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< July/August 2002
	First Descents
Floating the Line A political first descent along the Peru-Ecuador border Frederick Reimers

I never read my horoscope. With blanket advice bound to apply to at least several of the 420 million people born in that month, I give the sideshow science as much credence as a fortune cookie. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, on the eve of my departure to South America to participate in the first continuous descent of the Puyango-Tumbes River, my eye drifts from “Doonesbury” to the Daily Horoscope in the local paper. I jolt upright as, instead of bland advice like "Branch out and make new friends today," or "Exercise caution in your finances," my maxim reads: "Avoid travel to exotic places. If you must go, be extremely careful."

A scant two months after Sept. 11, this isn’t the sort of warning an international traveler takes lightly. The possibilities for tragedy are nearly endless: a hijacked plane, tropical snake bite, bus crash or even drowning in the whitewater. So it is that my journey is marked by paranoia, from the uneasy security lines at Denver International Airport, to the horizon lines of the Puyango-Tumbes’ cataracts. And now, on the beach of our second campsite, having survived three separate flights and a bus ride to the put-in, as well as the river’s first day of rapids, a wholly different option for peril emerges: two gun-toting soldiers.

The short, baby-faced conscripts are far from imposing figures, but their rifles look adequately lethal, and it hardly takes a hulk to pull a trigger. What’s more, they seem edgy and confused. Pepe Lopez, owner of Apumayo Expeditions and head guide for our trip, negotiates with the scowling boys while I try to look harmless. As the only American in our party, I’m keenly aware that my nation’s high profile can serve at times as either a magic wand or a lightning rod for its citizens abroad. I’m hoping for the former as the soldiers rummage through our documents. When at last they feel their posturing has gone on long enough, the soldiers hand back our papers and relax. This danger has passed, but I’m still on Defcon 4, awaiting my foretold calamity.

The soldiers hang around a while, asking questions. They are curious about our trip, and about our rafts and the nylon dome tents spread across the beach. In a country where tourism is the number one economic pillar, its trappings remain something of a mystery to most Ecuadorians. A gallery of passers-by hangs over the bridge railing above us, watching our party of 18 setting up tents, preparing food and bathing and shaving in the river, making me feel like a subject on a reality-TV show. I remark to Pepe that we’re attracting plenty of attention.

"In South America, camping is something people do only if they have to, or can’t afford to sleep inside," he explains. A group of clearly well-to-do people voluntarily sleeping on the ground in the middle of a crossroads is indeed a spectacle. While the river trip is largely in wilderness, we are camped at this road-accessible beach so that our support vehicles can reach us, easing logistics. Unfortunately that road also offers access for the backhoe.

Shortly before dusk a snorting backhoe lumbers up the beach and installs itself just behind our tent village. A ramshackle dump truck follows, kicking up plumes of dust. We stare at these intruders, not wanting to believe that our campsite is about to become an industrial gravel pit. It is. As the backhoe coughs smoke and rips up chunks of our beach and drops them into the truck, I try to work out my feelings. On the one hand, there’s the gravel-pit, exhibitionist campsite and the too-low river. On the other, the iguanas scampering around camp, the strange elephantine ceibo trees along shore and a flock of cormorants flying upstream in the twilight clarify the fact that juxtapositions like this are what make traveling worthwhile.

The river trip is officially opened by a flag procession. There is something in Latin American culture that craves ceremony, even on a ragtag river expedition. Once the rafts are fully loaded and all the crew outfitted with helmets, PFDs and paddles, the call goes out to congregate at the top of the bank. From nowhere someone produces the Peruvian and Ecuadorian flags and ties them to paddles. A banner appears, advertising "Puyango-Tumbes; The Adventure of the Integration," and it goes to the head of the procession.

