Where the mosquitoes are as big as dogs

Aeroplanes often have to delay landing at Iquitos airport because of vultures, they say. The vultures` interest lie in the town`s rubbish heap, which is sidling ever closer to the airstrip. Something will have to be done soon, they say.

Iquitos is a jungle town that lies sweatily on the shores of the river Amazon in northern Peru. The vultures probably don`t realise it but the town can only be reached by air or river - there is no road. And this lack of road access has turned the town into something that`s not quite Peruvian.

Perhaps it`s the manic motocars (motorbike taxis) that smack of Ho Chi Minh City, or maybe the searingly hot and humid climate that feels so strange after the thin air of the Andes. Or maybe it`s the pack of old American men with shady pasts and pretty, young Peruana wives who call this place paradise.

And so we go not into the lap of luxury

Above: Base camp

Left: The assault course to our blue-canvassed jungle toilet

Authentic, we said, when asked about the kind of jungle experience we were after - the reason we were in Iquitos in the first place. No gringo sheep trail. No caimans in jail ponds or villagers in "jungle clothing" performing dances whose origin lie in Hollywood. The real thing was what we wanted.

So we get authentic and we get it real - so real and authentic it verges on the chaotic. It`s the rainy season, after all. Which means that not only do the water levels in the jungle rise dramatically, but so do the numbers of mosquitoes - all in direct proportion to the drop in gringo numbers. Just the way we want it.

Above: Levi (age 15) removed his trousers to catch us a tarantula. He shouldn´t have.

Below: In bed, not with Madonna

Luiz, our guide from Iquitos is great: intelligent, good English, a steady hand on the canoe paddle and a solid knowledge of jungle animals, plants and trees. But we also need a local guide - our jungle villa is 4 hours by bus/river boat from Iquitos.

Enrique is not there when we arrive at our base, but luckily his youthful brother-in-law Levi is. He`s been a guide for 5 years he says with quiet pride. And how old are you, we respond politely to his enquiry about our age. Fifteen, he says gravely.

Our villa is a rickety house on stilts, our bedroom door hangs on one hinge and the furniture consists of two hammocks that Luiz strings up for us. The only nod to luxury is a mosquito net each.

The long-drop toilet cubicle is a canvas affair that is reached by wading in Wellington boots through knee-high flood water (which we suspect is not necessarily securely separated from the sewage affluent that is our toilet). It also has a resident rat.

On day one Coups slips and falls on her ass in the water on the way back from the toilet. I have never seen her move so fast. It`s dangerous in the water, says Levi, there are snakes and scorpions. Maybe even anacondas. Levi`s father died of a snake bite.

The choice is clear: either we don`t ablute for three further days or we don`t fall. Biological need makes us opt for not falling.

But the jungle is fantastic

Yes it is. It is beautiful, exotic and filled with unknown, intriguing smells, noises and sights. Luiz identifies one bird after tree after plant - from giant lilly pads to black-collared hawks to macaws flying in the distance and flying fish that fall in our canoe. Levi, the veteran guide age 15, catches us a tarantula and Enrique shows us how to catch piranhas.

And they struggle valiantly to get us through the wall of water hyacinths that are strangling the lesser-used waterways of Amazonia.
Above: Fishing for piranha, but not catching.

Below: Catching, but only just

The river dolphins - grey ones that once came from the ocean and the strange-looking pink ones that originated in the jungle - keeps us mesmerises for hours. We paddle up and down the Ukayali river, a major tributary of the Amazon.

And we watch the locals wash and play in the river, from which they also drink and into which their sewage also seeps. And, in the middle of our 4-day stint, we too gather a bucket of water from the river. And we stick our heads into the bucket and wash our hair and upper bodies and we feel wondrously clean.

Above: Luiz with stingray that´s lost its sting.

Below: Lunching with mossies

Losing the fight with the mossies
The mosquitoes are large and ferocious. And much more healthy than the canines in the jungle. A healthy dog in the Amazon is only emaciated. Most have severe mange (our hearts constrict at the sight of mutts without any hair whatsoever) and all have worms and a number of other parasites.

