by Andrés Ruzo
Fortunately my committee chair was not afraid to let me make my own mistakes—something I will forever be grateful for—and I obtained the permissions I needed. But at that point, the time was too short to secure the funding I had hoped for. I broke the piggy bank to personally buy the tools I needed, and cashed in frequent flyer miles to get back to the river.
After a long day traveling into the jungle, our eclectic eight-person volunteer research team sits in a circle on the maloca’s wooden floor. Among us we count two geoscientists, a filmmaker, an architecture student, a video game artist, a raptor handler, an advertiser, and a primary school teacher. No one but me has been to the Amazon before, and the group buzzes with excitement as the others compare their reactions.
“This place is more beautiful than I ever imagined!” exclaims my wife, Sofía, who just completed her master’s in advertising at SMU.
My cousin Poncho, the video game artist, agrees. “The pictures were amazing, but seeing it in real life—wow!”
“It feels like a movie set,” says Carlos, who works at a raptor rehabilitation center.
“What is most impressive is the size of the river,” says Maria, the only other geoscientist in the group. “I’ve seen hot springs all over, but something this big—it’s hard to comprehend how much hot water there is.”
“I still can’t believe the shaman now has a website,” says Peter, the filmmaker. “Next thing you know he’ll be on Facebook!”
“And the one thing they asked us to bring from Lima was a box of donuts,” says Basil, an architecture student and Peter’s younger brother.
Whitney, the primary school teacher, says, “Thank you for letting us be a part of this!”
As we sit chatting idly, I suddenly realize that the generator only runs for two hours a night. Calling the group’s attention, I delve into what our work here will entail.
“For the next month we’ll be in the jungle, trying to understand how this boiling—or near-boiling—river can exist more than four hundred miles from the nearest active volcanic center. There are three main hypotheses.
“The first is that the river is related to a magmatic system. At this point, I think we can rule this hypothesis out: this area has been well studied, geologically, with no record of anything volcanic or magmatic. Furthermore, analysis of the 2011 water samples indicates that the river’s waters are meteoric—they have the same chemical fingerprint as waters that fall to earth as rain or snow. But I took those samples during peak wet season, which might have influenced the results. That’s why we’re here during peak dry season—to sample the “purest” geothermal waters we can get.
The second hypothesis—what makes this discovery so exciting—is that the river is the result of an abnormally large hydrothermal system, where water seeps deep into the earth and heats up before springing to the surface. It’s a phenomenon that occurs regularly, but given these temperatures and the tremendous amount of hot water, well, the rates must be incredibly high. We could very well be looking at the largest, or at least one of the largest, nonvolcanic continental geothermal surface features in the world. This is exciting in itself, but understanding this system could yield an even more important result.”
The team looks at me, expressions confused, except for Maria, who smiles, nodding. She knows where I’m going with this.
The 2012 Boiling River Expedition Team: Andrés, Sofía, Peter, Whitney, Maria, Basil, Carlos, and Poncho. The large pool behind us is about 60°C (140°F).
“This place is sacred and should never be developed,” I begin slowly, “but it’s worth considering that the same processes that create the Boiling River might also be creating other geothermal systems, buried deep underground in other parts of the Amazon. If these systems can be harnessed for geothermal energy, they could help growing Amazonian cities like Pucallpa lower their environmental footprint, as well as provide jobs.”
“Again, this river should never be harnessed,” I repeat, “but understanding how it works could ideally help us find harmony between the current modern standards of living and the natural world.”
Finally, the third hypothesis. I lower my voice: “Worst-case scenario is that the river might not be natural. It could be the result of an oilfield accident.”
“What about the legends?” Whitney asks.
“The legends could have come later,” I say. “It’s not uncommon for unusual features to have significance retroactively attributed to them. The Boiling River is not identified in any studies I can find. The area has been explored and developed for about eighty years. So there’s an elephant in the room: why wasn’t it identified before?
“There is one study that could hold the key to this question, but I can’t find it anywhere—the 1933 Moran study. It’s the only study done prior to any development here, and in theory it should identify the river. I’ve also been trying to reach Maple Gas, the oil company that’s operating in this area, but no luck on that front either. My hope is they’ll let me explore their oilfield—for my geothermal mapping, and to better understand this river.
“Regardless, our goal for this trip is to study the river in detail. The main objectives are to take the water samples and to make a detailed temperature map of the river as it flows to the Pachitea. Unfortunately, the Google Earth satellite imagery for this area is so low-resolution that it’s of no use. I’m petitioning Google headquarters for support to get high-res imagery.
“Before we end this meeting, I want to add that Maestro Juan and Sandra are in Pucallpa and will be back in three days with a big group of tourists. That should be everything. Any questions, comments, or concerns?”
“Just one,” Carlos says. “I just realized this is the farthest I have ever been from a slice of pizza.”
Sofía and I prepare for bed in our hut at the edge of the community as the generator is cut and darkness returns to the jungle. I meticulously tuck the edges of our mosquito net under our mattress.
“I still can’t believe how much they have bitten you,” Sofía says. “It’s so weird. We’re all using the same insect repellent . . .”
