Boiling River

by Andrés Ruzo

  Greene states, “The presence of hot water is rather disturbing on first observation, but after analysis lends itself to a satisfactory interpretation other than that of an hot intrusive magma, the presence of which, naturally would be detrimental to the prospective value of the Agua Caliente anticline.”

  This was the smoking gun. Maestro was right—the river had existed since before the time of the grandfathers. Moran’s team had found the river, and their observations generally matched mine—supporting the hypothesis that the site has not been significantly impacted by oilfield development. They found the river at a time long before modern regulations would have demanded that the interests of the environment or “wild Indians” (as one report called them) be taken into account or even reported. The jungle still hides the river well, so it is easy to imagine how a “reporting oversight” could pass from one operating oil company to another over the decades, even after modern regulations were put in place. Lastly, the team’s focus was producing oil and obtaining investors.

  Geothermal systems are often seen as a threat to oil resources as they can “overcook” them, leaving them ruined and worthless. Moran and his team’s proprietary 1930s geologic work confirms that the river is not magmatic, and that it poses no threat to the oil resources. However, trying to explain all this to non-expert, easily spooked investors, holding the purse strings to essential funding, seems like a daunting task. It’s no longer a surprise that the river receives so little attention in the Moran Papers, and though properly described in some reports, it seems underplayed in others.

  Fortunately for Moran and his colleagues, their efforts paid off. They formalized an oil concession with the Peruvian government, and by 1938 had successfully drilled the first oil well in the Peruvian Amazon.

  Here, at last, is my evidence. The river is a natural phenomenon that existed before oilfield development. I sit down hard in my chair, mind bursting with all that must be done and the questions that remain unanswered.

  13

  The Greatest Threat

  It is August 2013, almost a year to the day since I last left the jungle. I am in a truck labeled MAPLE GAS COMPANY, ready to spend a week working on the Agua Caliente Dome.

  Maple Gas is allowing me to conduct my research on their oilfield. They have given me full access to any data, maps, and samples I need, as well as permission to take deep-earth temperature measurements in their wells. This information gives me a far better understanding of the geology and tectonic forces in the area, and access to Maple’s wells means I can get an unprecedented look at the deep-earth temperatures around the Boiling River. Maple also gives me essential operations data, which further illustrates that the river is a natural feature, unimpacted by oilfield activities. Furthermore, to my doctoral committee’s delight, the data from those wells will make it possible to determine the first high-quality heat flow sites in the Peruvian Amazon—bringing me one step closer to creating the first detailed geothermal map of Peru.

  As we drive, I look out the window. Rolling hills, grassy pastures, and the occasional ruminating cows as far as the eye can see.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” says José, Maple’s geologist. I look at him, confused.

  “Watch the landscape between here and the oilfield—there is an environmental catastrophe happening in plain sight and no one seems to give a damn,” José continues. “This is the Amazon rain forest. There shouldn’t be vast grassy plains.”

  I look out on the pastures again. José is right. I’ve passed these lands every year since I first came to the river—how had I missed this detail? When I thought of deforestation I’d always imagined a barren wasteland of mud, tractor trails, and tree stumps—not picturesque rolling pastureland. I can’t believe I hadn’t seen what was right in front of me. An angry queasiness blooms in my gut.

  José is in his early forties and has worked in oilfields all over Peru. He has a laid-back, jovial demeanor that belies a no-nonsense authority. “The frustrating thing is that people still love to hate oil companies, as if we are all out to destroy nature. People don’t realize that in the past forty years the global environmentalist movement has changed the way we do things. We are monitored and held accountable for the slightest slip—but the squatters and ‘cattle farmers’ disappear the second they get into trouble. These criminals invade the jungle, poach animals, and cut down the big valuable trees. They sell them for practically nothing, then dump gasoline and torch the land until nothing is left! Once the grasses grow back they let loose a few cows on the ‘pastureland.’ It’s a shrewd business strategy, but absolutely soulless—they don’t have to face the consequences! If they keep this up, the only virgin jungles left will be protected national parks and Amazonian oilfields.”

  Post-apocalyptic Amazonia: rolling plains, ruminating cows, and the charred remains of a once virgin jungle.

  “Oilfields?” I ask.

  “An operating company can get in big trouble for not following environmental protocols to the letter,” José says. “Before developing, the Ministry of the Environment requires that we do a series of environmental and social impact studies, including remediation plans for after the work is done. We have to consider flora, fauna, communities, water, air, soil, and a host of other factors—in the wet and dry seasons to ensure we don’t miss a single migratory animal or seasonal issue. In drilling, we have to identify the plants that will be displaced, and we are not allowed to cut down any large trees without special permission. Not all companies are exemplary—but most try to be. Times have changed since the ‘wild west’ days when oil companies weren’t accountable for any destruction or contamination they caused.

  We continue driving in companionable silence.

