Pishtacos Explained

Disembarking was going to be the half way point in my travel day. I was feeling a little pressure because my entry stamp was about to expire . . . but I am a long way from the border - any border with Peru. I did not want to go to Lima for a renewal. I was pretty sure there were only minor fines involved with an overstay . . . but I was told about those nearly 3 months ago. I asked about my entry stamp at the Satipo tourist office but seeing how they get no tourism they were not much help. I loaded my bike in the back of the ubiquitous Toyota Corolla station wagon taxi with 8 other people (4 front, 4 back) and made my way to San Francisco. I reassembled my bike and load in the street and wended my way to the part of town with transportation companies. Almost immediately a young man asked if I was going to Ayacucho? He had a nice Toyota Hi-Lux (made in Argentina), the price was a standard 50 soles, he left in 30 minutes, limited to 4 passengers, and I got the front seat . . . deal. I ate a quick menu, washed up in a bathroom and we were off. This was my first extended vehicle ride, outside of boats on the trip - I regretted not riding back up to the highlands but then again I had business to take care of and if all went well I would have plenty of riding to do through the rest of Peru. And my bike and I had not been this comfy in a long while for the 5 hour ride.
The road was in good shape but narrow as it climbed up back up onto the plateau for 8-9000 feet. Occasional fog dropped visibility to nil but was generally passing and the chance for conversation in a comfortable seat was welcomed. I answered a lot of questions about my trip, personal life, women, and life in the United States, as well as my perceptions of other countries I had passed through.
Initially, conversing with the driver made me a little nervous because I did not want to distract him from his task at hand. But turns out he did this 8 hour round trip at least 5 days a week. He and another passenger would comment on what turns were next, time to the next town, how many switch backs to a summit - I was in good hands.

I took the opportunity to ask about pishtacos . . . peopled wondered if I was a pishtaco? That very day on the river the term had come up in conversation with the woman who wanted to give me her pretty daughter. Some people are seriously scared of me and I wanted to know what the hell this pishtaco thing is? Over the course of 20+ years of traveling through remote areas of the Andes children have run from me screaming, whole communities hide, people lock themselves in their homes, peopled have trembled at my approach, people run off the road to wait for me to pass. So I asked, "what is a Pishtaco and do they exist"? Everyone emphatically said yes pishtacos can be a problem. In fact, there was a pishtaco in the area recently but they killed him . . . well, good to know that was taken care of . . . shit. I had gathered that a pishtaco was a tall, thin, white man. I never think of myself as tall but I am in the Andes and people are short. A pishtaco is a supernatural to, at least, degenerate being that kills people to drain their fat or steal organs (sometimes to eat). An Andean version of the vampire myth that is reproduced across the globe - but no one is making cute teen angsty movies about pishtacos. The pishtaco myth is used to keep children close to home. Definite cultural factors play into this myth. The Inca valued fat and had a deity dedicated to fat. Fatness is also considered a sign of good health. The Spaniard practice of dressing their wounds on the battlefield with the fat of the enemy dead mortified the Andean people possibly giving rise to the myth of the pishtaco. Pishtay means to slice or behead in Quechua and a lot of Andeans died those deaths. A quick You Tube search churns out a bundle of videos.

I liked this one for it Chaplin-esque approach but it is parodying the myth - reflecting an urban response I receive from people with a degree of education. However, the myth is deeply rooted and sincerely believed - enough so that I discontinued cleaning my nails with my particularly wicked looking lock back knife . . . unless I really wanted to left alone. The current versions of the myth are centered around the current relationship between the developed world (United States particularly) and undeveloped Peru (a Peruvian obsession). Recent variants common to my experience are: 1. organs are harvested for the international market 2. fat is harvested to start jet airplane engines 3. fat is used to lubricate machines. I have been asked, "how much does a liter of human fat cost in the United States?," when two seconds earlier we were discussing gold prices! However, this myth has even hindered food aid programs due to worries that their children were being fattened for slaughter . . . Shamefully, the Peruvian National Police used the pishtaco myth to explain a rash of disappearances in the Huanuco region in 2009, but that explains my reception in some remote areas of Huanuco. (http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/nov/20/peru-gang-killing-human-fat) The next video is entirely in Spanish from a region of the high selva I passed through - despite what language barrier may exist listen to her conviction.