As we settle into bed, I say, “Amor, I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Brunswick was telling me that virtually no Peruvians come here—the tourists are almost all foreign. I looked through the guest book, and it’s true, they’re from all over the world. I’m just dumbfounded that no one has ever investigated why there’s a massive thermal river in the middle of the Amazon.”
“Andrés,” she says softly. “You are a geothermal scientist—these things naturally stand out to you. These tourists come here to heal; they’re focused on their own issues and emotions. And sudden immersion in the middle of the Amazon is pretty overwhelming, especially if you’re coming from a developed country. It’s a lot to take in. Everyone sees the river as special and unusual, but everything about this place seems special and unusual. And these days it feels like every corner of the globe has been explored. It’s very easy to assume that someone has already investigated it, especially if you’re not an expert.”
“You’re right,” I reply. “I forget that not everyone shares my perspective. In science we are pushed to scrutinize, to seek significance in what we don’t understand. I just wish people would challenge their assumptions more—it would help them realize what an amazing world we live in.”
“That’s why we have scientists like you,” Sofía replies. “Now, please—I’m exhausted.”
I stare into the darkness, my mind swirling with all that lies ahead of us tomorrow, and all that we might discover. Unable to keep my thoughts in, I say, “I just feel so honored that Maestro is letting me study the river and bring it to the world.” But Sofía has drifted off to sleep.
10
The Ceremony
The first three days of fieldwork go smoothly: reconnaissance work along the river, calibrating instruments, and field testing methodologies to ensure the greatest possible accuracy. As promised, Maestro an
d Sandra return with the new guests. I catch up with Maestro, who is preparing plant medicines near the river.
“We made it upriver, where the river is just a cold stream, to a cold pool with a waterfall that you can sit behind,” I report. “But we couldn’t get past this waterfall—the jungle was too thick.”
“Luis will take you,” Maestro says. “He knows the jungle best.”
“That would be great,” I reply. “The terrain and dense vegetation are even causing problems for our GPS units. The location error is too high to be useful, unless we’re in a clearing, which isn’t very common.”
“What will you do?” Maestro asks without lifting his eyes from his work.
“I am going to tie Poncho and Carlos together with a eleven-yard rope,” I tell him. “Starting as far upriver as we can, we’ll measure the river’s temperatures every eleven yards until we’ve walked its entire length.”
Maestro finds this hysterical. Once he has stopped laughing, he inspects my bug bites. “They have bitten you a lot.”
I look at my arms and legs. “They are eating me alive! I counted seventy-six bites on just one leg, then stopped counting. What’s weird is that our entire group is using the same repellent, but no one else looks like this.”
“I imagined this would happen,” Maestro says. “The jungle is trying to protect herself.”
“From what?”
“From you.”
“What about everyone else in my group?” I ask.
“They don’t pose a threat,” he says. “The jungle is afraid of you. The spirits of the jungle see inside of us. From the time you arrived, the jungle has been watching you. It sees into your mind, sees the knowledge you possess. People with your knowledge have come into this jungle before, and the jungle was hurt by it.”
The elusive Moran study flashes in my mind. Though I haven’t read it, I know it brought the first oil development to the Peruvian Amazon.
“But what about Maria?”
“She has no roots here and is not a threat.”
I take a breath, then ask, “What can I do to make it right?”
“The jungle needs to see your soul,” Maestro says evenly. Then, looking at the river, he continues. “The river called you here for a purpose—a purpose it will show in time. Before, I did not understand the river’s purpose for you. Now it is the jungle who doesn’t understand. We fear what we don’t understand. So tonight we introduce you to the jungle.”
That night, I make my way to the maloca, at the center of the community, where Maestro told me the ceremony would take place. I’m a little anxious as I enter. But as I step inside, a familiar smell instantly puts me at ease. The maloca is filled with the sweet-smelling smoke of palo santo wood. The scent evokes childhood memories of my dad using palo santo in our home for prayer. A calm washes through me, and I step forward.
Brunswick holds the incense bowl, whose fires light the darkness. The firelight reveals Maestro and Brunswick in traditional ceremonial kushmas, the long Asháninka ponchos with blue, red, and green vertical stripes, and top-brimmed headdresses with long scarlet macaw tail feathers. In one hand Maestro holds a long-necked green bottle; in the other, a lit mapacho cigarette of strong, wild Amazonian tobacco.
The glow of the bowl’s fire and the mapacho’s burning red cherry are intensified by the darkness, illuminating the faces of the shaman and his apprentice as they prepare the room for the ceremony. I kneel, keeping my back straight, as Brunswick approaches with the incense bowl. He blows out the fire, leaving only a billowing mass of glowing red embers, and holds the bowl about a foot in front of me as Maestro begins to chant.
Icaros! The spells of the Amazonians! Guida and Eo told me about icaros back in Lima. They can heal or guide, invoke or conjure, summon or conceal, transform or shape, attack or defend. Here in the darkness, I hear them chanted by a master.