  I look out the window with different eyes now: these pasturelands are actually a postapocalyptic Amazonia. It leaves me feeling cold, struggling through the complexity of the situation. I wish the entire Amazon could be protected, but I know this is unrealistic. People need to be given a way out of poverty, and a chance to improve their lives. Economic growth is a major political agenda for Peru right now, and an ever-growing international demand for agricultural products and raw materials are seen as important keys to participating in international trade (an impression reinforced by multinationals hungry for new and affordable suppliers). To meet this demand, the government encourages development in parts of the Amazon through titles and permits. However, not all development is done responsibly and in general, small scale local development is not monitored. This is especially true in high-poverty areas—care for the environment is often not considered.

  I wrestle with the tremendous complexity of the problem before me—the Amazon is a varied land, roughly the size of 90 percent of the United States. The second you generalize it, the second you can be proven wrong. Different regions face different circumstances. There are also the historical factors to consider: the Conquest and European disease are thought to have wiped out between 80 to 90 percent of indigenous Amazonians. Survivors had to face “los caucheros” (the rubber barons)—whose atrocities make the Conquest look pleasant in comparison. Maybe the pasturelands out my window, are not the only scene of a postapocalyptic Amazonia. The past doesn’t justify present environmental abuses, but it does help put the situation into context. Amazonians (whether living traditionally, in isolation or in modern society), non-Amazonians, and the whole spectrum between each have their own relationship with the jungle and with the modern, globalized world. In spite of the complexity, there is one premise that everyone shares: the jungle holds value—be it monetary, ecologic, or for traditional survival, it is worth something.

  To preserve the land in the long term, it’s clear that the Amazon needs carefully planned conservation models that allow local people to profit from the eco-sensitive development of the land. Peruvian and international organizations are working hard to protect the virgin jungles—but looking out at the cleared fields all I can think is: how can we protect what is left of the jungle here? How can we bring
back the jungle that we’ve lost? These are the frontlines of deforestation—jungle open for development, easily accessed by roads and nearby population centers.

  A Shipibo shaman once told me, “The greatest threat to the jungle are the ‘natives who have forgotten that they are natives—the ones who have forgotten the traditional respect of the jungle, and who use it for their own selfish reasons.’ ” This Shipibo shaman is a very well respected member of his community, and a vessel for Shipibo culture and traditional knowledge. When he said these words to me he was in full “western dress”: modern glasses, a button-down collared shirt over a tank-top undershirt, neatly ironed black pants, and elegant leather shoes. Physically, he was indistinguishable from any modern Peruvian with indigenous heritage in Lima. Seeing such a powerful Amazonian figure in full western dress and wielding such an unexpected message taught me something important. We cannot go into Amazonian conservation with preconceived notions of all Amazonians living in harmony with the forest, wearing traditional clothing, and the clichéd “good” and “bad” guys of conservation. Yes, the past is deplorable: Amazonians were devastated by European diseases, the rubber barons did commit unspeakable atrocities, and traditional social structures were turned on their heads by the spread of globalization—but the Amazonian man who stood before me was not a shriveled victim of his circumstances, but a master survivor, and a vessel of his culture. His proud people masterfully adapted to life in the trying conditions of the jungle, where they learned to master plants for healing or harming in ways that rival the most advanced pharmaceutical labs. (Just read the work of Dr. Mark Plotkin or Dr. Wade Davis for more on this.)

  The Amazonians survived the Inca, the Spanish, and the rubber barons—and they are now masterfully adapting to modernity. Redefining themselves in a blend of the traditional and the modern to not only survive, but thrive. What’s more, sitting with the Shipibo shaman made something very clear—there is no difference between him and me. “His” people and “mine.” We are all just trying to survive and be happy; we all want to be loved and successful, and we all have hopes and dreams. We are all natives of planet earth. How we choose to live in our own “jungles” is our own personal decision—but we cannot pretend our decisions don’t have an environmental impact.

  José’s words give me hope—maybe responsible development can turn the tide. Maestro and others at Mayantuyacu had mentioned that Maple was a “good neighbor.” Maybe oil and gas companies can become champions for the jungle, and maybe we can find a way for economic prosperity and environmental stewardship to go hand in hand. The give and take of adapting to new paradigms, the delicate balance of traditional and modern, the perplexing idea of “natives who forget they are natives,” and the unexpected turn that oil companies can, under the right circumstances, serve as protectors of the jungle—they are far more complex than I had imagined. I feel there must be a solution in which the locals and oil companies can coexist with the good of the jungle as everyone’s top concern. There is a solution hidden in these details—but for now it eludes me.

  José’s voice interrupts my thoughts, “There is the Agua Caliente Dome!” He says pointing to a large, broad landform rising out of the jungle before us. From this distance the stark contrast between the deforested areas and the Dome’s virgin jungle is clearly visible.

  “Most of the land around us has been cleared, so our jungle has become an oasis for wildlife in the area. We are constantly on guard for poachers, loggers, and especially the clear-burners—we have gas lines in the area.” José says.

  “I really love this jungle,” he continues. “I’ve worked here for years and it’s helped me educate my kids and put food on the table. It breaks my heart to see it disappearing. They’ll soon deforest the entire jungle around the oilfield. I am afraid of what will happen when the oilfield is no longer profitable and the investors decide to pull out. Our jungle won’t last long.”