The ride to Ayacucho was pleasant and we quickly left the pishtaco question behind - after they straightened me out and let me know that pishtacos could be taken care of. I arrived late into Ayacucho - a city I had stayed in for a month once and knew well - but now it was paved and well lit presenting little danger of pishtacos.

Rivers through the Selva

I was rousted in a vivid dream by a dear friend into the early morning - too early. I sat in bed listening to the day begin and drank my dear cold instant coffee. My boat would not be leaving until noon time and would have preferred to kill my time sleeping. I knew this was not to be a two day pleasure cruise up the Rio Apurimac in a three person wide 75 foot long river taxi with cargo and live stock. But it promised to be interesting! I packed up my things, prepared the bike, bought my passage for 90 soles, then left my stuff for the chickens to watch.
I have become less nervous about theft especially in places like Puerto Ocopa. Everyone in town knows that is the gringo's bike and filthy worn bags. So any thief is immediately recognized and no one likes thieves. Besides people are inherently honest - what comes around goes around. I went to get breakfast two buildings down at the hospedeja and ended up having eating with, Paco Sanz, an Ashaninka guide, that had been all through the Amazon basin. He led international scientific expeditions into very remote areas that required guns to protect from marauding tribes that would steal everything and kill you if they had the chance - resenting the intrusion. I put on my anthropologist and got him telling stories and he really fired me up to return - I have his card. I had heard his name and his stories confirmed my previous research. I sincerely believe adventure is as accessible out my front door as a continent away but the Amazon is huge and so untouched . . .
The boat was loaded via the slick steep path to the river's edge where boats were tied up waiting. Because I was going the farthest my bags went in first where I would be seated at the back of the boat. The loading process was up and down slow. Months of toilet paper, 50 kilo bags of rice, engine parts, a new stove, liter of Inca Cola, a few chickens, supplies for living in a place without roads. The boat was first and fore most a taxi service for people living in remote places along the river. My bike was loaded last at the front of the boat and I was assured not to worry and I did not . . . much. I had a little concern when a squealing pig was loaded in at one point. I pictured thrashing feet in my spokes but the little porker quieted down. Realistically, I have done worse hauling my bike through the mountains, thrashing through the jungle, laying it down on the pavement at 30kph or mousetrapping into dirt embankments. And in the end what can I do, so why worry . . . but I did let them know I was watching.