We are full of holes - the mossies are relentless. They stop for no Goretex, Deet or sleeping net. We itch, scratch and slap our way through our jungle walk, and in temperatures in the mid-thirties and 80% humidity we sit on top of our lunch fire in our Goretexes because the bastards keep coming at us.
Above: Jungle Jane. Below: Sunset

Never has a woman been so glad to sit on a flush toilet
So all`s well that ends well - apart from the fact that we now have an ex-camera after Amanda dropped our lovely digital Canon into the Ukayali.

But even that we overcome by buying a cheap Kodak for 48 soles ($16). We`ll see what electronic delights Lima has on offer.

And then there`s always the maple syrup and bacon pancakes at the Yellow Rose of Texas, whose Texan owner had a role in the Motorcycle Diaries and is married to a local half his age.

Iquitos is that kind of place.

Trailing the Incas

It pays to tackle challenges well prepared and with a healthy arsenal of self-doubt and foreboding. Armed with dismal levels of fitness, chest infections and dodgy boots and despite anticipating lung failure crawling up Dead Woman´s Pass and ensuing helicopter evacuations, we completed the 4-day Inca Trail intact and in good spirits.













Pics: The scene of unrequited love; Amanda urgently needs a toilet

A story of spurned love in the mountains
And what a hike. Along with 14 fellow walkers (and 21 porters, 1 cook and two guides) we start off on day 1 muttering about the rain and cursing our cheap ponchos, but soon succumb to the beautiful mountain scenery.

When, during our first lunch of perfectly prepared fresh trout, a lonely mutt proposes passion to an unsuspecting and sleepy piglet, we get an inkling of the delights awaiting us on the trail. (The dog only gives up on his love overtures - imagine a lot of air humping and high-pitched squealing - when an indignant mother pig shows him the door in no uncertain terms.)

Dead Woman´s Pass - a piece of cake
(As uttered by Victor, our guide)
Our experience of walking up a volcano in Chile stands us in good stead as we do the five-hour walk (rising in altitude from 3,100m to 4,200m) in slow motion, ensuring that the heart rate never gets too high and therefore not needing to stop apart from official breaks, including elevenses of tea, bread, cheese and popcorn seated at table.

Porters, laden to the T and preferring rubber sandles to walking boots, zoom past us to set up our sleeping and dining tents and prepare 3-course meals (lunch AND dinner). We´re not exactly roughing it.

And so we walk on, amazed by the number of Inca ruins, the variety of orchids and the lushness of the cloud forest (we´re pretty close to the jungle). And the pain we do feel - 99% of the walk is either severely up or severely down, with very little flat - we douse in laughter and beer. Brits Barney and Rebecca (in month 11 of their world trip) convince the assortment of Dutchies, South Africans (yep, two from Green Point), Canadians and Americans that all English people indulge in group sex all the time, and are forced into numerous renditions of Kumbayah (spelling??) My Lord.

A matter of honour


The last morning we´re up at 4am and in the dark man the control point (allowing us entry into the Machu Picchu reserve) half an hour before it opens. We follow Victor´s orders and lock arms and raise our walking sticks to a queue-jumping guide and his clients from a rival company. (On the verge of violence, we are convinced by Victor that the offenders are there legitimately. See pic)

Once through the control point the race is on and we virtually run for nearly two hours to the sun gate in pissing rain. A good thing, too, because it means we´re the first group to observe Machu Picchu entirely covered in clouds. But the sun makes its mark as we walk down and all is revealed.

Pic: Clouds rolling in herald another wet night

It is spectacular. One wonders at the mind that found this remote spot among the incredibly high and inhospitable cucumber-like mountains and conceived of a sophisticated city. And then disappeared after only a few hundres years.

Pic: Nobody does terraces like the Incas

Pic: A lucky dog (luck ain`t a thing that comes to many perros in S America) in Aguas Calientes`main shopping drag

Cathedral, Plaza de Armas, Cusco

We conquered the World`s Most Dangerous Road

And so do thousands of other people every year (some of them even older and porkier than me), but here are some pics to show you how we defied death to tell the story. (See Breathless in Bolvia below for more details on the road that descends about 1,500m)

Left: Pacifying Pachamama (earth goddess with 100% alcohol to ensure a safe ride. She did a fairly good job but for a lapse of concentration. Right: The easy bit on the tarmac: Coups zooming down at the speed of light.

And me going along at a stately pace post-fall:

Best not to look down some times:

And so we rode ourselves around the bends:

After the ride, some fashion shots: