The Last Blue Mountain

by James Chilton

  A thunderstorm during the night left the ground sodden and myself tired; the gutter outside my window discharged onto an empty oil drum and for four hours this Maxim gun fired into my left ear, but the forest at dawn (we left at 5 am) was wonderfully fresh. The croaking, the calling, the cackling and the chaos of waking seems especially exuberant after rain. We bundled ourselves in the mechanical mongrel of the Landrover to drive to the river bank where it takes an hour to evenly distribute loads between three long boats. The river is very low and every extra inch of clearance is important. There is a great pile of stores – 50 gallon (190 ltr) drums of kerosene, groceries, chickens in woven baskets and trays of eggs. It would be a long day, 12 hours at least on the river. Each boat had a bowman with a long pole to probe the depth and to signal dangerous tree trunks or large stones unseen by the propeller man 30 ft (19m) aft. Often we grounded over the bouldered bottom and sometimes shot rapids. The Altro Madre de Dios is not a wide river, being about 500 ft (152m) between its pebbled banks, but later it broadens considerably as it joins the Manu River, which in turn runs into the Madre de Dios – one of 15,000 tributaries that serve the Amazon, that liquid master of South America. Herons skimmed across the water and kingfishers sat poised for breakfast. A family of peccaries watched our progress from the bank and a capybara, apparently rare around here, seemed rather amiable as it turned from the river and waddled back into the forest.

  At 5.30 am in the Manu Camp, I was angry at the giant percolator, bubbling, hissing, steaming and roaring outside my window – a family of howler monkeys that lived behind the kitchen block had just woken up. Later, as the sun rose, we went out on a lake as smooth as glycerine. The mist lifted off the surface, lingered in the trees, rose like a veil of billowing organza and vanished by 8 am. Spider monkeys, hanging by a long leg or longer arm and tail, draped themselves over the branches of a huge cieba tree. The fluffy seeds were each the size of a football and hung from the leafless branches like Christmas decorations. These footballs are kapok and were once used to make lifebelts. Back at the lodge, I sat by the bank of the lake and tried to photograph Clotilde – an 18 ft (5.5m) black caiman that lived on the edge waiting for scraps. Turtles, the size of soup tureens, hauled themselves up on a log to enjoy the sun. Ponderously and very slowly they came out of the water in a line and shuffled along the length of the log. If the leader is bolshie they cannot move along and stick their heads out of their shells just above the water, wagging them to and fro like irritated shoppers delayed in a checkout queue. In the afternoon the techno anorak, the German lady and I went off to the ‘canopy climb’. I had assumed that this was genuinely a climb but we were to be hauled to the top on a rope. This was an optional extra and the ‘extra’ was to pay all the men at the lodge to haul on the rope: one at the top and five at the bottom. I elected to go first, thinking they would need all their strength for me (though the hausfrau ran me a close second in the weight stakes). They heaved to a chant and strapped into mountaineering harness with many clips and buckles, I gradually ascended in a series of rather alarming jerks to a rickety platform 100 ft (30m) up. Above the canopy the view was astonishing but few birds came by. The platform was about ten feet square secured into the tree with rusty nails and quite unprotected by rails; I sat in the middle keeping an eye on a colony of ants – each was an inch (3 cms) long. We watched a glowing sun disappear into the forest over the leafy horizon and then I trusted my life to a wizened Peruvian who shouted to his invisible mates at ground level that El Grande was coming and I zoomed down, hoping I would not run into the monster ants on their way up.

  The plan was to leave early to get to a lake two hours away by 7 am where a colony of giant otters was fishing for their breakfast. They are known locally as Lobos del Rio – Wolves of the River. Like so many things here, plans go astray a little and any departure time was certainly suspect. I listened to the bullfrogs by the side of the lake until the light was sufficiently bright to send them snuggling into the mud for the day and watched the dragonflies dry out the dew of the night. An hour and a half late we were off, led by the delightful Eliana, our hard working guide who organises everything, reminds us of all the things we have forgotten and has eyes sharp enough to spot a parakeet in a palm tree at 50 paces in poor light.

