. At our second switch-back he was waiting on our bus again. And on this continued for the next 30 minutes as we criss-crossed and descended the face of the steep mountain. This bare-foot-kid was actually running the Inca Trail. At each switch-back he was waiting with a broad smile and extended arm waving at us. We urged him on and cheered each time we saw him. We finally got the "drift" . . . he was racing us to the bottom. As we hit our last switch-back, before reaching the river, we didn’t see him! The driver accelerated and we begged to the driver to slow    . . . nothing doing! Then, in the blink of an eye the kid burst through thick jungle vines, jumped from a steep bank and landed on both feet in front of the bus. The bus "came unglued" with excitement as we cheered. The driver stopped the bus allowing the kid to embark and we all dug deeply into our pockets; this young kid had truly earned his reward. Disembarking the bus with pockets bulging and money in-hand the child turned one last time waving goodbye sporting a huge, warm smile. Our train trip back to Cuzco was uneventful arriving at 9:00PM.
    It was time for supper and my stomach and intestines were a mess. I couldn’t ever remember being "hit" this hard in other countries. Perhaps it was a combination of altitude sickness, old age, and change in dietary style but I decided on an easy meal. We carefully chose a restaurant that looked reasonably clean and seated ourselves at the table. I decided on chicken soup. Jesus Christ; it was awful! There were feathers on the chicken skin. I simply couldn’t eat it. Sitting the bowl to the side I drank my coke and ate some crackers. A little street urchin, no more than 6 years old, came to our table. She said something in Spanish and Jason’s wife interpreted. The little girl had asked if she could eat my soup. "Not yes but hell yes", I exclaimed. Bless her little heart. Her little red hands were dirty and her little dress was soiled. Her hair was matted and pulled back with a string. She was so tiny. She was very polite as Sylvia talked with her. She had been selling chewing gum all day. Sitting beside me she ate until I thought her little belly would pop . . . and I became ashamed because I had turned my nose at the food. Still, her GI Tract was accustomed to this food and mine wasn’t and the embarrassment waned as I was happy to have given a child a warm meal. Jason also offered her his rice and before leaving she reached her little hand into her coat pocket bringing out a plastic bag which contained some scraps of food. I held the bag open while she removed each and every single grain of rice from Jason’s plate and carefully placed it back into her little dirty coat of many colors. She excused herself from the table and then turned and said, "Gracious" with a gracious, tiny, humble voice. Where did this tiny, innocent child spend the night?
     We gathered our gear flying out of Cuzco the next morning but not without incident. The night before, we confirmed our flight and all was set. Standing in line to receive our boarding passes we watched as local airport authorities took monetary payoffs allowing people without tickets to get in front of the rest of us. The situation worsened until the local Indians charged the ticket counter and over ran the workers. They were behind the counter tagging their own luggage and placing it in back where the conveyor belt was running. Suddenly, without announcement, they closed the ticket counter and we were unable to receive our boarding passes. Sylvia fought her way through mayhem and managed to get our boarding passes but baggage and supplies did not make it to the back. She said, "Follow me and don’t speak anything but English . . ." (as if we had a choice); "this intimidates them". We passed the first armed security control and as they said, "STOP!!" we kept moving. We made it down the long hall-way with one more security check before we walked out to the plane. Again they said, "STOP!!" and Sylvia told us to go on as she said something to the two guards. I could just feel bullets burning into my back. Headlines . . . American Troops Killed In South American Shoot Out! Catching up with us, Sylvia ran ahead. Our heads were pounding, our hearts pumping and our lungs burning as our need for oxygen reached maximum. We were dizzy and confused but we didn’t stop. They were removing the boarding stairs from the aircraft. Once again she saved the day demanding that they push the steps back up to the plane. The door was closing. Sylvia bounded up the steps and physically held the door preventing the stewardess from closing the door. Equipment and baggage in hand we boarded the aircraft without further incident and took our assigned seats. That was a close call.
     I dreaded the return to Lima but it would be only a short stay before we left for the Amazon. We returned to our "Safe House" in Lima and Martina had prepared rice, guinea pig and a purple drink made from corn. It was filling, it tasted great and I got a SCREAMING case of diarrhea. Sylvia insisted that I take some medicine to stop the "runs" and I insisted that I WOULD NOT! What ever I had was BAD and I didn’t want that to be bottled up inside me . . . not for another minute!! I wanted it OUT!! The "runs" is nature’s way of getting rid of that which my system disagreed with and I am a firm believer in letting nature take its course. Thanks but no thanks . . . it was BAD and I wanted it GONE!!! And sure enough, it stopped when I ran out.
    Roosters crowed, dogs barked, and bread handlers squeezed the rubber bulb on a hand held bicycle horn as they went from structure to structure announcing they had fresh ‘pan’ (bread) for sale. It was 0530 HRS and the sun was barely up. One at a time we moaned as we slowly got out of bed. Once again water was dipped from the 55 gallon drum and coffee was made. Having dressed and taken care of "personal business", we loaded our gear and rushed to the airport. Tickets punched, baggage loaded we filed past the guards and out to the plane. Approximately 10 people were ahead of us and there was a slight commotion as two women boarded the plane. Climbing the steps and showing our boarding passes we took our seats. A ruckus began and screaming occurred two rows back from where we were seated. Several stewardesses were attempting to talk to the two women who had previously caused a problem during boarding. An altercation occurred and the stewardesses backed away. The woman was clutching a bag next to her chest. NO ONE ELSE WAS BOARDING THE PLANE!! Not too long ago the Shinning Path, a well known terrorist group, had held an entire embassy hostage and there were several Cells still around and active. Was this what we were facing? Oh Shit! The Peruvian police stormed the airplane in full gear with weapons drawn. We all looked at Sylvia . . . "What’s going on?" The woman broke free from the police and escaped out the back of the plane. The police pursued and several minutes passed without others boarding the plane. Perhaps it was over. Not quite! I looked up to see her entering the plane from the front and she made her way down the isle. We refused to look at her. Then she stopped several feet from us and simply looked at me. Oh Shit . . . I can’t hang with this! I looked at her and she smiled broadly. She quickly approached me and reaching out her hand she ran her fingers under my chin and through my hair. Oh My God!! Just as quickly she stopped and walked on seating herself where she had previously been seated. I looked at the group and they didn’t dare react to what had happened. Several wanted to laugh but held their emotions. The woman was mentally ill. In no time the police stormed back on the plane. Physically attempting to remove her she put up quite a fight. Then all attempts stopped. She stood up, adjusted her bra, and placing her finger in the air, wagging it back and forth as if to say, "Shame on you", she clearly said, "Areo Peru is a better airline". Having said that she allowed herself to be peacefully escorted away.
    Without further delay the aircraft was filled and we were on our way to Iquitos . . . heart of the Amazon jungle. Our flight lasted a little over two hours. Without incident we landed and left the air terminal heading for the Amazon River. We spent the night in Iquitos and the morning brought rain. But this would not stop us; we packed our gear and headed to the river.

Amazon River Having lasted almost three hours our boat ride took us almost 60 kilometers up the Amazon River. There we changed boats and began the last leg of our trip into the jungle. The ride lasted almost 2 hours taking us an additional 50 kilometers into the jungle.

Water Bus on the Amazon Leaving the main river the water changed from swift and muddy to almost calm and red-black. Massive vines streamed down from tall trees and monkeys cried and jumped among the branches. Bright colored birds lifted from trees and vines and glided from one side of the small tributary to the other. Young children played in areas that had been carved out of the jungle and blue and red parrots squawked a shrill cry.

Occasionally, Indians were seen fishing from dug-out canoes and brightly colored flowers grew among Bread Fruit trees, Banana trees, and next to the water’s edge.

Bread Fruit Tree Our accommodations were perfect. A large bamboo structure with grass roof, similar to the Vietnamese Montagnard "Long-House", was built on stilts and served as the common meeting house. From the "Long-House", bridges were constructed leading to our private huts. The ‘Long-House’ had hammocks strung from several center poles and everything was open-air. Stalks of ripe bananas had been placed along the walk-way for our picking and we were given fresh water on our arrival. Papayas grew wild at the village.

Left to Right at Long House
Jason, his wife Sylvia, and me A spider monkey, named Poncho, ran along the railing and greeted us. There was no electricity, hence, no electric light . . . only coal oil lamps. Our meals would be cooked on open fires and charcoal. We would fish for some of our food and we did have well maintained "out houses". It was quite, peaceful, humid but cool, and I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. It was PERFECT. Claiming our bunks and hanging our bug nets we all met back at the Long-House and took pictures, listened to the tranquil jungle sounds, and relaxed in the hammocks. Awesome . . . absolutely awesome. Supper afforded up boiled manioc root, rice, and fresh fruit. After supper we had a STRONG Peruvian coffee. And none of us got sick!!

Birds that live at Long House Dark comes quickly to the jungle and sounds change quickly. And so comes the flight of the mosquito. I’m real ‘gun shy’ when it comes to those little critters because I am living proof that Malaria does not make one a Happy Camper. Over sensitive . . . paranoid perhaps . . . I donned massive amounts of 100% DEET (US ARMY Insect Repellent) and put on long paints, a long sleeve shirt, a light jacket, and my boonie hat but not before I saturated my clothes with DEET. Either the "bug juice" works or the majority of the mosquitoes were males (only female blood feast; males are vegetarians) as I received no bites. Deciding to retire for the night the net was sprayed one more time and I climbed into my rack. It was cool and peaceful and storm clouds were building. Captivating . . . luring . . . hypnotizing, a gentle breeze pierced our nets and large leaves rustled lightly in the wind. Condensation had formed in the trees and drops of water intermittently fell from the giant Capo Trees. Insects and strange birds performed their nightly ritual and we were seduced into sleep. At 0200 HRS thunder rolled and lighting flashed casting strange, dancing shadows in the jungle. A heavy rain pounded our grass roofs but not one drop fell on us. The rhythm of the rain and its tempo changed frequently but it was never threatening; conversely, intoxicating.

Early Morning on the Amazon By 0600 HRS the rain had stopped. Poncho made his rounds stopping at every hut sounding his loud screeching cry. That was his way of saying, "It’s time to get up". We gathered in the "Long-House" for breakfast which consisted of fried eggs, smoke-cured pork (I think) that had been well fried . . . almost carbonized, fried bananas, and boiled manioc which had been sprinkled with sugar. After breakfast we launched the dug-outs and made our way down stream. At 0800 we put in for shore and we spent the rest of the morning in the jungle with our guide.

Me at one of the villages

Indians doing their thing . . .

Tribal Elder holding Blow-Gun We visited several Indian villages. Walking along muddy trails from one village to another we occasionally stopped allowing the guide to explain the medicinal value which had been isolated from several exotic plants as well as taking pictures.

Capo Tree or Silk-Cotton Tree
Hard to see, my tiny head and arms are seen in
the lower center of the photo and our guide can
be seen wearing a white T-Shirt to my left. We stopped at one Capo tree which was probably 250 feet tall and 35 to 40 feet in diameter at its base. The tree was so deeply corrugated at its base that bats flew in and out of the deep corrugation as we approached. Small to giant sized Air Plants found niches in and on the tree where they could live and orchids covered the back side of the tree much like moss would cover tree bark in our country. I had my picture taken beside the tree and we continued to the next village. One interesting thing I found along the way was an abandoned snail shell. It was no different in looks as those we find in American forests except for one thing . . . its size. It was about the size of a deflated volley ball. I have wished several times that I had brought it home.
With the morning finished we headed back to camp. We had fruit for lunch and afterwards we set out to catch supper . . . piranhas.

Red Piranhas

Razor Sharp Teeth

Our bate was chopped chicken and it worked. Sylvia was the first to catch a beautiful Red Belly Show Piranha. It was not so big but it could be eaten. Our guide caught one about 11 inches long and it was quite lively. After an hour we had enough of fishing so we headed for camp. Supper proved to be quite good having fresh piranha, boil manioc root, boiled rice, fried banana, some kind of melon that grew in the jungle, and a very good jungle salad laced with tender bamboo shoots. Our after-meal-drink was unusual for the "new-comers-to-the-jungle" and it contained alcohol. I was familiar with this drink having experienced it several times many years before. They called it "Jungle Juice". I said nothing but later explained how it was prepared. The drink is made from manioc root and it is prepared by mashing the root into a milky pulp. The next step is for the women to chew the root and dispose of this well chewed bolus in a large container where water is added and the enzymes from the saliva causes fermentation. It takes several days to prepare but it works. The final product is a milk-colored drink rich in alcohol. Well, no one died and I took pleasure watching their facial expressions when the method of preparation was explained.

Jason just after he had fallen The next day was not so great. We had put into shore and had captured an anteater. Jason slipped on a log while getting out of the boat and landed very hard with the tree coming to rest between his legs. Ouch!! Having somewhat recovered from his mishap he pushed on (I don’t think I could have managed) and entered the jungle to help with the anteater. I arrived at shore and used my paddle as a third leg to stabilize me as I walked the log. The anteater started in my direction and I moved to head it off. All of a sudden I felt PAIN. There was pain in my hands and there was pain in my legs. BAD PAIN!! I looked down and I was being eaten by South American Fire Ants. I became dizzy, weak, and instantly sick to my stomach. I had been hit by Fire Ants before, in Texas, but nothing like these. Thinking I was about to pass out I headed for water hoping I would drown the bastards. Jason’s wife came running with the insect spray and I continued to kill ants. Between my beating the ants and the spray the ants were killed but the pain continued. We headed for camp along with the anteater. No, it was not eaten . . . we turned it loose.

Our captured little friend I spent the rest of the day in my rack caring for my wounds. I learned a long time ago, no matter what, the main rule while in the jungle is to take care of even the slightest wound or insect bite; in jungles, sever infection sets in within a couple hours . . . unlike that of North America or Europe where it may take several days.
The next day was spent looking for Pink Dolphins and watching little red halos form around each and every ant bite. It is said that this is the only place in the world where the pink dolphin lives. And of course, I thought dolphins were salt water mammals . . . well, they are not! These, for sure, lived in the muddy water of the Amazon River and they are quite pretty. However, one can only watch them so long and then you’ve seen all there is to see so we decided to return to the jungle. Gliding quietly along the edge of the river stopped at another village where we saw a small crocodile (approx 4 feet long) and I got a good picture and then we spotted a 3 toed sloth.

They move so slowly! They truly move in slow motion. Got some [super] still shots with my camera and also got some footage with my video camera. Spending the rest of the afternoon on the river it was time to head back to camp and the "Jungle Juice".
Several days passed uneventfully and it was time to go. Saying goodbye to the jungle we made our way to the main river and caught our boat to Iquitos. And the rest is history. We flew back to Lima, caught our plane and 19 hours later we were back in Germany. There is a lot more that I could have shared but I’m tired of writing and I’m sure you’re frayed from reading.
Dr. Harold H. Wingo
Schweinfurt, Germany

Dr. Harold H. Wingo