  Lush, beautiful forest suddenly dominates the roadside. We are entering Maple’s jungle. Soon we reach the Agua Caliente oilfield at the top of the dome. The handful of large wooden buildings that make up the camp are in the midcentury “Equatorial Americana” outpost style. Everything is clean, neat, and well maintained. Large painted signs remind workers to properly dispose of waste, protect the environment, and not disturb the wildlife. Every newcomer undergoes a thorough training day on safety and environmental responsibility in the jungle, and I am no exception.

  My fieldwork advances well, and by the end of the week I have the samples and measurements I need for my analyses. There is one thing left to do before I leave: visit Maestro. Since Maple Gas and Mayantuyacu both seek to protect the jungle from the clear-burners, I take José with me.

  Getting to Mayantuyacu from the oilfield is difficult. There are no roads and the most direct path is through the jungle. Though it’s only about a mile from the northernmost well site, the terrain is rough and, to my delight, filled with virgin jungle. After an arduous two-hour hike through thick, pristine jungle, dense leaf litter, and rugged topography, we arrive at Mayantuyacu in a heavy rain. As always, I scan the cliff for the sign that I’ve arrived: the guardian tree, the huge twisting Came Renaco. To my horror, I see through the pelting rain that Mayantuyacu’s iconic tree has broken in half. Its upper half is still partially attached to the trunk, but the great tree’s Gorgon head lies helpless in the surge of the river. I know what this must mean to Mayantuyacu—to Maestro.

  I leave José in the maloca and run to Maestro’s house to find him curled up in his hammock. He looks up in surprise. “Andrés!” he says. He rises slowly from the hammock and greets me with a frail embrace. He does not look well.

  I ask, “Are you okay?”

  “You saw the Came Renaco?” he asks. He looks forlorn. “We all get old. I’m sad and a bit sick. But I don’t mind being sick—it teaches me I still have more to learn. Tell me now, how did you get here?”

  I explain everything—the Moran Papers, the fieldwork with Maple, the trek through the jungle. With a bit of apprehension, I ask Maestro if he would be willing to meet with Maple’s geologist. Without hesitation, he agrees. “Maple is a good neighbor—we both keep to ourselves and don’t bother each other. Bring him.”

  We sit together on Maestro’s terrace as I make the introductions. Soon, he and José are sharing their love of the jungle, and their concern about the threats that face it.

  “Maple won’t be in this area forever,” José tells Maestro. “Eventually the oil will run out, and I greatly fear for the jungle after we leave. If you haven’t considered getting this place legally protected, I highly suggest you start looking into it. I know Andrés is helping you with a conservation plan, and the work he is doing to document the river will be essential. There is also a Ministry of the Environment office in Pucallpa that might help.”

  Maestro listens stoically and nods after José finishes speaking. He knows what needs to be done.

  An hour later, José and I start on the path to the Pachitea River, where Francisco Pizarro will take us by boat to Maple’s dock. The rain has stopped, and we set a quick pace down the familiar trail through jungle I have come to know well.

  Halfway to the Pachitea, an unfamiliar sight stops me dead in my tracks: a large patch of jungle—gone. All that remains of the massive, awe-inspiring trees are piles of sawdust and wood chips around huge stumps.

  I stand silently at the edge of the clearing, looking out at the ruin before me. In less than a year, a large part of the Boiling River’s jungle has disappeared.

  José inspects the scene. Anger and sadness welling in his voice, he says, “There must have been a number of good lumber trees here. If not, all this would have been burned off already. I’m sure that is coming next.”

  Thermal cameras present the safest, fastest, and most reliable way to take temperature measurements at the Boiling River.

  14

  Paititi

  It’s May 2014, the evening of my first day back at Mayantuyacu.
I sit under the maloca’s electric lights, preparing for my fieldwork. My laptop charges to the sputtering sounds of Mayantuyacu’s electric generator. Maestro says the spirits don’t like the noise.

  I have no doubt that one day Mayantuyacu will offer twenty-four-hour electricity, phone lines, and Internet access. These things will make life easier, more efficient, and more comfortable for the community, and also greatly help the monitoring and conservation efforts to protect the area. Still I can’t help feeling a little apprehensive about how this will change life here.

  The nine months since my last visit have brought drastic changes—the very changes that José predicted. The jungle is disappearing.

  Thanks to Google’s support I now have high-resolution satellite imagery of the area around the Boiling River. A colleague from Google warned me that the images weren’t recent, and that deforestation had likely advanced significantly since they were taken. He was absolutely right.

  These images, from 2004, 2005, 2010, and 2011, show a sobering reality: clear-burnings, pastureland, and deforestation spreading with each passing year. They still didn’t prepare me for this 2014 journey into the jungle. Nine months ago the trip from Pucallpa to Mayantuyacu required a two-hour drive, a thirty-minute pekepeke ride, and an hour-long walk through the jungle. This year, deforestation made the trip a comfortable three-hour drive. The jungle along the way has been replaced by pastureland, dotted with the charred remains of large trees and a few grazing cows.

  It’s painful to compare the satellite images to an aerial photograph from the 1940s, when the area was almost entirely covered by jungle. Still, I can’t help but notice that the area controlled by the oil company has remained virtually unchanged, despite heavy development.