Easter
I'm stretched out on my narrow therm a rest, on the dirty metal floor of our launch boat home, Henry IV. I am one of two gringos on this entire boat, and as I walk around I feel the eyes of the other passengers following me, staring without shame. They don't see a lot of white skin and green eyes in these parts.
This is a Peruvian boat filled with Peruvian passengers. They are not just Peruvians, they are the stalk of the jungle, the people of the wide brown waters and great green rainforest. Their conversation is of fish and fishing, of rain patterns, of the mosquitos and malaria outbreaks. They are short and muscular, they are a sun deepened brown with dark brown eyes and even darker hair.
One thing I notice about these people is that they are remarkably patient. A stop in a village that should take ten minutes drags into an hour, but no one complains, they just hang out. Small children will swing in their hammocks quietly for hours, entertained only by looking around the launch and observing others. I wish this patience were contagious. I am not very patient.
I'm up in my hammock, then wandering around the hopelessly crowded deck, then stretched out again on my mat on the floor. I can't sit still.
I am reading a practically useless but entertaining book about a guy who wandered the Appalachian Trail in various sections. His lengthy descriptions of sleeping in hotels with air conditioning and television, washing clothes in machines, and eating Little Debbies and hot dogs are tiring.
There are three older men sitting on a bench near my feet, involved in speculations about our arrival time in Pucallpa tomorrow. One says 5:00 am, the other puts in his vote for noon. Another says, no, no, much later, say, maybe 4:00pm, or 5:00, even. I wish for sooner rather than later, but it's evening time now, and we have at least 20 more hours to go.
A small child dashes down the corridor between hammocks, stark naked. His mother follows him in hot pursuit, his clothing in one hand. She deftly dodges hammocks and people in her chase.
The air is heavy with the sounds and smells of not only the hunmanity on this boat, but also practically a zoo of animals that has been smuggled on board--turtles, chickens, ducks, monkeys, parrots, dogs, and a handful of jungle rodents that will be roasted on spits in Pucallpa for dinner tomorrow.
We're picking up momentum after a quick village stop when an older gentleman plunks a hard coconut down on the floor in front of my head. (Before I came to Peru I thought coconuts were dark brown and furry, but here they are actually a slick shiny hardness with a golden yellow color). I look up at him from my book, surprised.
He says, "I just picked some coconuts outside by the port, and I would like to share with you and your brother."
I am yet a little bewildered. I manage to grin and say, "Thanks! I love coconut!"
Which is true. I do love it.
This is a Peruvian boat filled with Peruvian passengers. They are not just Peruvians, they are the stalk of the jungle, the people of the wide brown waters and great green rainforest. Their conversation is of fish and fishing, of rain patterns, of the mosquitos and malaria outbreaks. They are short and muscular, they are a sun deepened brown with dark brown eyes and even darker hair.
One thing I notice about these people is that they are remarkably patient. A stop in a village that should take ten minutes drags into an hour, but no one complains, they just hang out. Small children will swing in their hammocks quietly for hours, entertained only by looking around the launch and observing others. I wish this patience were contagious. I am not very patient.
I'm up in my hammock, then wandering around the hopelessly crowded deck, then stretched out again on my mat on the floor. I can't sit still.
I am reading a practically useless but entertaining book about a guy who wandered the Appalachian Trail in various sections. His lengthy descriptions of sleeping in hotels with air conditioning and television, washing clothes in machines, and eating Little Debbies and hot dogs are tiring.
There are three older men sitting on a bench near my feet, involved in speculations about our arrival time in Pucallpa tomorrow. One says 5:00 am, the other puts in his vote for noon. Another says, no, no, much later, say, maybe 4:00pm, or 5:00, even. I wish for sooner rather than later, but it's evening time now, and we have at least 20 more hours to go.
A small child dashes down the corridor between hammocks, stark naked. His mother follows him in hot pursuit, his clothing in one hand. She deftly dodges hammocks and people in her chase.
The air is heavy with the sounds and smells of not only the hunmanity on this boat, but also practically a zoo of animals that has been smuggled on board--turtles, chickens, ducks, monkeys, parrots, dogs, and a handful of jungle rodents that will be roasted on spits in Pucallpa for dinner tomorrow.
We're picking up momentum after a quick village stop when an older gentleman plunks a hard coconut down on the floor in front of my head. (Before I came to Peru I thought coconuts were dark brown and furry, but here they are actually a slick shiny hardness with a golden yellow color). I look up at him from my book, surprised.
He says, "I just picked some coconuts outside by the port, and I would like to share with you and your brother."
I am yet a little bewildered. I manage to grin and say, "Thanks! I love coconut!"
Which is true. I do love it.
posted by Ansley at 1:56 PM
2 Comments:
Ansley, It's so nice to hear from you again and to imagine swinging in a hammock on the river boat.
Please tell me that you are not describing Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods...because if so--"useless"?! HE'S HILARIOUS!
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