Quito es bonito...

What's the worst thing you can be close to on a plane?  A snoring woman?  A crying baby?  An opinionated Englishman?  No.  A badly behaved child.  And the flight to Quito would provide a young man who could give The Omen's Damien a run for his money.  I first saw him in the airport; clambering everywhere he shouldn't, demanding, complaining.  Trying not to judge, I thought through the possible causes of such behaviour and managed to find a more benevolent viewpoint towards the little chap.  As long as he wasn't near me on the plane I'd be OK.  I should have known better.  

As they usually do, this tyrant began slowly; pressing the call buttons, kicking the chair in front, turning round to gape at me with his tubby face.  My forgiving attitude soon evapoprated when the reason for this behaviour became clear.  Lack of effective parenting.  Jo Frost would have had plenty to get her teeth into but we were stuck with this brat and no Supernanny in sight.  For a while, the most effective technique to silence him was a finger to the lips from the three of us in the row behind but he soon saw through that.  Every one of his shouts, thrown peanuts and punches on the headrest in front was rewarded with cuddles from his mother.  Finally, the child began pressing the call button so frequently that a hostess appeared and gave the little tyke a firm yet gentle telling-off.  Not difficult, pretty obvious really.  Thank you hostess, I love you.

We arrived in Quito after eleven on that Friday night, tired and ready for bed.  However, the nightlife in La Mariscal district clearly had something to offer and we headed to 'Cats' bar for a nightcap.  On entering we were greeted by the owner and offered a cosy table to sit at.  Several beers, mojitos and good old G&Ts later we were still in the bar loving the music and lively atmosphere.  We all agreed to move to Quito instantly.  It's hard to recall a better welcome to a city.

Nuns and grubs...

Arriving in Leticita/Tabatinga/Santa Rosa once more we booked into Los Delfines.  This hostel run by ex-nuns was literally a godsend after our journey.  We were now faced with two options.  Option #1 - Continue up the river in a Peruvian boat to Iquitos.  Not an attractive prospect.  The recent aquatic adventures had left deep scars within the group and the mention of a floating bathtub as a futher means of transport caused the onset of a panic attack.  With the promise of worse food, slower speeds and devastating sanitary conditions we looked to the gods to help us out.  And they did, with Option #2 - a flight outta there from the airport in Leticia on the Colombian side of the border.  Although expensive, this was the only way we could maintain our sanity.  All we had to do was select a destination.  Difficult choice with the South American continent at your disposal but I feel we rose to the task.  The target was the Galápagos Islands!  Meanwhile we had a night out in Leticia to enjoy.

This is the same Tres Fronteras I'd spent New Year's Eve in.  Previously I'd been in Tabatinga on the Brazilian side bored out of my tree with nowhere decent to go.  If only I'd known that within spitting distance, on the Colombian side of the border, were restaurants and bars coming out of your ears.  We headed out in the warm torrential rain to indulge ourselves in one of them.  The place we chose was donned out like some kind of jungle hunting lodge.  Glancing at the menu we decided to shoot from the hip and selected mojojoi, having no idea what that might be.  One of our party unwittingly ordered pirhana.  The result wasn't pretty, although it was tasty if you could get over its evil stare.

The mojojoi was another story.  Major Les Hiddins, a.k.a. The Bush Tucker Man would understand.  If, like me, you spent too much time in your youth watching imported TV programmes on Saturday mornings, you might remember this legend.  In his show he would tour the Australian outback hunting for roots and insects which he could eat.  There was one that always seemed to rear its ugly head, literally.  The witchetty grub.  This plump moth larva was constantly being grilled and eaten by Major Hiddins and it was his method I used to tackle this culinary challenge.  Grabbing the tubby little morsel by the head I placed its entire body in my mouth and ripped the little sucker in two with a swift slice of my incisors.  It wasn't very pleasant.  The worse thing was the amount of fluid contained within the leathery skin.  It burst forth into my mouth like an exploding water bomb.  Once the hot liquid had found its way down my throat I was left with the skin.  Surprisingly, the texture and flavour reminded me a little of chicken.  But a hideous chicken that I would never choose to eat.  With hindsight I am disturbed and proud to think that, through the digestive process, such a little beast now forms part of my own body.  Long live the grub.

      

The Rise of Captain Amazon...

Necessity is the mother of creativity and clearly we were in need of something to help us through the second half of our journey on the boat.  A short spell on dry land was to provide the solution.  During yet another interminable hiatus in a nondescript Amazonian town, we decided to go on a mission for strong booze.  The boat's stock of weak lager was simply not up to the job, we sought after rum.  In a small shop close to the dock we discovered our booty in the form of a pale rum with an impressive identity - 'Captain Amazonas' - we were saved!  

As usual, we spent the day sweating cobs, swatting flies and swaying to and fro until the sun set and the stars began to emerge out of an indigo sky.  As our core temperatures returned to safe levels we made our way to the upper deck.  In the cooler evening air, with the dark shores of the forest flowing by, this point in the day was the one time the boat excelled itself.  This fine setting was to provide the backdrop for the inaugural appearance of Captain Amazonas.

Grabbing a plastic table and chairs we embarked upon an evening of card games and drinking.  By the time we were playing the ubiquitous game, shithead, we were well on our way to being three sheets to the wind.  The rum was efficacious, easing away all the pressures of life on the river Amazon.  A few timely additions of Skol lager into the mix resulted in a trio of gringoes making far more noise than the rest of the passengers combined.  The pinnacle of our antics was our invasion of the bridge.  With the boat moored and the crew resting, we took the chance to behave like a troop of monkeys behind the wheel of our fluvial prison.  Mutiny!  We had found our release, the rest of the journey would be prove to be plain sailing.

Rice, beans and sunsets...

The days on the boat were long.  At first it didn't dock at all, it just kept on ploughing upstream.  The incessant noise of the engine became such a part of life that, when it stopped to allow the passage of a smaller boat, the void it left was tangible.  The same scenery rolled past as before; endless trees, huge clouds, indistinct villages.  The heat was intense, already hot by nine, it built throughout the day making physical action extremely uncomfortable.  There was no escape from the other passengers, the only token privacy to be found was in the hammocks.

Visits to the toilet had to be kept brief, the air in the cubicles was acrid and burnt the throat.  A shower became a life-and-death ordeal as the sun turned the small metal rooms into furnaces.  In hard times such as these food can usually lift the spirits but here we were back in a floating comedor once more.  Rice, beans and spaghetti - always.  Three staples cooked in river water supplemented by meat of some kind:  fish (the Good), beef (the Bad) and the substance purporting to be mince but clearly gristle painted brown (the Ugly).  Add to this the newly acquired habit the captain had developed of very, very long pauses in docks during the hottest part of the day.  Endless amounts of sugar, pop, and crisps were lifted off the craft at an excruciatingly slow pace.  It seemed there were going to be a flood of kids' birthday parties that weekend.

Only half way through the journey and it was obvious the trip wasn't everyone's idea of fun.  Tempers were beginning to fray, spirits were sinking and the temperature was rising.  The sunsets were to die for but we needed somthing more - what we needed was a hero.