Trail of Feathers (22 page)

I do not know why, but the
Pradera
was supposed to meet us alongside the dance-floor of an Iquitos disco. The nightspot stood precariously at the Amazon’s edge, beside a quay. In the middle of the night Richard, Cockroach, Guido and I ferried our sacks through the disco to the water. A wild Brazilian salsa band was in full swing. We weaved in single file amid the throng of sweaty dancers. Richard had bought 300 gallons of pure drinking water, 100 gallons of petrol, and almost 1,000 shotgun shells. They had to be shuffled through the disco along with the rest of the supplies. The
motorista
, Walter, had promised to be there dead on 5.30 a.m.

I had tried to find someone to look after the giant beetles in my absence. Max, the CIA snake man, said he didn’t look after anything with legs; Florita said it was against her religion to babysit beetles, and the receptionist at Hotel Selva said her husband would feed them to the chickens. So, with great reluctance, I took the two Tupperware boxes down to the quay, along with all the rest of the goods. The pair of baby
Titanus giganticus
would just have to come along with us to meet the Birdmen.

By about 9 a.m. the band had packed up their instruments and sauntered off home. A handful of people stayed to dance even though there was no music. They were salsa fanatics.

Quite suddenly Richard picked a fight with Guido, the odd-job man. He accused him of lying, stealing and general dishonesty. Guido ran away with his knapsack. When I asked Richard why he’d disgraced the man so publicly, he replied: ‘It’s a warning to the others. If I don’t make my mark right at the start, they’ll take us for all we’ve got.’

Richard treated Cockroach to a few drinks. I was touched by his generosity. He said it was also important to keep the men watered. Well-watered men had high morale. And without it the journey would end in disaster.

At three o’clock that afternoon we were still waiting for the
Pradera
. I sensed myself losing control of the trip again. I was about to march back to Hotel Selva with the beetles, when I spotted a dark green hulk fifty feet out. It was heading towards the quay, low in the water, moving in slow motion. It could only be the
Pradera
.

Once she had docked, I moored the guy-line to the disco’s bar, and supervised the loading. We struggled to haul the sacks, the water, and the barrels of petrol on board. Only then did I throw my own bags up, before climbing aboard, with the beetles’ boxes tucked under my arm.

The departure from the disco quay at Iquitos lacked pomp and circumstance. But then, some of the greatest expeditions in human history, I mused, must have had no send-offs at all. As we ventured out, into the beds of water hyacinths, I made a solemn oath. I would not return to Iquitos until I had spent time with the Shuar, with the Birdmen of Peru.

I gave Cockroach the Tupperware boxes and explained what was inside. The valuable jungle commodity was being entrusted to him, and him alone. He would have to establish what
Titanus giganticus
liked to eat. Under no circumstances was anyone else to be permitted access to the precious insects. Cockroach nodded his head repetitively, indicating that he had understood the instructions. He cleared the common red beetles from the medicine cabinet, and stowed the plastic cartons inside.

The
Pradera
bobbed along up the right bank of the Amazon, heading upstream towards the great river’s source. The size and current of the river were truly daunting. Even in the Upper Amazon, it’s at least a mile wide. Richard said that, at any one time, a fifth of the Earth’s fresh water is flowing through the waterway.

Gradually the log dugouts, the shanties, and the fishermen’s canoes fell away. The grumble of the outboard motor broke the silence. I sat on the roof, filled with elation. The journey had at last begun.

Richard smoked three Marlboros, and drank four cups of cold Nescafé. I sensed that his body needed fuelling up with toxins before it was ready to take command.

‘We’ll go up to the village of Tamshiyacu,’ he said, ‘that’s where we’ll pick up Francisco, my shaman.’

Cockroach dragged the cooking gear and some of the food to the front of the boat, next to the driver’s seat. He and the others were busy staking out their space. I wondered where to sling my top-of-the-range, British-made, jungle hammock. I didn’t want to be too close to the engine, the toilet, or the cooking area. Eventually, I found the perfect spot, put it up and climbed in. A second later there was a distressing ripping sound, and I flipped onto the floor. Richard led the others in a bawdy round of laughter.

‘That’s English tourist shit,’ he said. ‘I told you to leave that crap behind.’

