“Since girlfriend getaways are becoming a hot travel topic, I proposed a ‘Girls’ Guide to Cusco’ to a former coworker of mine who is now working at a guidebook company. It’d be a kind of photo flip book of female-friendly places they could put online,” she explained, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“Wow, that’s an awesome idea,” Holly said.
“Thanks. The editor really liked it too, and”—she paused, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin—“this is where you guys come in. She wants you to write it with me.”
“Wait, you mean you and Holly, right?” I said. “I’ve only ever written marketing proposals for work, which I doubt qualifies me to do this sort of piece.”
“No, she wants you to do it, too. I told her all about our trip, and she thinks it would be more interesting coming from all three of us. If we do a good job, it could even turn into a regular online series. And of course we’d be getting paid for it,” Amanda added hastily. “Not much, but enough to pay for a few nights’ sleep a month.”
I could tell Amanda expected me to be thrilled about the opportunity, but I was still on the fence about whether a group writing assignment was a good idea. After taking a few days to mull it over, I’d hesitantly agreed. I knew it was important to Amanda, so I didn’t want to hold her back. Plus, as the keeper of our trip budget, I knew the extra cash would come in handy.
But when Cliver responded, “Yes, we do have the wireless Internet throughout all of the lodge,” my heart sank a little.
While the group project was still hanging over our heads, the last thing I wanted to think about in the Amazon was working. This portion of our trip was exactly the type of wild, off-the-beaten-track experience that had prompted me to leave New York in the first place. Maybe once we were installed in the jungle, Amanda would forget the Internet—at least for a little while.
For the first time in weeks, we awoke not to the sound of sledgehammers smashing concrete, car horns blaring, wild dogs barking, or roosters screeching, but rather to something we’d forgotten existed: silence.
Tugging at the cloth window panel, I took in the exotic spread of vine-wrapped trees, tropical flowers, and rainbow-painted macaws perched on a poolside gazebo. Well rested at last (and uncharacteristically cheery at such an early hour), I bounced out of bed to join the girls in getting dressed for our first great adventure. The morning hike would lead us to the Canopy Walkway, which Cliver dutifully pointed out was one of the longest treetop pathways in the world.
Pumped full of malaria meds, our water bottles topped to the brim and a tube of SPF 30 sunblock shoved into a side pocket of Holly’s day pack, we felt amply prepared to plunge into the jungle and explore the steamy surroundings. After a winding trek down a palm-fringed trail, we arrived at the base of the first (of fourteen) narrow suspension bridges lashed together with steel cables and thick twine, and began the long ascent up the staircase. Our guidebook wasn’t kidding when it said this experience wasn’t for the faint of heart.
The narrow wooden boards were suspended more than a hundred feet in the air. They creaked and shuddered with every step, and we felt more like characters in an Indiana Jones film than a trio of wide-eyed tourists. Even though I could see the mesh netting installed underneath the bridges to keep crossers from plummeting to the jungle floor, traversing the planks with no harness required some seriously steely nerves—and all my concentration. On the first bridge, the girls and I moved at a snail’s pace, literally learning the ropes as we went. But with each new crossing challenge, I got braver and faster until I was eventually navigating bridges without using my hands to steady me. Between our Cirque du Soleil–worthy stunts, Amanda, Holly, and I loitered on the treetop platforms, attempting to digitally capture the aerial view that only we—and an extended family of spider monkeys—were privy to.
When we finally stepped back onto terra firma, I slowly came down from the high of our “near-death” experience. Fortunately, Cliver had another adventure in store for us. He was taking us to see a local medicine man named Luis, a healing shaman who lived deep within the jungle.
An expert in rain forest remedies, Luis was the go-to guy when anything from a toothache to a cold to a deadly snakebite struck one of the local villagers. We arrived at his makeshift clinic—an open-air, dirt-floored pavilion—and settled down on wobbly wood stools, waiting for Luis to give what Cliver described as a “beeerrry special lecture on the plants that calm sickness and disease.”
“And there is a special drink to, how do you say, uh, make you be in the sexy mood,” Cliver added with a mischievous grin. “It does not taste good, but you are very happy afterward.”