Finally, the double 40hp outboards were fired up and we pulled away from the bank into the fast flowing Rio Ene. I quickly realized these are not the most comfortable seats.
Periodic military outposts dot the river to control narco-trafficking . . . but they don't have boats? So not sure how that really works but they have huge ass guns. However, we pulled into all of them to have paper work checked and they showed interest in the cargo only once.
With the initial excitement of departure people looked around but most quickly turned to the newspaper, divided up and passed around, or fell asleep. I talked with the guys sitting next me and the Ashaninka gentlemen in front of me, one of whom had been to NYC for and international congress of indigenous peoples, however the roar of the outboards made actual conversation difficult.
I occupied myself watching activity on the river from fishing with cast nets to giant log rafts navigated by multiple small motor boats to keep them in the main channels. To my left was roadless Amazon jungle all the way to the Atlantic. To my right alta selva to the Andean foothills The river is broad but swift moving with limited navigable channels as it braided through the sand bars. I was impressed with the young guy steering the long narrow boat along eddy lines and through class 2 rapids as we moved upstream. Especially, how the 40hp outboards periodically cut out and he siphoned gas from the large drum directly behind me with his mouth all while steering up the heavy current. The captain was upfront periodically checking the river depth, indicating stops, organizing cargo and passengers, while his wife took care of the paperwork. I, too, eventually fell asleep to the drone of the motors and rocking of the narrow boat.
Periodic homes and small communities were situated high off the river banks and were often hard to see beyond a thatch roof poking out of the canopy. Bamboo sticks stuck into the sandy banks indicated where homes were located connected to the banks by narrow sandy paths. Local boats were often three or four log rafts that could be seen collected on the banks.
The boat stopped often for people to unload or to load up. People waited along the shores to flag the boat with large sacks of cacao or just a brief case as they removed their shoes, rolled up their dress pants and waded out to climb in the boat.
The first day we went late into the dusk and I started to catch glimpses of the Andes. Upon reaching our night time destination of Porvenir night had fallen. The boats stop at night because night time navigation is too dangerous.The community was a small collection of two story wooden homes, a couple basic 5 sole hospedejas, and a few tiendas from pharmacy to hardware to basic canned goods. And a telephone so if someone got a call people yelled there name over a speaker system while a generator supplied basic electric service. All gathered around a dirt courtyard. I walked up the bank with everyone else to get dinner, fried rice and duck, and sat with the same guy I had been riding with all day. Oddly enough the television was showing a forest fire disaster flick starring Marky Mark in English . . . As we sat eating dinner I got to meet the mayor of the town. But as a non constituent he was not really interested in the gringo - he was a busy guy as I saw him talking to numerous folks usually about "the road." As you can imagine having a road is a big deal and everyone wants one - the key to "development." I discovered that there are many paths and rudimentary roads but nothing suitable for trade . . . but may be interesting on the single speed 29'er in the future. I decided to forgo the dubious comfort of the hospedeja and sling my hammock on the boat. The full moon night with a cool breeze along the river and the sounds of the jungle seemed preferable to a night of music, television blaring, farting, snoring. After establishing my sleeping arrangement and talking briefly with my fellow boat mates, who referred to me as "maestro," I walked up the river bank to find a beer.
Directly above where the boat was tied some guys were drinking beer in small shack on the river bank - a bar that is. I am often a little hesitant about walking into these situations because you are never sure what you will encounter. Peruvians are generally curious about foreigners and the last foreign tourist they had encountered was a German 2 months earlier. Four guys were sitting there two log drivers, the bar owner, and a guy passed out in his chair, along with a sober young woman. I just wanted to buy a beer and go swing in my hammock but they passed me the beer and insisted I join. The bar owner was a friendly Huamangino (a person from Ayacucho) with a smattering of English phrases he liked to use and one of the log drivers was to drunk to be coherent. But they were all recent migrants. Porvenir is a new community like many in the region established by colonos, or colonists, from the Andean plateau looking for land. The amazon basin is experiencing an influx of migrants from the highlands spurred in part by new roads. The actual population growth rate of Peru is not that high (1.2%) and only in 1981 did the population equal the population of pre-Spanish conquest. I was hoping to learn a little Ashaninka but they only knew how to say cheers - "miro." All were there for economic reasons and reminded of the tension between colonos and indigenous Ashaninka. I talked with some Ashaninka and we they are generally wary of colonos tending to keep their distance moving deeper into the jungle. After an hour or so I was able to beg off and go to sleep - besides they were all rapidly losing coherence. Experience priceless - cost zero.
The next morning started early as I was roused from my hammock a little before 5am by loading passengers. I moved to my position at the back of the boat to mix up a little instant coffee while we moved through the early morning fog. We moved up river for the next 7 hours in the usual pattern of loading/unloading, however the river banks seemed to be getting more settled and commercial activity increased like this river side market or the woman who sold me lunch then tried to sell me her beautiful young daughter.However, the river bank was not what you would call crowded . . .
We reached our final stop around 2 or 3 in the afternoon but my day of travel would only be half over. This is a pretty good taste of 15 or so hours of river travel.

I am in Ayacucho, a city I know well in the highlands of Peru writing about my recent travels and taking care of business (like laundry). I noticed my neighbors across from the hotel have a sheep on their 3rd story roof top . . . I see lots of chickens on roofs, first sheep . . . all the bleeting reminds me of growing up on the farm. And my feet are healing nicely - looks like I will keep all toenails, though one is a toss up, and the knee is feeling solid.

6am Puerto Ocopa, Peru

I wanted to sleep in because I had time before the boat left but people are up start moving at 5am.