  We set off across the lake on a raft so flimsy that Huckleberry F would have discarded it but with a paddler on opposite corners we made our way well enough, squatting around the edge with the baskets of our packed lunch stacked in the middle. The inhabitants of the lake, a family of eight giant otters, were sunning themselves on fallen trees. They are about five feet (1.5m) long, weigh in at about seven stone (44kgs), have twelve inch (30cm) whiskers and I fell in love with each one of them. In the blistering sun, floating on a lake surface unruffled by a breath of wind, we watched these wonderful creatures swim, porpoise and eat fish. They hold a fish vertically in their webbed paws and crunch down, starting with the head. There are only 50 recorded in the million acres of the Manu, so seeing almost 20 percent in one day was something of a coup. Back at the lodge, there was my bag. I did not know whether to welcome it as a prodigal or scold it as a deserter but I had no need to unpack except to find my Mefloquine pills – now five days overdue. In spite of a liberal dosing with Deet, my arms and ankles were covered in a pointillism tattoo of bites.

  The Swiss, two Austrians, two Americans and myself were off on a separate trip to the Macaw Lick which is six hours up river. We slalomed through the fallen trees on a great, grey, greasy surface with the banks hung about with fever trees and much else. The volume of the water of the rainy season carves off 60 ft (18m) from the outer edge of each bend every year – hence the trees that are brought down; but this is compensated by the inner edge expanding 60 ft (18m), first by a sand bar and gradually, over 20 years, back to jungle. Suddenly the bowman spotted a large animal on a wide pebbled shore and we all leapt out to give chase. It turned out to be a giant anteater, one of nature’s most bizarre creatures with its two feet (60cm) long nose and six feet (1.8m) bushy tail. Just as we caught it up, it plunged into the river, clung to a passing log and floated with the flow to the far bank, clambered up and disappeared into the forest. It is something of a triumph as one had not been seen there for five years. An hour or two further on, we made landfall at a small camp that serves the clay lick. Our destination had been billed as a ranch and I had in mind a solid, whitewashed building; a courtyard with a great tree casting its shadow, substantial timber entrance gates, a shady interior with a lamp burning before a baroque Madonna and lovely girls in boots strumming guitars. The cluster of huts under a palm roof with planked floors raised as protection from termites did not fill this cinematic ideal. One hut contained a dining area with a crude bar at one end serving local rum and beer and a crackling radio link to other scattered camps. There was a local Indian family who cooked, a couple of mestizo and a tame young spider monkey who was the constant friend and companion of the cook’s little daughter. When we arrived, we saw the monkey creep up behind his human friend and whip down her trousers. We laughed until we ached. There was a large roofed platform with about 20 beds arranged open plan like a dormitory and all this gave a pioneering feel to the place. Colonel Fawcett, dripping with sweat, plastered with mud, clothes ripped and pierced with arrows might have burst in any time. As I dropped off to sleep, a potoo called from across the river – a low wheezing like a whoopee cushion with a puncture; Guido the Swiss answered with the snore of a man tired and contented.

  The clay lick was a mile down river and a large palm thatched hide was moored to a log mid-stream. Ingeniously, the anchor rope was wound around a capstan and this allowed the ‘boat’ to drift down with the current or be wound back depending where the best action was. The birds only eat the clay from a narrow strip about 50 ft (15m) long and although the reasons for this strange diet are not yet proven, it is thought that they not only benefit from the minerals but also the alkalinity that counteracts toxins and acid from the fruit they eat.r />
  The first shaft of sunlight, filtered by the forest canopy, ricocheted off 100 leaves lustrous with overnight dew and hit the bank of the River Madre de Dios at 6.05 am. Then, out of the sun and into its light, cackling like glass through a coffee grinder, glowing like a thunderbolt forged in the furnace of a tropical Vulcan, there glided in on wings three feet (1m) wide the Peruvian rainforest’s most exuberant inhabitant. Gorgeously apparelled in colours that would make Joseph sulk, a rainbow macaw had arrived. After this advance guard, flocks of blue headed parrots two or three hundred strong swung and turned, squeaking and screeching. With lime green bodies and cobalt heads they covered the bank as they pecked the clay. They were joined by green headed parrots, yellow crowned parrots, dusky headed parakeets, iron cheeked parrots and mealy parrots, the latter looking as though they had fallen into a bag of flour. After the brave foray of the single rainbow macaw, others gathered in the trees; scarlet macaws, blue and gold macaws with huge beaks and dozens more red and green macaws. Gradually the junior parrots disbursed and their larger but more cautious macaw cousins took their turn. Occasionally something stirred to frighten them – a camera flash from the hide or a caracara landing in a nearby tree and then, in a dazzling kaleidoscope with much noise of rasps and cackles, the whole chorus line took off. The scarlet and the blue and gold macaws left the bank first after about two hours and then, in a finale of precision flying, 70 or so red and green macaws flew along the bank wing-tip to wing-tip, wheeled into the sun, turned and in a glorious final fly-past showing their scarlet undersides, they zoomed downriver and were gone. This is one of the world’s great avian spectacles and I had had a front row seat.