Before any of us could respond to that comment, a shrunken man with deeply carved wrinkles and a shock of wild gray hair appeared before us in the clinic. He set up camp behind a rickety workbench topped with empty glass vials, baskets filled with leaves, roots and herbs, and unmarked jars brimming with crimson-and toffee-colored liquids.
With Cliver translating Luis’s native Quechua into understandable (though slightly suspect) English phrases, the girls and I learned how mimosa root could be used as a contraceptive, a tea made from paico plants killed intestinal parasites, and the scarlet sap from a dragon’s-blood tree had the power to heal cuts and quell the itch of mosquito bites. But by far the most impressive information that Cliver shared was the fact that nearly a quarter of today’s Western pharmaceuticals, including some cancer treatments, are derived from tropical rain forest plants. This discovery gave us a whole new level of respect for our surroundings and the importance of environmental preservation.
After the presentation wrapped up, Cliver introduced us to Luis, and we finally discovered the meaning of his cryptic statement about rain forest remedies that could put us in the mood. Taking a generous swig from a bottle of what looked like dirty lake water, Cliver explained that by soaking the bark of the chuchuhuasi tree in local sugarcane rum (aguardiente or “firewater”), the medicine man had created a powerful aphrodisiac. And since Cliver was going to visit his girlfriend later, he wanted to be prepared.
“Waaaay too much information, Cliver!” I remarked as he crossed his arms over his chest and gave us a slow, sly nod. “The effects are probably in your head anyway.”
“What, you do not believe me?” he replied, not even attempting to suppress a wide grin. “Maybe you try it for yourself and prove me wrong?”
“Oh, yeah, Jen. Take a sip and see what happens,” Holly baited, a clear retaliation for my unsportsmanlike conduct around her and the piranhas. “C’mon, I dare you!”
“I quadruple dog dare you,” added Amanda, extracting the bottle from Cliver’s hands and forcing it into mine. “If it works, it’ll be a great story to tell your grandkids…or, well, maybe your future husband.”
“If I drink this shit, I may not live long enough to get married and have kids, let alone grandkids,” I said, taking a whiff of the pungent formula, then recoiling in pain as the fumes singed my sinuses.
“C’mon, Baggy, this is totally one of those daredevil stunts you say you’re not afraid to do,” Amanda said, not allowing me to back down.
“Throwing myself out of a plane is one thing. Drinking a potentially poisonous substance is quite another,” I rebutted, but I was already raising the bottle to my lips. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Before I could change my mind, I downed a huge gulp. After staring for a second in disbelief, Cliver, Amanda, and Holly responded with enthusiastic howls, drowning out my theatrical hisses and yelps. I’d never exactly sampled battery acid, but it couldn’t taste much worse or burn more than this stuff.
As we bid the shaman farewell and left the medicine hut, Holly and Amanda pummeled me with obnoxious questions.
“Are you oddly attracted to that tree? Or maybe that spider?” Amanda asked the second we were out of Cliver’s earshot.
“How ’bout that monkey up there…looking pretty sexy right about now, huh?” goaded Holly, poking me in the side.
>
I didn’t admit it, but about twenty minutes later, a peculiar, tingly warmth began to spread throughout my body. Blame it on the swill’s alcoholic potency or the voodoo power of suggestion, but whatever it was, by the time we returned to the lodge I was eager to hit the freezing cold showers.
Although Amanda, Holly, and I reveled in the athletic opportunities the Amazon provided, it was one of the cultural excursions that most piqued our interest. On our third day, Cliver took us to meet a group of Yagua Indians, an indigenous tribe best known for its expertise in blowgun hunting. Not only were we going to watch them shoot tiny darts thirty feet and hit an impossibly small target, but, according to Cliver, they were going to teach us how to do the exact same thing.
After a brisk hike in 100 percent humidity, we arrived panting and dripping with sweat at the entrance of the tiny village, home to the elusive ribereños (people of the river). What little breath I had left was immediately taken away by the sight of this strange new world. It took me a second to spot them at first, but peeking out through the doorways of darkened huts, weaving fabric silently in the shade, and resting under trees, were the most intriguing figures we’d yet to lay eyes on.
