February 22,1996

At the ranch the names lack meaning - Peru, Iquitos, Amazon, Cusco and Lima. But leaving a 747 to enter a rusty tin roofed, open air terminal housing customs for a major South American power sets the stage for new ground.

The tropics mean excesses to me. A jump-off into dark rums and black tobacco and sheet iron too hot to touch in the middle of the day. A place of raging jungle fevers and insidious fungus; a way to hide out from the rigid laws of the outside world. Peru doesn't require a visa for U.S. citizens. Important jefes inspected the first waves of baggage; however, as the lines lengthened, we were waved on to the final stamping of passports. Outside, the only taxicabs were motorcycles with a back seat to fit a couple of people. Two decrepit school buses belonging to the principal outfitters picked up the main body of Americans.

Iquitos is an island city some 300 feet above sea level. There are no roads, only boats and airplanes for transportation. We hit town in the midst of the big Saturday night celebrations. Much like the cantina scene in Mexico, the din of the revelers and the milling of their drunken dancing rose above the sound of the creaky old bus.

At breakfast, an American biologist from an amphibian research facility on the Amazon said: "On my first visit 30 years ago, Iquitos claimed 10,000 people. The next decade numbers rose to 40,000, laying the foundation for the present size of 400,000. River people," he told us, "use a plant growing wild in the jungle for birth control; however, like other parts of the world, religion creates a problem."

Demography is a sensitive topic around a father of eight children, so I changed the subject by introducing my traveling companion, Harry Pearson, as a professional engineer and my personal navigator on the river trip, leaving in a few hours. Like a lot of doctors of this and that, who spend hours rating the strength of frog legs against the resiliency of lily pads, he wasn't interested in our plans or Harry's engineering career. Harry was in a rush to go exchange money before the black market traders became too busy selling drugs. The doctor left without saying goodbye.

Sunday was quiet until we reached the main plaza. On the far side, four platoons of military and an honor guard were standing at parade rest in full dress uniform. Dignitaries milled around a microphone, but didn't speak a word. All of sudden, the troops came to attention and marched off swinging their arms in unison in a silent goose step cadence. A civilian tested the sound system, "Uno, dos, tres;" the flags remained folded and pressed tight against the chests of the honor guards. I figure the ceremony was a silent tribute to an unknown soldier and fair warning for a gringo not to go around asking questions in a plaza under guard of an army packing automatic rifles.

We boarded the boat at noon. The craft accommodates 16 passengers and nine crew members. Only six clients showed up, all Americans. Harry talked the captain into giving us an extra cabin. All those shots required for foreign travel cause the nasal passages to restrict in the same way a slide works on a trombone. So Harry was able to throw a lot of feeling into asking for a bunk away from my chemically induced snoring.

Boats sailing the tributaries of the Amazon are of modest standards. Baths are shared; 12-inch fans stir the humid air in the cabins. All secondary water comes direct from the river. Compared to the rusty tubs offered in the Galapagos Islands, the "Discover" was a luxury liner.

Harry knew the cook from a previous trip down river. Her reputation is good. Basic supplies come on board at the local market in Iquitos. Chicken and eggs are bartered from the villagers for cigarettes and T-shirts. Also, fruits from the jungle, like papaya, coconut and bananas, are supplied by the natives.

River sailing is a hard life, especially on the Equator. The hands become strong from rubbing on repellent and sun screen. Climbing up and down off the top bunk builds the shoulder muscles, and wading in the slush of the jungle strengthens the calves and ankles. Every time we crossed improvised log bridges or narrow gang planks, the crew members stopped to watch. Nimble-footed porters, unloading cargo off boats, were particularly interested in seeing me clamber up muddy banks that they descend carrying 12 bricks or two stalks of bananas tied to a sling.

Machismo curses the young man. I'd accept the lifeline thrown by an old granny if it'd take me across a bad place. Lots of times when I was looking through my binoculars, I was actually steadying myself, hoping I didn't slip off at the next crossing ...