Abajando por Puerto Ocopa

"Feet in the air and head on the ground," my imagination is fired and the world is opening wide as I complete my shoe repairs and head out of Satipo to descend to Puerto Ocopa on the Rio Tambo. Everything is new and the possibilities for travel and adventure seem endless. I anticipate an easy 70km day descending to Puerto Ocopa from Satipo and for the first 30km the road is even paved but I missed a turn - the turn for Puerto Ocopa. Silly me figured there would be a sign but sillier me did not have my map loaded on my camera and I did not dig it out to look. In my defense there was not much point in the map anyhow because it only has one road on it going to Puerto Ocopa . . . there it is my defense. But what is a 15km mistake in a 20,000km road trip anyhow? After the turn off I stop in a town where the road diverged to ask directions and discover my mistake. After asking a couple of folks and getting vague waves I stop and to chat with a couple drunk men that almost convinced me to have a beer but I know enough from experience now that it was best to keep moving. He did buy me a cold bottle of water and their directions were good. So I backtracked. But my easy day became a 100km of riding into the dark on the red dirt road past little Ashaninka communities. The valleys were planted with bananas and papaya. People looked at me like I was from outer space . . . or cheerfully waved - same thing really. There is no tourism here. Once again, asking about distance and time was pointless. I asked a road worker, if anyone should know the road, when less than 20k from Puerto Ocopa, and he said “ oh that is far!” He thought it may be as far as Satipo or at least I had hours to go. But I am getting savvy to Peruvians and pressed him a bit and he was not sure . . . he was a damn road worker – what the hell is up with that?! However, a friendly guy he just gave me a moment of worry as to how accurate my maps and perceptions may be. But the evening was fresca and beautiful- mid days are warm but not central america hell hot and bugs are minimal this time of year. I arrived in the Puerto Ocopa as the road faded to black and once again drew a curious crowd that kept me til dark. I continued 15 minutes or so to the port town to check into a hospedja and get food. The next morning was my birthday. I saw the boat I was going to sit in for two days and decided that was not how to spend my birthday. I moved to a quieter hospedeja with a view on the river. I drank a couple beers, sewed my cycling gloves, did some tire repair, and chatted with locals. People do not understand why I am traveling so far or don't have a family. I am continually told to get a Peruana and settle here . . . but I am not running away from anything or looking for anything. I was chatting with a fellow traveler, 3-4 weeks away from returning to London, but still has no revelation of what she wants to do with her life. I, too, expected some change, perhaps a moment of epiphany, but it has not happened and I expect no more. . . that is the revelation. Life is a passing like these travels . . . I feel blessed with friends and family, love where I live and the life I have there. Curiosity and adventure rocket me into the world. A good home is easy to leave and a joy to return . . . just not quite yet. I stood on a balcony porch waiting for a momentary hard rain to end and watched people scurry, then I grabbed my coca and went fishing until after dark.

Something I tripped over while listening to tango . . . but as many of you know I love animation and thought this was worth sharing. . . been carrying a harmonica but can't play it worth a damn.

Happy Birthday Greg!

Happy Birthday Big Brother! Hah Ha what a sucker can't believe you didn't change your password! Slipping up on your travels keeping an eye out on all the dangers and upcoming adventures but forgot the old problem left back in the states. Or maybe you thought I had matured. Yeah right. Anyways here are some photos of our little Gregwa growing up in the backwoods of New Hampshire. Live Free or Die!

Crazy Horse Duke. I am shocked that this photo exists. Duke was completely insane! Must have been my presence on his back. This pony enabled Greg and I to learn all of our curse words via an irish accent from the vet who traveled to the farm to treat him. One day Duke was calmly overlooking a lake on a cliff ledge with the rest of us on our assorted horses and ponies when he decided to leap off a 15ft. cliff in to the water with Greg on his back. Then he couldn't get back up the ledge but Greg managed to get the crazy horse and himself safely out of the water. My favorite is that Greg and I would race our ponies all the time ( Mine was Suzy. I named all my first pets after myself. Embarrassing I know) and Duke would never pass Suzy even though he was faster.
Greg's love of fishing made apparent at an early age. Our brook was highly rewarding.
I never recall Greg shooting anything except my thumb one time when I changed my mind about shooting a chicken in the barn. I lost use of the gun when I shot all the windows in the barn which took my dad 20+ years to replace. And after the chicken incident (which I am not sure my parents know about) Greg kept the gun hidden away from me. Probably cause Dad asked him too ( I was a bit of a loose cannon).

Greg loves Halloween. His costumes are brilliant. Sorry I couldn't put his clown up but half of you would have canceled his blog as so many people are scared of clowns!

Last but not least the song that my brother sang horrendously for many of my developmental years. Greg sang Davy Crockett constantly except in church when he sang hymns horrendously (worse than his natural voice) to make me laugh and cry throughout the service. Dad sitting between us didn't even work as Dad sang just as badly Greg and Greg kept looking knowingly around Dad rendering me helpless. Love ya Greg. Hope you have a great Birthday floating down a Peruvian river.