  Six huts make up the only street in Boca Manu together with a few grubby children, a couple of dogs and a bar; such is the main town for 50 miles (80kms) in any direction. We picnicked in the bar, fed one of the dogs and watched the vivid green amazoniensis moths that come for the minerals leached from the ground. At the airstrip, the two-engined Beechcraft looked in reassuringly good condition and a brass plate on the bulkhead showed that it was licensed for eight passengers. Eleven of us crowded in and when the seats and the aisle were full, then came the cargo. Baskets, boxes, small machine parts and piles of pamphlets tied up with raffia all sat on our laps. Unusually, the seats faced each other like benches. The co-pilot, was in charge of the loading – rather like one of those white-gloved pushers on the Tokyo underground. He scrambled over all the paraphernalia of the assorted cargo sweating and smiling, whether in fear or in welcome I could not tell. Since I had no safety belt – there were not enough to go round – I was sweating too but I was not smiling. Finally, two huge valves from an oil drilling operation were heaved aboard. The aisle was so crowded that some passengers had to sit with their legs stretched out resting on packages or propped against steel wheels. Had the end of the runway not been the open space of the river rather than the wall of the forest we would never had made it. As we skimmed the river and grazed the trees I made a note to thank the Beechcraft Corporation of Kansas for my life.

  Arequipa, at 7,500 ft (2,280m), has 300 days of sunshine and a temperature that is never more than 75ºF (24C) nor less than 50ºF (10C). The lack of rain has scorched the earth as far as the three snow-capped volcanoes that provide an alpine backdrop to the town. The highest is Mount Misti and another, Chachani, erupted in 1970 flattening part of the town. My small hotel was a curious, long, single storied affair and built into the bank of a fast flowing river. It is not called Posada del Puente for nothing. The bridge is the main entry to the town and my room was practically under the first arch. The noise of the river competed with the traffic and worse, a wedding party had danced till dawn. Sleep deprived and altitude-dulled, I opened my garden door to find an alpaca – it looked even more surprised than I. It was the resident mowing machine and fortunately disliked roses, nasturtiums and chrysanthemums.

  In bright afternoon sunshine the older buildings of the town dazzled my tired eyes with their brilliant white stone. A scattering of important colonial 17th Century churches were extravagantly adorned with altars of beaten silver and arrayed with plastic flowers. In the dim light, suppliant locals were lighting candles. In one church, a confessionary box had a plate saying Padre Fred; it gave a friendly touch to the otherwise churrigueresque decor. The cathedral has the largest organ in South America – it was built in Belgium and the pulpit was carved in Lille. Strangely there are Moorish touches everywhere and another bridge into town (the world’s longest in 1882), was designed by Eiffel. This is the centre of the alpaca wool trade (started by British merchants) but I resisted buying a sweater even though I had been warned that it would be cold in the Colcha Valley.

  My guides to the valley came at 8 am. There was Patricia (“call me Pat”), short and dumpy, and the driver Mestor, huge for a Peruvian and with two front teeth missing. He spoke no English but smiled a lot and drove the little Toyota minibus like a demon. We climbed for five hours through dry and arid country on dusty roads that were frequently churned up by great Volvo lorries carrying cement from a huge plant that belched smoke like another volcano about to burst. When they passed, the air was as impenetrable as a Saharan sandstorm and a fine grey dust entered every crack and crevice; the road was invisible but unfortunately nothing deterred Mestor. Having climbed the long steep slope of the Chachani volcano, the road flattened across the Aguada Blanca National Reserve. It was desolate but scattered tufts of ichu – a spiky grass that grows on the puna – and low growing cactus support small herds of vicunas. Every now and again a lonely and isolated dwelling served beer, Inca Kola (an unattractive greeny yellow concoction that smells of aniseed and tastes of oil) and Maté de Coca, a tea made from the leaves of the coca plant which elsewhere, in hidden jungle retreats, would be distilled and chemically refined to produce cocaine. Although I chewed vigorously on the unpalatable leaves, no buzz came my way. A little further on, a rock cliff had been sinuously shaped by the erosion of the wind and beyond, crossing the pass at 17,000 ft (5,200m), small cairns of piled stones witness the passing of travellers who, thankful that they had come this far without mishap or a radiator bursting, gave thanks for their salvation. There was snow beside the road and curiously, a bog inhabited by Andean geese and puna ibis. At this altitude even the spiky grass had given up but great mounds of a curious lichen called azorella moulded itself over the scattered boulders. It is bright green but as hard to the touch as the boulder itself and is chiselled off and burnt as fuel by anybody unfortunate enough to be stranded there. Descending the other side, there were large herds of alpaca bred on isolated and primitive farms. The wool can only be shorn every three years, so in a herd some are shaggy and others smooth as they shear only a few at a time. The wool is taken to Cusco every month or so to trade for vegetables and although Arequipa is much nearer, the market there perversely does not cater for the food these Indians like.

  Although twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, the Colcha Canyon does not have its sheer sides but is the longest, widest, deepest valley on the South American continent. Its slopes are terraced with thousands of tiny plots of land created by pre-Inca people and on which peasant farmers now grow maize, wheat and alfalfa and graze goats, sheep and cows. Women in their bright multi-petticoated skirts waddled around like flowery pyramids and all had plaited hair and attractive embroidered hats – a different hat for each of the 14 villages. The houses are built of mud bricks with roofs of grass thatch and each village has a squat white painted church dating from the Spanish colonisation. It is a volcanic region and although the mud houses are strong and flexible, the churches are continually cracking and most have been patched and mended to such an extent that there is hardly a straight line of masonry left. At this high altitude growth is slow but the terraces are feathered with young grass and a froth of emerald corn is emerging from the stoney, russet earth. There were glimpses of villages isolated and looking forlorn with only a rock path for access. This far side of the valley is a little warmer and avocad
os and apricots grow there. Scattered chimneys had balanced above them veils as thin and blue as uninhaled tobacco smoke and slow threads from distant bonfires rose swaying, expanding and then vanishing as though Mohicans were signalling. Alpacas, each with coloured, identifying ribbons in their ears sauntered arrogantly past and the sonorous sound of a single bell mournfully summoned the noon mass. At night it was several degrees below freezing and under six alpaca blankets I listened to the silence of this ancient valley; it was heavy, restful and completely absorbing.

  By the light of a candle, I was reading Dervla Murphy’s book Eight Feet Through the Andes. She writes: ‘There are times when we need to be close to, and sometimes subservient to, but always respectful of the physical realities of the planet we live on. We need to receive its pure silences and attend to its winds, to wade through its rivers, sweat under its sun, plough through its sands and sleep on its bumps. Sitting in the moonlight it frightened me to think of the millions who have become so estranged of our origins that many of their children believe architects make mountains and scientists make milk.’

  It was only 20 years ago that a road was made into the valley; before that access was by mule or by foot. Few tourists make this long detour but this is another of those rare places destined for change in the name of progress. Isolated from the world, the land has been worked in the same way using the same tools for hundreds of years. In places the terracing was the steepest I had ever seen and at some points it was as though by a miraculous geological quirk, a whole mountainside had been hewn into a giant staircase. Partridges, doves and occasional deer crossed the pathways between the villages and groups of parakeets chattered in the eucalyptus trees. The villages have euphonic names like Cabanaconde, Pinchollo, Chivay, Yanque, Tuti and Mata. The churches were all locked which was disappointing as I was told that they are the least plundered in Peru; the sacristans who hold the keys are elected to hold this heritage secure. We drove to Cruz del Condor, a lookout point where the valley dramatically narrows into a defile. The River Colcha snakes 1,000 ft (300m) below glittering in the sun and 10,000 ft (3,000m) above are the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera de Blanca. A few sightseers were gathered and four peasant women in elaborately embroidered costumes sold fruit and prickly pears. They were from the southern part of the valley and wore a white pork pie hat with a band of coloured lace and rosettes on the side as though they had won a prize at a pony club gymkhana; one rosette for those still single and two for those married. An older woman wore black rosettes: she was in mourning, although the flowers on her skirts and the closely worked thread of her waistcoat seem appropriate for a fiesta. The condors rose on warming thermals, circling upwards in slow loops with never a beat of a wing, although their flight feathers constantly twitched and adjusted.