Cuyabeno river Amazon butterfly One of many types of mushroom The devil mobile Biotravel lodge An uninvited guest An Indian boy in the Shaman's hut The shaman demontrated his craft Our dugout canoe by a river bank

August 5, 2002 Swimming in the Amazon     My eggs didn’t seem to make it to the table and I wondered if the waitress thought that I didn’t want it.  After an extended wait, they came in poached style.  The waitress had asked me how I wanted my eggs in Spanish.  I uttered but she intervened by rambling on a series of choices.  I picked the easiest one that I can repeat to her without any idea what it meant and awaited for a surprise.  It was 8:00am and after a 11 hrs. or so bus ride, sitting in Café Aroma in Cayambe was alright for me.     Returning to the Andes from the Amazon was a change of scenery indeed.  Dry, barren land replaced the lush, thick, humid jungle.  Biological life diminished as I climbed higher.  Another diminishing matter was my energy.  I was exhausted after the grueling 9 ½ hrs. bus ride from Lago Agrio, the gateway to the rainforest jungle, to Quito.  The trip was extremely rocky and bouncy.     The Putumayo bus line crossed mountains and rivers overnight passing many obstacles to bring us back to civilization while I was fighting the chill of the high altitude and attempted to sleep.  This bus was fashioned after an airplane.  Above the two columns of seats were the overhead bins.  Reclining seats, beverage accommodation and movie on board were some of the features on this ship.  There was a restroom in the back of the bus but you must asked for the key.  The driver cabin was separated from the passenger section.     They showed Air Force One starting Harrison Ford onboard.  It was an abysmal experience watching Ford speaking Spanish.  Though, they did a good job picking a voice actor to match Ford’s.  This bus has an attendant, a man in his 50s who wore a short sleeve shirt and a red tie.  He skirted the aisle bringing bottles of colas and cookies to what appeared to be a fridge in the back of the bus.  He then proceed to pass out the cookies and the plastic cups to all the passengers.  Then the colas were poured from the  bottles into the cups.     The man mastered the art of bracing himself while pouring drinks without spilling on the customers as the bus bounced its way through the rough road.  After the passengers finished, he then returned and collected all the cups.  When he reached the very last row of seats, he asked the passenger by the window to crack it open.   She obediently obeyed.  At which time, he heaved all the used cups out the window.  The woman looked at me in disbelief.  The bus winded its way through the rough mountain road.  I closed my eyes and thought about my time in the Amazon jungle the last few days while the light dimmed.             The second attempt of the jungle adventure began when I arrived at the Quito airport.  The line at Tame airline counter was substantial.  And it wasn’t moving.  I was there approximately 20 minutes before the flight starts.  After about 15 minutes or so, the clerk announced that the flight was sold out.  Everyone frantically scattered.  Some oozed to the counter.  I was puzzled and stupefied.  My agent has told me that he made the reservation change for me yesterday.  I walked up to the counter and asked one of the clerk about my situation.  He took my ticket and went at it on the computer then replied that I didn’t have a reservation.  I felt a little panic but I told him about the confirmation my travel agent wrote in the front of the ticket.  He looked at it and then went at it again.  After awhile, he processed my case and commanded a baggage handler to rush me to the airplane.    After a 45 minutes flight to the jungle we landed in Lago Agrio, an oil town on the fringe of the Amazon jungle.  This place was the heartland of the Cofan, a tribe that was isolated from civilization until as late as the 50s.  But in the 60s, Texaco found oil there.  And oil executives decided to name it Lago Agrio after another oil mine in Texas called Sour Lake, over its ancient name of Nueva Loja.   Today, it is Dodge of Ecuador.  One could see gigantic oil refineries dotted among the land once belonged to the Indians whose forest was taken over by the petroleros (oilers).     When we returned there after the jungle trip, a travel companion of mine has her CD case ripped off right out of her bag.  As she was getting off the bus, a kid pretended to help her with her backpack while another reached into her other bag.  She yelled for help after she discovered that her CDs were missing.  We stopped the passengers from getting off.  At the same time, another kid was on the floor pretending to be looking for something.  She pointed at him as the culprit at which time another passenger next to him reached down to his seat to deliver me her CD case.     After gathering for my luggage in the airport, I walked outside looking for an agent name Franklin.  Franklin came up and introduced me to our guide Isidrio.  