The trip truly is an integration. The river we are about to traverse begins in Ecuador as the Puyango and flows west until it hits the Peruvian border, where it becomes the Tumbes—a fitting metaphor for two countries that are the same but for political borders. Until 1998, Peru and Ecuador waged periodic skirmishes over a disputed border in the Amazon jungle, hundreds of miles from here. Until the 1998 treaty, travel was difficult between the two countries, and getting permission to float the border, which the river forms for a dozen miles, impossible.

Meanwhile, whitewater enthusiasts from both countries had been eyeing the river for some time, intrigued by its narrow gorges and possibilities for a multi-day expedition in pristine country. The Puyango-Tumbes cuts through remote dry forest accessible only by dirt tracks and populated with howler monkeys, huge iguanas, and in its lower reaches, crocodiles. While both the Ecuadorian and Peruvian sides have been run on separate occasions (and members of both parties are present in our group), this expedition marks the first time the governments have permitted a complete descent. It is the result of three years of diplomacy by the adventure travel company Explorandes, which has branches in both countries.

We form a small parade and file 100 feet down the path to the waiting rafts, the banner and flags leading the way. Two boys herding the family cow along the far bank are our only spectators. Our built-in press corps of Ecuadorian and Peruvian video crews, as well as myself, record the parade. Indeed, the collection of luminaries that comprise our trip makes it a newsworthy event alone. Along with Pepe, our guides are a litany of who’s who in South American rafting. George Fletcher was the first Peruvian to start seriously rafting and guiding in the 1970s and ran the Ecuadorian side of the Puyango-Tumbes in 1992. Manolo Lazo, one of the original South American guides, has worked for Sobek since 1981. Fabricio Chavez, 26, is the youngest and newest to the sport. However, he grew up in the Ecuadorian whitewater capital, Tena, and is an accomplished kayaker.

Walter Wust is a Peruvian scientist who is responsible for lobbying his country to create national parks. Fernando Cuadros is the superintendent of parks in the Tumbes region. Alfredo Ferreyros is the president of Explorandes. Augusto Freyere is the Peruvian minister of tourism, here to endorse the diplomatic effort between the former enemies. "The Minister," as everyone calls him, is our star, and quite game. Though he’s never been rafting he extols me with tales of windsurfing on the coast. He spent the morning bathing in a blue Speedo bathing suit, and laughs at his own expense when Walter threatens to take a photo of him in the skimpy suit and send it to the newspapers. "We’re really hoping this venture can bring some attention to this region," The Minister says. "Machu Picchu gets all the tourists, but the northwest has a lot to offer, too."

The rainy season is a month late. Normally the rain begins in late October and continues in a stream of drizzles, downpours and torrents throughout our winter, greening the countryside and swelling the rivers. However, it hasn’t rained a drop in months and as a result the canyon walls are a withered brown and the river gasps along in the bottom of its exaggerated bed. Soon after we launch it becomes apparent that we need more water. Although the river is passable at this level, the rapids are quite technical. Annoyingly technical. We bounce off countless rocks, stalling in the boulder gardens. We must carefully scout rock-choked trickles that in higher water would be fun, frothy tongues of whitewater and pounding holes. The banks we scout from are scoured 30 feet above the river’s present level, belying the seething blacksnake that the river becomes in flood. Better to be here too low than too high.

Yet even at low water, there is no finer place to be than on a river. I work my oars back and forth, the light cataraft bobbing like a duck. The river is a series of constricted canyons containing what would be classic Class IV rapids if the water were higher, offset by lazy stretches of flatwater in open valleys. It is in such a valley on our second day on the river that the trip’s worth is sealed for me.

