Grand theft barco...

Designed by Gustave Eiffel

Walking the streets of Iquitos in the searing early afternoon heat, I find myself a little grumpy.  They say you get back what you put out and, sure enough, I was approached by someone I thought I recognised, if only by reputation.  An English man, around 40 years old, slim and cleanly dressed, approached me with a desperate look in his eyes.  He asked if I spoke English and was relieved when I said I did as he'd spoken to over thirty people that morning.  Instantly I was reminded of an article I'd seen on the hotel noticeboard warning of a man of his appearance conning people.  His strategy was to tell tourists he had been attacked and needed money for medical treatment, a ruse supported by a permanently bent little finger.  "I think I've read about you," I said to him, coldly.  He looked flustered and, after I'd told him the article was about some English guy asking for money, I said, "And how can I help?"  He muttered some excuse and left. One-nil to me.  But the score wouldn´t stay that way for long.

The dock of the bay

The day before I'd made some enquiries and discovered there was a boat to Santa Rosa, on the border with Colombia and Brazil, leaving Iquitos at 7pm.  To ensure a good spot on the boat I headed to the port at half past three.  This massive flat-bottomed cruiser was ancient, a rust bucket patched together with welded steel plates.  The lower deck was reserved for cargo and had a roll-on/roll-off  ramp which could surmount the muddy river bank.  An essential feature when delivering to villages downstream without ports or docks.  The upper decks were for passengers.  Two spaces each measuring 20m long by 8m wide were to provide accomodation for up to 100 people.  I slung my hammock at one end of the top deck with a wall on one side where I could keep an eye on my bags.  The toilet was a safe distance away, my second concern, given the stains on the bowl which looked like they'd been there since before my arrival on the planet.

After

Before

As I waited the five hours until departure - delayed, naturally -  the boat began to fill with all kinds of passengers.  I remained the only Gringo aboard as the deck transformed from an open, steel space to something resembling the operating tents from M*A*S*H as the tarpaulin sides were lowered.  As I waited a nun, who was selling cosmetics, warned me to keep an eye on my bags as many are stolen from the few tourists that travel this route. I bought my ticket from a young guy with nail varnish on who had welcomed me on board two hours previously.  About £20 for the two night journey including meals.  Maybe his particular shade of red should have warned me something was amiss.

At last, my Spanish is good enough to more or less understand locals in conversation.  First I meet Roberto, a travelling artesan with bags bigger than a house and advice aplenty.  Next to me are slung two hammocks belonging to Henryk and Suleyka, a teacher and his wife whose help was to prove invaluable.  A short while before departure as the boat was close to overflowing, an older couple arrived and slung their hammocks up between mine and the wall.  "¿Hay sufficiente espacio?" I asked but to no avail, up went the swinging beds.  Parts of her hammock were so close we would be bumping all night.  I thought it'd be some time before I slept with a woman again but it looked like a cosy journey ahead.  A little old for my usual taste but there's always a first time to be a toyboy.

The Victor Manuel

We were woken at 11.30 by the crew checking tickets.  Mine was a fake.  I´d been conned after all.  One all.  Grumpy from being woken up, pissed off at being conned, I had to hand over another £20.  The only thing to do was chalk it up to experience, smile, and remind myself not to get smug or complacent.  A tricky business when there are no offices selling tickets, the crew have no ID or uniforms and anyone and his family can get on and off the boat as they please.  More vilgilance needed!