He asked me what company I purchased my trip from.  I told him it was Vasco Tours at which point he told me that he is not taking anyone from Vasco tours.  I was stupefied again and trying to convince him that my agent has already made the arrangement with the management.  He marched away and I followed suit.     At about the same time, a man in a white shirt came up to him and said that my trip was confirmed and it was OK for me to join the group.  The man looked scrawny and unrefined.  I didn’t know who he was until later when I found out that he was the owner of the lodge which I stayed.  Mario was very attentive to his guest.  A glance at him would get his attention immediately.    We approached a big truck which has rows of wooden benches customized in the back.  There were no doors or windows protecting us from the frying debris when it rambled down the gravel stone road.  The truck zoomed down on the narrow road passing other large vehicles in a neck breaking speed.  It honked its growling horn when overtaking other vehicles.  The proximity between these trucks were not more than inches.    At one point of the ride, our truck took out another heavy transporter’s mirror.  Its own mirror whacked the other guy’s into pieces as the two collided.  About 10 minutes later, the other truck driver emerged and attempted to overtake ours.  He honked and determined to pass.  Then he stopped and blocked the road.  A whole line of vehicles were forced to halt.   The driver descended from the cabin and approached ours.  They exchanged while we were anxiously wonder what could happen to us.  After the negotiation ended, the other truck departed relieving us from nervousness.       The road trip took more than 4 hrs. until we reached the bank where the motor boats awaited us.  This is the entrance to the Cuyabeno Reserve.  We got off the devil mobile and waited for our motor craft to get ready.  The trip through the river took another 3 hrs. plus.  Magnificent beauty of the Amazon river put me at ease.  I leaned back and enjoying the view while the roaring of the motor mixing with the disturbed water delivered a much tranquil background rhythm.     The ride took us to large laguna where the water opened up to the sky.  The sky, meanwhile, swirled by smeary cloud, reflected back on the wavy water. While the water craft parted its way through the laguna, I thought to myself; I’m in the middle of nowhere and it was the most beautiful place I’d ever visited.     At a corner of the laguna was our lodging place.  The boat pulled into a landing bank with a flight of steps dug out of the muddy shore and lined with branches.   We strolled up to a structure with a tin roof covering above.  A row of hammocks slung across the wooden posts.  Two large tables occupied a large portion of the floor. A bar separated the dinning area and the kitchen.   In the back, the kitchen which was enclosed was off limited to the patrons.     Isidrio told the group to wait while he arranged sleeping quarters.  He took me to a cabin which has 2 sets of bunk beds and 2 singles.  He told me there are people sleeping there but by tomorrow, they’d be gone.  Isidrio put me in the top of a bunk and departed.    After we dropped off our bags, the group climbed back on the boat and went out for a swim.  We dropped anchor in the middle of the laguna.  Diving in the water, a refreshing coolness rushed through my skin. There were pockets of cold and warm water intermingling in this pond.  I floated on my back looking up at the ambient sky.  The sun was fixing to retreat to its dormant position.  Clouds colored themselves in vibrant colors.  Insects began their orchestra.  And the current rafted in circle around me.  I felt at peace and relaxed.  Swimming in the Amazon, was it just a dream?      We climbed aboard our craft just as the sun began to sink. Arrived back at camp we prepared for our first dinner in the jungle.  The table were lit with burning candles.  An igloo of hot water positioned in a corner for our refreshment.  I parked myself in one of the lounging hammocks waiting for the meal.  Insects ringing and the soundscape of the night provided the necessary mood for a jungle hunger.     When everyone arrived at the dining common, food began to be brought out.  We landed in our seats and began with the a meager soup.  It wasn’t no gourmet meal but anything would do for my growling stomach.  While we were attending to our meal a giant green grasshopper came for a visit.  Its presence drew oohs and aahs from the young travelers.  It also sparked conversations on the table.  Minutes later, a huge hairy spider joined in.  This time a screech from a woman who sat to my left greeted its arrival.  The spider marched nonchalantly on the table as if it would say:  “Hey this is my territory, pay me some respect.”  And respect it got.  Wherever it went, people grabbed their bowl of food and lifted it off the table making way for the eight-legged creature.     The night drew even louder jungle soundscape.  