Cockroach probed about in one of the sacks. He pulled out three tins randomly. They contained tuna fish, butter, and condensed milk. I watched from a distance as he opened them with a steak knife, tipped the contents into a saucepan, and cooked for twenty minutes. Then he filled the pan to the top with water, cracked in five eggs, stirred, and announced that the
soup
was ready.

As it was dished out, I asked Richard if Cockroach had cooked before.

‘He’s used to fresh food, not this tinned shit,’ he said.

Just before dusk, the
Pradera
moored at the jetty of Tamshiyacu. A man was standing there ready to catch the rope. He was about five feet four with a mop of tangled hair, spindly legs and an over-sized mouth. It was filled with the kind of joke teeth you get in a Christmas cracker. He looked like a child, but must have been in his forties, and was naked except for a pair of Y-fronts and a buttonless shirt. Piled up next to him was an assortment of pots, cloth bags, and a metal-framed rocking-chair. He tossed up his belongings, the chair, and came aboard.

When he had greeted the American, he lit a home-made cigarette. It was as thick as a cucumber. The lower deck was engulfed in smoke. 

‘Meet Francisco,’ said Richard. ‘How did he know to rendezvous at the quay?’ 

Richard took a puff of the giant cigarette. 

‘He saw us coming in a dream,’ he said.

I was about to make some condescending remark, when the shaman handed me a package. It was wrapped in newspaper. I opened it up. Inside was a hammock. Francisco whispered something to the Vietnam vet’ and pulled up his underpants. Their elastic had gone.

‘What did he say?’

‘He saw your crap limey hammock in his dream too,’ said Richard, ‘so he brought you a new one.’

Having seen many awe-inspiring feats of illusion performed by Indian godmen, I am suspicious when it comes to suggestions of mind-reading or one-in-a-million coincidence. But, grateful for the hammock, I told Cockroach to unload some canned food and supplies for the shaman’s family.

‘Does he want to wear some of the clothes we’ve brought as gifts?’

‘Francisco doesn’t need clothes,’ said Richard, coldly. ‘They cramp his style.’

I told the Shaman of our planned route up to the Pastaza region, in search of the Shuar. He obviously hadn’t seen our journey in his dream. I know this because he grasped his unshaved cheeks, and emitted a high-pitched shriek.

‘
‘
¡
Muy
 
peligioso! So dangerous!’ he yelled.

‘That’s why we’ve brought them gifts … we’ve got lots of shotgun shells,’ I said.

‘The Shuar don’t use guns’ riposted Francisco. ‘They use poisoned darts and black magic. Everyone knows they eat the brains of babies and shit on the bodies of their victims. They’ll murder us and shrink our heads!’

Making excuses, the shaman hurried from the boat. As he scrambled to the jetty his Y-fronts fell down. Richard watched, disappointed at the sight of a grown man fighting with his underwear.

‘If he’s so frightened, let’s leave him behind,’ I said.

‘We’re not going another inch without Francisco,’ Richard replied. ‘The Shuar have no respect for anyone who travels without a shaman. And besides, he can cook up some nerve agents along the way.’

The veteran disappeared into the darkness of Tamshiyacu, returning an hour later with Francisco. I was unsure how he’d tempted the shaman to join the expedition. It may have had something to do with the food.

Cockroach squatted over my titanium Primus stove, cooking meals back to back. As soon as the pot of buttery tuna soup had been gobbled down, he set to work on another creation. Like an artist experimenting with colour, he dolloped equal amounts of corned beef, porridge oats and strawberry ‘Fanny-brand’ jam into the pot. Then, gritting his teeth, he stirred the concoction over a moderate heat until it bubbled. Before serving, he threw in a handful of uncooked rice.

As we choked down the dish, the
Pradera
moved away from the jetty, heading upstream once again. It was now pitch dark. High above us, the stars glinted like light shining through the holes of a sieve. I lay on my back on the boat’s roof and gazed upwards. The Southern Cross heralded the way into uncertain waters. I cannot remember ever feeling so overcome with expectation. And I was filled with fear. The realm of giant insects, venomous reptiles and die-hard tribes, the jungle and its kin prey on the ignorant. I was dreading the journey ahead, but the trail of feathers had brought me here. And, besides, Richard Fowler - who seemed to roar with laughter in the face of danger - had promised to keep me alive.