We
were in search of a wilderness -- something wild, remote, dense and
warm. Something far away from TVs, a spa, and swim up bars. And so
we headed east from Quito by car, the five of us (Jesse and Laura,
Maggie, Lily and me) with Jesse behind the wheel. We headed down
into lush valleys, and then up the next layer of the cloud enshrouded
Andes, and down again. We progressed over nice highways to bumpy
roads and, finally, several hours later, to a turn off that looked
like a rough hewn parking lot on the edge of a river. We pulled in
and almost immediately were spotted by someone knowing our need to
complete our journey. He pointed us to a covered canoe that would
take us the rest of the way. We loaded our stuff onto the canoe and
headed down the river yet further into the wilderness, finally
arriving at our destination: The Anaconda Lodge.
Arriving
at the lodge, we meet Francisco, the owner. Francisco is a story
teller, and a good one. He is of Chilean descent, his father once
the Chilean ambassador to England, and himself a former director of a
major Spanish bank doing business in Chile. Some years ago when the
economy crashed in Chile, and the banks along with it, Francisco and
his wife made a command decision to journey in the opposite direction
in almost every respect. They came to the Amazon basin and took over
the site of what had once been the only lodge in this region. It
once boasted visits by President Ford and later President Carter.
But, when Francisco arrived, the place was crumbling and in disarray
and in need of a complete reconstruction. Now, a much smaller lodge,
the Anaconda has about 14 bungalow type units and accommodates fewer
than thirty guests. When we arrived, however, Francisco tells us
that we are the only guests! We are led to our rooms which have no
air conditioning, no TVs, no phones, and no glass in the windows.
And, a hammock. Perfect.
We
are soon introduced to Cesar, our guide. Cesar is a native of
Anaconda Island which boasts maybe 400 people. Francisco describes
Cesar as an encyclopedia wearing boots. He knows everything about
the local flora and fauna in addition to the local culture and
history. We have barely unpacked when Cesar leads us into the jungle
for an amazing three hour walk. The vegetation is dense here. Very
dense. If you step off the rocky, dirt path you cannot venture more
than a few steps without being consumed by a wall of vegetation.
And, Cesar opens our eyes to things only moments earlier we could not
have imagined. He shows us plants and trees, some of which you can
touch, others to stay away from. We learn of the leaves of which
trees we can eat (like the delicious leaf from which cinnamon is
made) and those that would kill us. We learn how each plant or tree
figures into the lifestyle of locals and which figure into the
various rituals of the local shaman throughout history. Cesar speaks
to us in Spanish with Jesse and Laura very ably serving as
translators.
Cesar
leads us to a home carved out of the jungle. We visit with the
family that lives there. The house is up on stilts and is very
rudimentary: no windows, just open air. Two impossibly cute,
barefooted kids give us a cautious eye, but almost immediately resume
their prancing around the house. The young boy swings wildly on a
hammock; his sister almost bouncing off the walls with an
over-brimming energy. We sat on a wood bench and were treated to a
drink made from fermented yucca and sweet potato. Not exactly a
mojito, but dripping with authenticity. And, then we are treated to
some freshly made chocolate served on a leaf.
But,
before entering this home, Cesar introduces us to the art of using a
blow gun, not something that we folks tend to have had much
experience with. There is a target, a wooden carving of an owl
sitting atop a tall stick, that will be the focus of our efforts.
Let me make an observation first on the use of a blow gun. First,
the wooden flute-like tube is incredibly long – like about 8 feet.
Picking that thing up and trying to balance it while focusing on a
distant target is quite the challenge, one that I cannot say I
marveled at. And, it's heavy. I felt it was a moral victory just to
lift it and aim it in the general direction of the owl. Beyond that,
there is the challenge of managing the dart. Cesar prepares them and
tucks them behind his ear. He stresses to us the absolute importance
of breathing in through our noses when preparing to shoot lest we
inadvertently suck the dart down our throats! Good to know. He
smilingly tells us that if any of us hit the target we will be
treated to a free drink back at the lodge. Two hits would get us a
dinner and drink, and three hits would earn us a drink, dinner and
dessert.
(By
now, Cesar, who spoke Spanish with a much greater mastery than his
English, decides to give us nicknames which would make it easier for
him to remember us over the next few days that we would spend with
him. Somehow, while we believe Cesar meant to call me Juan, it
became muddled in the translation, and I became “Iguana,” not
Juan. The name stuck.)
Lifting
that eight foot long blow gun was like lifting a midget telephone
pole. Very hard to keep balanced and steady and not drooping. And,
as I said, for god's sake don't forget to breathe through your nose.
And then, blow hard!! At first, all of us missed with Lily making a
credible attempt at sounding either like she was playing the trumpet
or farting. In subsequent attempts, Jesse, Lily and Maggie would
actually hit the target. Iguana, on the other hand, was a bust.
And
so our days would go. Sometimes it would be hikes with Cesar up
incredibly steep hills through jungle so thick the notion of getting
lost was no longer an abstraction. At times, we would be serenaded
by the chaotic screechings of tamarind monkeys apparently arguing
over who was getting which insects (or, so Cesar theorized). At
other times, we would swat at both real and imaginary bugs who
apparently found us to be a tasty novelty. Once, we stopped for a
respite and Cesar, using a local plant sap, painted ceremonial
warrior faces on each of us that, astonishingly, did not make us look
even a tad bit more fierce.
And,
then there was the tubing down the river. We were told to bring our
swimsuits with us, so when our canoe came ashore Cesar indicated this
would be our changing area. We looked around. Uh, where does one
change exactly? No, no – no cabanas here, just a rocky beach and a
shrub or two. When in Rome.....
But,
the ride downstream was epic. Riding the currents and occasional
rapids, it would have been a serious challenge to wipe the smiles off our faces. “Steering”
the tubes was, at times, a challenge, but we all ended up where we
were supposed to. The rumors of crocodiles and snakes in the local waters
quickly evaporated. And, that was a good thing.
Back
to the lodge for lunch and more stories from Francisco. And a nap.
Yes!