This sound was therapeutic for an urban blues.  Its harmony put me in a very relaxing mood.  Swinging in a hammock to the sound of insects and night creatures slowly rafted me into a sleepy mode.  But I then realized I was in a position to be gravely assaulted by mosquitos.     Returning to the cabin, I climbed into my bunk.  Noises from the kitchen lingered across the field.  The mildew smell of this bed and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the mosquito net didn’t prevent me from falling as sleep.  But as I drifted into the curtain call of my dream, a stream of light shone in my face stirred me up while the guy who was holding the flashlight demanded that I get out of his bed.  I gathered my stuff and climbed down.  Marching to the dinning common, I looked for Isidrio.  But he already went to bed.  Mario then attended to me.  We went and searched for a new spot.  We arrived at a tall, erect structure three stories high.  The lower part has some covering around the walls.  A bed with mosquito net dormantly waited for my occupancy.  Mario threw me a set of bed sheet and bid good night.  I fell into a most tranquil sleep since I’ve been to Ecuador.     A loud rumbling sound woke me up this morning.  When I opened my eyes, a wall of water fell around me.  Rain poured in great volume.  I didn’t know where I was. I had to reorient myself.   I traced back my activities the last few days and the places I’ve been.  Then realized I woke up in the Amazon.  The moisture in the air was so thick, you can cut it with a machete.  Half of my bed was soaked.  The clothing that I hung out to dry became wet rags.    Today’s program didn’t look very optimistic, I thought.  I looked around the camp.  A couple of people darted through the rain to get to the bathroom.  Other than that, everyone else took refuge in their own cabin.  I wanted to climb back into my bed but there was no point.  Laying in a wet bed looking at the mosquito net was not an ideal activity.  So I pulled out my luggage and reorganized.  A jumbo size cockroach sprinted out from my bag.  I quickly pulled out each one of my garment and shook them like there is no tomorrow.     After going through half of them, I realized I’m in a jungle.  What was the point of keeping insects out of my stuff.  I inspected my camera equipments instead.  They seemed to be taking on a beating.  The moisture certainly was not their friends as it crept deep into the crevices and created chaos.  Like how urgently it came, the rain retreated suddenly.      We filed into the dinning common for breakfast and headed to the river.  The aim was to reach a Siona-Secoya community, the indigenous people who pretty much contaminated and infected by the spread of western culture.  The boat slowly moved along on the water surface tracing its way to the jungle.  I felt like Captain Willard searching for General Kurtz.  Noisy King Fishers yelped at our presence.  The trees and plants around us grew in such harmonious existence.  Their colors were so befitting and blending.  Hardly any blemish was apparent.     We approached an area of tall trees.  Spider Monkeys hopped from branch to branch.  Not too far from there was a lounging Anaconda more than ten feet long sunbathing on a fallen tree.   The hanging nests of Oropendula bird posed like exotic fruits dangling from various trees.  They shaped like a tennis ball dangled in a hanging sock.  I was told that these birds are master protector.  They often built fake nest to ward off predator.  One can tell a real nest by the presence of wasps nearby.  The Oropendolas acquired insect guardians by regularly building their nests beside those of wasps that hang from trees like papery inverted mushrooms. Such wasps have very powerful stings, certainly venomous and painful enough to deter any approaching predator.        After the wildlife viewing session, we reached an open area with human dwellings.  Indian huts on raised platforms scattered among the land.  We landed on a clearing with some modern housing around.  A man slept next to an upside down canoe with a full setup from found materials.  He  nodded out underneath a plank of wood hoisted by the canoe.  Another block of wood was his pillow.  He was still wearing his rubber boots and western clothing.  Drunk from chicha one of the tourist exclaimed.     We walked through a soccer field to an empty school.   Peeking inside the cement floor room we saw some chairs, maps and charts on the wall and a table but no desk.  We hung out in this area for awhile without really meeting anyone.  There was a version of convenient store at the end of the field where we saw a couple of local people.   I wondered what we do here? Are we here just to supply the dollar to the local economy?  Or because Isidrio ran out of activities and brought us here to kill time.  No one really cared about our presence.  Some people went out to the soccer field to kick a ball around.  Some other people purchased goods from the store.     We then moved on down the river.  