Petite in stature with striking sienna complexions and red paint smudged across their faces, the Yagua still seemed to live in an era before huge swathes of the Amazon had been deforested and the ever-encroaching gringo had brought commerce and “progress” to the region. The men donned intricate wigs and long skirts constructed of dried grasses, while the women wore red cloth wraps on their bottom half and dangling neck pieces that covered a small portion of their chests.
As he ushered us into a large hut flanked with bushy reeds, Cliver explained that the Yagua relied solely on rain forest plants for their wardrobes and created fabrics from the fibers of the aguaje palm and red dye (achiote) from the fruit of the Bixa orellana tree.
We sat on hand-carved benches and watched in awe as the Yagua elders formed a snug circle and began to sing and dance around the room, their upper bodies swaying and their hips popping from side to side as they walked. One by one the others followed suit, filling the air with soothing drum and flute melodies. In a low whisper, Cliver told us the tribe was performing a traditional dance that paid homage to the rain god and encouraged us to join in when the younger tribeswomen pulled us to our feet.
After several turns around the dirt floor with our new friends, we were led outside for our next challenge: mastering the art of the blowgun. Without a word, the chief pointed to a wooden post in the ground across a wide clearing. We observed as men loaded darts (small sticks with cottony fabric on one end) into the mouthpiece of long hollow tubes, took aim, and blew. Within seconds, the points landed squarely in the middle of the target. When the Yagua actually went out to hunt, they’d dip the darts in curare, a fast-acting natural poison that paralyzes their prey. But fortunately they skipped that step when tourists were present.
One after another, the girls and I hoisted the heavy tube onto our shoulders, shouted, “Ready, set, blow!,” and fired. A light puff was enough to send our ammo whizzing through the air, and after only a few failed attempts, our shots finally pierced the post.
As we returned the blowguns to the elders and started our journey back, Holly asked Cliver whether it was really such a good idea for outsiders like us to be visiting the Yagua tribe. Though the three of us considered our interaction with the locals to be an amazing once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, we wondered whether our presence was actually benefiting the community—or rather contributed to the demise of the traditional culture.
Cliver explained the repercussions if we didn’t bring our dollars into the Yagua village. “It is the honest truth, my friends, that the only way to keep locals from cutting down the rain forest for farmland or lumber is to show them they can make more money by protecting it,” he said glancing upward at the canopy as he spoke. “If they can make a living sharing their way of life with tourists like you, then they have more incentive to preserve it.”
We figured that there was another side to this story (some fellow travelers lamented that the local villagers were selling off their culture and turning their customs into a charade for visitors), but we also hoped there was some truth to what Cliver was telling us. I wanted to believe that the tribal masks, necklaces, and fertility dolls we’d just purchased as souvenirs would actually help preserve the locals’ way of life and keep their traditions alive. But as with the future of the Amazon rain forest itself, only time would tell.
The next day, the three of us wanted to take a break from the prepackaged jungle activities, so we asked Cliver if there was a safe place nearby where we could walk around or sightsee on our own. Nothing formal or touristy, just a real place with real people.
“Of course, princesas,” he replied. “There are still many places like that around here. I will take you.”
Hopping into one of the lodge’s motorboat taxis, we zipped a few miles upstream to the nearby village of Indiana. Originally founded as a Franciscan mission, Indiana had grown into a large river community with its own market, high school, and small hospital. It was midday, and the riverside dock buzzed with the activity of a typical port town. Sun-scorched fisherman hauled in their daily catch as women unloaded baskets of brightly colored vegetables and children crowded around candy carts. Aside from a few curious glances, no one really reacted as we disembarked from the boat, weaved through the bodies on the shore, and walked to the heart of town.
Since Indiana was about as threatening as a Star Trek convention, we decided to branch out on our own and give our guide a break from the unending task of answering all our questions. We agreed to meet back at the main square in about an hour, synchronized our sports watches, and parted ways.