With his free hand, Brunswick signals for me to spread the fragrant incense over myself. With cupped hands, I trap the smoke as it billows out of the bowl and do as instructed. Spreading the thick, sweet smoke over and around my body, I feel a gentle warmth hugging my exposed skin, which proves unexpectedly satisfying. In the red glow, I watch the smoke catch momentarily in the folds of my shirt and pants before dissipating.
Maestro Juan comes from a long line of Asháninka curanderos (healers).Aided by medicinal plants and the thermal waters of the Boiling River, he uses the knowledge of his grandfathers to pursue his mission of healing humanity.
Maestro sings a rhythmic and haunting icaro in an unfamiliar Amazonian tongue, sometimes using words, sometimes only melodies. The chant feels as old as the jungle itself. As he continues to sing, the song changes subtly. The sounds Maestro makes closely resemble the familiar sounds of the jungle.
After a few minutes, the icaro begins to fade, ending with a sharp whistled exhale. The maloca is silent save for the river, which roars out its own icaro in the darkness. Sparks from a lighter flash as Maestro relights his mapacho.
Now Brunswick begins his own icaro, a religious hymn about Jesus appearing in the clouds. The words are Spanish, but the rhythm is unmistakably Amazonian—a fascinating blend of Catholicism and Amazonian spirituality.
Maestro stoops in front of me, holding out his left hand. He signals toward my hands and I hold them out in a prayer position. Cupping my hands together, he takes a drag of the mapacho and blows the musky smoke into my hands in whistled exhales. He repeats this on my hands, then again on the crown of my head.
Brunswick’s icaro begins to fade. After another brief pause, Maestro begins another icaro. He sings in Spanish, mixed with an indigenous tongue that’s not the one he used in his first icaro. Listening intently, I can distinguish certain words, which have clear Quechua roots—but not the Andean Quechua I am used to. Maestro invokes the spirits of the water and the vapor, the jungle and its plants, and finally God and the angels. When he sings to the waters his tone is warm and familiar, as if he is speaking to a beloved family member. When he sings to God, I feel a deep reverence. But when he sings to the jungle and the plants it is as if he is trying to convince them of something. I can tell he is advocating on my behalf.
He names the important trees, the Came Renaco first among them, and he praises each for its powerful medicine. After each tree’s name he sings a distinct tune, specific to that tree. I imagine he is showing each of the guardian trees that he knows them. Maestro closes each tree’s icaro with the words llora, llora, como yo (cries, cries, just like me), as if to remind each tree that he recognizes its life and respects its spirit as the equal of his own.
Maestro finishes with another series of whistled exhales. He then lifts the thin green bottle and sprinkles me with its contents—a flowery perfume with a pleasant and delicate scent. He signals to me to hold out my hands in a prayer position as before. He places his mouth over the bottle’s opening and takes in a deep breath of the flowery perfume, then, in the same whistled exhales he expels his flowery breath into my hands, onto both of my shoulders, and onto the crown of my head.
Maestro steps back. By the light of the embers I see a smile flicker across his face. He nods slowly and I rise.
“Find me tomorrow morning,” he says in a low voice. “There is a place I need to show you.”
11
Spirits of the Jungle
“Things will be different for you now,” Maestro says solemnly. We walk upriver in the early morning sun. “The river baptized you with vapor. Yesterday, we baptized you with plants. The jungle now knows you are not a threat—that you are here to help.”
I give him an incredulous look, but he just smiles. “Have you been bitten?” he asks.
I inspect my arms and legs. There are no new bites. I pause, trying to remember. Had I reapplied my repellent? No, I bathed before the ceremony and didn’t apply new repellent afterward. Maestro smiles knowingly.
“They won’t bother you anymore,” Maestro says.
“How do you know?”
He
pauses, his dark eyes twinkling, and says, “You have your science, I have mine.”
As we walk, I puzzle over Maestro’s words: baptized with vapor and now baptized with plants.
Then it dawns on me: palo santo is a wood, tobacco is a leaf, and the perfume is made of flowers. Each represents a different part of a plant. The river’s vapor had been mirrored last night by the burning plant’s smoke.
Maestro and Brunswick stop walking and turn to the edge of the path. With their machetes they begin to clear an old, overgrown trail down a steep slope. We can hear the river surging below us, but it’s concealed by dense vegetation. I follow their lead, and we work our way down the slope to a stone riverbank.
Here the river is around twenty-five feet wide. The turquoise waters are beautifully clear, and the current is steady and strong. The sun beats down on us and the riverbank feels hotter than normal, leaving Maestro, Brunswick, and me dripping with sweat.
The river sounds different here—its roar replaced by the trickle of a myriad of streams. Many of the riverbank’s ivory-colored stones are stained by rust-colored paths upon which flow steaming streams of clear water, flanked on either side by bands of green and yellow (likely algae or bacterial mats). Where the geothermal waters spring from the ground, mineral deposits have formed fantastic shapes reminiscent of marine corals. It’s a geothermal scientist’s paradise.
Maestro notices my excitement. “These are the Sacred Waters. Powerful spirits live here,” he says solemnly. “They are pure and very hot. Use your feet like eyes to know where to step. Look around, but be very careful.”
I investigate the springs as Maestro and Brunswick begin cutting another trail at the river’s edge.
