The Fourth Time I thought I would die: Tarapoto

OK. When I think about different ways to die, there is one that sounds worse than all of them. Not an earthquake or being being bit by a shark, which only kills six people a year, whereas forty-three folks die each year taking a selfie. Don’t ask me how I know. What scares me? It’s dying of boredom at Suncrest Hills or at an adult diaper day-care while making crafts out of raisins. That’s what scares me. So last week, when I found myself wading across a river with a local fisherman in Tarapoto? I just sighed, Oh well.

Let me back up. Tarapoto, Peru, located in San Martin, is a hiking and birding heaven, and also has more Ayahuasca huts than Starbucks. So, if you want to scramble your brains, this is where to go. But I went for the birds. I wanted to see a Paradise tanager, a multi-color bird that’s reminiscent of bell-bottoms I owned in the seventies. I wanted to see a toucan with a multi-color tongue. I wanted to see something other than a stack of papers to grade and an exploding inbox.

I stayed at the Puqio Ecolodge on the outskirts of Tarapoto in the village of San Antonio. The vibe was cool, a mix of hip and jungle, monkeys entertaining the guests as well as a resident dog and cat, plus wifi strong enough for a two hour Zoom call. My room had a spare bed, AKA, a hammock, and no door. Just a hole in the floor.

The night hummed with monkeys howling and a cacophony of bugs buzzing. So that wimoweh song about the quiet jungle where the lion sleeps? Hogwash! The jungle is louder than Lima, but a good loud without motorcycles, until I found out that the howls weren’t monkeys but bats!

The cat (which frequented my room), along with the hotel dogs, were amused by the monkeys. Daniel, the owner, would leave bananas near the window. They would just stare and wait for a monkey to grab it, the same way I’d stare at my Uncle Neil’s cuckoo clock door as kid.

Anyway, Daniel suggested I hike to Huacamaillo Falls, since they were only a short distance away. One caveat: I didn’t bring my hiking polls, only my binoculars.

“You can borrow a stick,” the Daniel smiled. He was young, bilingual, part carpenter, part adventurer, and a damn good coffee maker. “But let me tell you, the river was groaning last night. Instead of crossing the river, you might have to take the emergency route.”

“What do you mean, cross a river?”

“Only three or for times,” Daniel added with a shoulder shrug.

OK. This is the point in my story where I should’ve decided to sign up for a group tour in town. But no. I didn’t. As I said, I don’t want to die making crafts out of raisins or searching for the puzzle piece of Kennedy’s nose or bickering at an ice cream social or bellyaching that my eggs were made wrong.

So I walked to the head of the trail with a big stick, it being a bit desolate, no one at the gate to to greet me except the monkey in a poster. The path rambled along the river which was right out of a beer commercial.

I followed the red marker arrows until they dead-ended at the river. I shook my head. This was stupid. This is not a hike to dare alone. I don’t want to die that day. I wanted to use my binoculars and see a white throated hummingbird. I spotted a sign for the emergency route, but that didn’t look much better, the path leading into a scene right out Jurassic Park.

As I was about to turn around. I saw someone on the other side of the river. Someone waving at me. It was a local guy, a fisherman, all brawn, with a net over his shoulder, green socks, wading boots and a knitted hat on his head. While I don’t know much Spanish and even less Quechwa, I understood that he wanted me to see the falls. He was going there to catch some fish. He’d accompany me for a token fee.

It was a scene out of Deliverance, minus Burt Reynolds and the squealing pig. The water was about a foot deep in most places and I’ll spare you the details about the deeper places. I gripped the fisherman with one hand and my stick with the other, as we crossed the river one step at a time. The fisherman knew the turns in the river where the current wouldn’t upend you, or splash out his cigarette. Yes, he was smoking.

Once we crossed the river, then another, then a few more and a few deeper, the fisherman dumped the water out of his boots, lit another cigarette, and I’d say another prayer.

A few crossings, monkeys, and colorful frogs later, I could hear the roaring of the falls.

The fisherman cast his net, but came up with nothing. A two hour trek and he had nothing to feed his family. Well, actually, he had caught one thing: Me!

The price he told me was to get to the falls. I’d have to pay double if I wanted help getting back down. I laughed.

There was no way I could cross rivers without his help. Maybe he would have if I didn’t tag along. While I agreed to pay him, apit formed in my stomach. I realized I didn’t have that much cash.It was at the hotel.

“Do you have Yape?” I asked. Yape is an electronic method of payment in Peru.

“Yes,” he nodded.

But in order for Yape to work, I needed a phone signal and there weren’t many in the middle of nowhere. We walked back to the head of the trail, the fisherman chipping off some pyrite crystals from a rock along the way He smiled and gave the sparkling bits to me. What a cook souvenir.

He pointed out the sign to a local Ayahuasca shaman.

Tarapoto is known for shamans and Ayahuasca, not Starbucks.

When we got to the head of the trail, the fisherman gave me his name and Yape number so I could pay when I had a signal. Magno. As Magno and I parted ways, he to his home and me searching for a few data bars, the Fruedian slip happened. I accidentally deleted Magno’s fisherman’s Yape number.

I felt horrible even though Magno doubled his price. It was fun and I had a good story along with a pocket full of shiny rocks.

So I ran into the little village screaming his name like a mad woman.

“Magno!”

His green socks popped out of a house. The house was cinder block, like so many houses I’ve seen in so many sad places. No windows, just an open door with a large woman squished in a plastic chair fanning herself. Inside, there was a motorcycle on one side of the room, a table on the other. On the wall, an oversized calendar and pictures of two kids and yellowing newspaper pages of fashion models. In the corner, an alter to Mary, not any different than the ancestor shrines in homes in Hanoi. Just bananas instead of incense.

The woman gave me a banana as I paid Magno, finally, their home in range of cell towers.

As I left Magno’s home, in my way to Lima, a city as foreign to him as walking through Alice’s magic mirror, I couldn’t help but wonder: is it a blessing or a curse to walk in his waders and live a simple life? He’s probably never had a bad day for ruining a WORDLE winning streak.

If you visit Tarapoto, be sure to stop at Aconabikh. So many birds that will forever be branded in the inside of my eyelids. The zebra striped Magpie tanager, hummingbirds, a flutter of color in the air

But if you go, hire a guide,, for birding or for hiking. A guide will know when and where to see certain species, like this peep show viewing of the Cinerous Tinamou. I didn’t see a toucan but I did see a Amazon kingfisher cruise along the rambling river.

What’s to eat in Tarapoto? Ceviche. I guess some fisherman are catching fish.

So, I didn’t die. I had a good time. And hopefully you enjoyed reading this.