After a month on the road, the girls and I were almost as in tune with one another’s habits and favorite on-the-road pursuits as we were with our own. For example, I knew that Holly needed to go running daily and embark on frequent missions to the market. Amanda would get antsy if a few days went by without going online, writing, and blogging. As for me, well, I just wanted to get involved in any hedonistic pleasure that didn’t require technology. Much of the time, our interests intersected, but we were totally fine with a two-to-one group split when they didn’t. So before Holly opened her mouth, Amanda and I knew what was coming. “So, uh, guys, I think I’m gonna go for a quick jog and then maybe look around some of the little stands, okay?”
“That’s totally cool, Corby. Jen and I will hike on our own and meet you back here by three p.m. Just don’t get lost, okay?” Amanda said.
“Yeah, and be safe, Hol,” I added, knowing full well that she could outsprint almost anyone. Not that she’d need to, but still.
As it turned out, Indiana was far more pastoral than most of the Amazonian landscape we’d seen so far. Rather than toucans and macaws darting through the canopy, we spotted scrawny barnyard roosters pecking the dirt in small clearings. Wild anteaters were nowhere to be seen, but there were plenty of cows grazing in pastureland. Taking our trek very seriously, Amanda and I tromped through mud puddles, scaled the barbed-wire fences that crisscrossed farms, and stared down a few restless bulls (though we squealed and ran if they made any sudden movements). Along the way, we practiced our Spanish with the swarm of kids who tagged along with us for much of the journey.
When we returned to our meeting point, we found Holly and Cliver chatting with three young guys on motorcycles. It turned out they were friends of Cliver’s who’d offered to give us a driving tour of the area for only 10 soles, or $3 total.
“I’ll totally pay a buck for a bike ride. You guys in?” I asked Amanda and Holly.
Within seconds, we were all clinging to our drivers’ waists with a deadly vise grip as they tore down bumpy dirt paths and over shaky narrow bridges. Once it was apparent that we weren’t destined to become road kill, I relaxed a little. We rode for miles, zipping past simply constructed farmhouses, vast flower-speckled fields, an
d the occasional watering hole before screeching to a stop at a makeshift gas station. Giving the attendant a few soles for water bottles filled with a citrine liquid, our drivers topped off their tanks, made a U-turn, and began the return trip. By the time we arrived back in the center of town, dusk was falling. We were all breathless from the ride, but exhilarated.
“You enjoyed the tour, princesas?” Cliver asked as we screeched to a stop. “Now maybe it’s time for cold Cusqueñas at my friend’s bar?”
“Definitely. Love that plan,” I replied.
“Hey, uh, Cliver, I kinda need to go back to the lodge,” Amanda interjected, suddenly looking anxious. “Is there any way I can go but the girls can stay and hang out?”
“Well, with one boat, we should go together,” he said, wiping his forehead with a bandana. “Is something troubling you?”
“Oh no, nothing is wrong at all. I just…I just have some writing to do and need to use the Internet before my editor back in the States leaves work for the night,” she said hesitantly as she shifted from one foot to the other. “But I don’t want to make Jen and Holly leave now.”
“It’s totally fine with me if we go back,” Holly said, clearly trying to keep a potentially uncomfortable situation light and happy—as she always did. “I’m kinda tired anyway, and I should probably work on my next column.”
“Really, guys? Right now?” I asked, bummed to leave just when things were getting started.
I knew it shouldn’t have been a huge deal, but I couldn’t understand why Amanda kept wanting to cut our experiences short to run off and work. It’s not as if I couldn’t hang with Holly or with the abundance of on-call backpackers at our hostels. But since I’d known Amanda, she’d been a full-steam-ahead, unstoppable career girl, taking on multiple internships in college and as many freelance assignments as she could handle in New York. Frankly, I’d been a little surprised when she’d suggested taking a full year off from her career in order to travel—and even more impressed that she’d actually gone through with it. But over these past few weeks, I’d been gathering that Amanda might not put the brakes on writing while we traveled and, in fact, might want to work every single day in the year ahead.
The Lost Girls: Three Friends. Four Continents. One Unconventional Detour Around the World. Page 10