Next stop was the Shaman’s house.  We arrived at this mystic looking place with dead trees laying in the water by a shore.  Overgrown plants guarded a section of the forest beyond a creek that was accessed by an old canoe placing on both banks.  The group gathered out by the river bank while waiting for the star- The Shaman.    A man appeared in a long green tunic.  His head donned a headband with some feathers sticking out up top.  Barefoot and all the man came and greeted us.  He brought with him a bowl of chicha.  We each took turn gulped down the pungent substance.  The Shaman delivered his short speech and then proceed to lead us on a tour of his garden.  Rain began to fall.  We followed the barefoot man to different plants as he explained their use.  At one plant, he broke a leaf and grabbed one of the participant’s arm and started smacking with the leaf.  The leaf is covered with these tiny sharp hair.  And when it made contact with your skin it stung slightly.  Then your skin began to itch.  Few minutes later bumps appeared as if you had contracted a hive.  The situation seemed alarming and people complaint but the Shaman assured us it was a medicinal practice.       It started to rain cats and dogs.  My camera was exposed and that was the last time it saw life.  It rained so hard we could hardly understand what the Shaman said or what was translated.  We abandoned the garden tour and headed for the hut.  The wooden structure and thatched roof was quiet accommodating for the jungle rain.   We refuged though lunch in this hut until the Shaman descended from the upper level at which time we became spectators.     The Shaman changed his tunic to a blue one.  His head has transformed into a crown of feathers in bright color.  Around his neck were multiple neckwear in various forms of jungle resources- animal tusks, shells, jungle seeds, etc.  He came and sat down on a small stool in the middle of the hut.  A parrot feather speared his nose.  The Shaman picked a participant from the group for translation.  He proceed to relay his background in shamanism.     Starting from a young age he studied the craft under his father.  It is a family tradition as now two of his sons are following his footstep.  The man explained about the nature of the Yage- a concoction which yields spiritual visions and also a magical potion for illnesses.  He described how the Yage has transcended him into the spiritual world where he floated up into the sky above.  He wore nothing but a reflective blue outfit.  There the shaman was able to attain the knowledge of the plants and their medicinal purposes.   These plants appeared to him in three specific colors- Red, yellow and grey.  Each color indicated a type of cure that can be applied to the patience.    The shaman went on to explain about the intricate of shamanism which consist of medicinal plant knowledge, witchcraft and spiritual vision.  After the spiel, he picked a volunteer to demonstrate a short version of his healing practice.  A young Belgian in the group stepped forward and settled in front of the medicine man.   The shaman chanted a rhythmic verse and shook his fan, made from dried leaves, around the volunteer’s body.  It took approximately 30 seconds for the entire process.  By the time I get camera ready the procession was over.     Following his demonstration, the shaman requested $1 from each of us.  The move put some in a binding mood.  We all looked at each other in surprise.  But no one appeared to reach into their pocket.  Some consulted another for how to handle the situation.  Then Isidrio came forward and began to man the collection.  The Dutch couple staged a protest as they paid only for the two adults arguing that the shaman said he doesn’t charge children.  Then the shaman’s wife came down from upstair to bring us some arts and crafts for purchase.    The enterprising move left many people in a state of confusion.  Spirituality was preached as an ideology but commercialism was the practice.  This thought was hard to swallow as many including me felt it was a blatant case of fraud.  But then when I have the time to think it over, I felt that it was just part of the modern dilemma they are facing.  The Secoya have been greatly reduced by the encroachment of Western development.  Their population is now in hundreds instead of thousands.  They couldn’t survive on Yage alone.  And since their resources have been taken away,  the greenback is the next best thing.  Either they learn to adapt or die.  And there is no subtle way to adapt changes except for being forward.     We left the hut feeling down.  The rain was completely halted.  We sloshed our way out of the Shaman’s joint.  The long ride back in the dugout canoe was very calm and peaceful.  Night began to fall.  Bats skirted the water surface catching insects in hordes.  The air was wet and cool.  My face caressed by the calm breeze.  I was so far from home but there was no other moment I can recall that was more contend than that moment.