We are floating down a long, tilted section. The rafts are spread apart, drifting in the current when a gust of wind appears, bustling upriver. On the right bank a swollen Pretino tree towers above all the others, its armored green trunk bare except for the lantern-like seeds that hang from its branches. We’d seen these seeds on the ground at camp. With their four crisp, woody wings flared out from a small central seed pod, they resemble nothing more than a football. When the gust rifles through the treetop, dozens of the seeds ascend like a flock of starlings exploding from roost. We float dazzled as they rise in a body above the tree and then spiral downwind towards us, twisting on the concentric breeze for an impossible quarter mile and alight in the river all around our rafts. I fish one out of the river, blown away again by the catalog of nature’s evolutionary strategies. I set the seed behind me to dry, and a few days later, thread a string through its tapered end and fly it like a kite in a stiff wind at camp. It spirals perfectly overhead, an eternal Bradshaw touchdown pass.

The low water is getting to me. I want a little action. I’ve abandoned my paranoia of drowning on this trip. I find myself searching the cloudless sky for a gathering of storms, especially one upstream at the head of the drainage. A massive rainstorm could double the river’s flow overnight, which is what I’m hoping for. The other thing that’s bothering me is the environment. Much of the riverside has been ravaged by ranchers clearing the land for pasture. George tells of wooded hillsides and dense vegetation along the river on his descent nine years earlier. He describes startled iguanas that fell into the river by the dozens as he floated by, and howler monkeys roaring in the morning and evening at camp. Now, much of that habitat is shriveled grass, with some spots newly cleared, the blackened trunks of felled trees still smoldering. Wild, skinny cows stare at us from the shrubby banks as we pass.

The deforestation is markedly worse on the Ecuadorian side of the river. "The Ecuadorian government encourages people to settle along the border and clear the land," says George. "They think it will prevent Peruvian encroachment." Peru is five times bigger than Ecuador, and much stronger militarily. The 57-year-long border conflict had a lot to do with Peru coveting the mineral-rich but sketchily surveyed jungle border, but more to do with the military justifying its own existence and distracting the populace. "Whenever there were economic problems the war returned," says Pepe. Hundreds of people died in three separate conflicts over the years, but undoubtedly the biggest loser is the wilderness.

The Peruvian side is in much better shape. Trees soar to the ridgetops and sword-like bunchgrass crowds the banks. Parts of the Peruvian side of the river are completely closed to grazing, while others are merely regulated by the forest preserve that encompasses them. At dusk one evening Pepe and I take a hike in the forest from camp with Fernando, the forest superintendent, as our guide. We crash through the dense undergrowth, careful in our river sandals not to step on snakes hiding in the fallen leaves. Pepe scouts side hikes for future rafting clients. We find the top of a tall, thin waterfall, and Pepe envisions a rappel for the tourists, allowing them to descend through the cascade to the clear pool below.

Fernando says that although these lands are protected, their pristine nature is far from secure. His office has barely enough money to pay his salary and that of his five park guards, who must protect the 169,374-hectare forest from poaching, logging and grazing infractions. The best way to protect the forest, he explains, is to keep the local people invested in its existence. They must derive a living from the intact woods—rather than by poaching or illegal logging. One way is by hiring them as guides, banking on their knowledge of the land and its natural species. We talk about possible collaborations with Pepe’s company: hiring local guides to ride on the rafts. We get excited, making plans. The possibility of helping end the depressing deforestation is invigorating.

I’ve found the perfect temperature. My lifelong quest is finally over. Since childhood I’ve searched to find the moment that requires no adjustments, no longing, and just simply is. And here in the forests of Peru, lounging barefoot on the shore of the Tumbes river after dinner, I’ve found it. Combined with the full belly from dinner and the full mind, sated with adventure, there is nothing I require. We splay around the campfire, cheered by the light it throws on our band of fast friends. Nothing makes friends like a river trip. The geographical exploration inevitably leads to a social one. We get to know ourselves through each other.

Fabricio and I talk about kayaking in Ecuador, and about the thieves who robbed him. Fabricio is worried about his hand, which is red, swollen and oozing pus. A few nights before leaving to join our trip he was mugged by four men on the street near his apartment in Quito. One of the attackers stabbed at him with a knife and gouged his knuckle. He also has scrapes on his back from falling to the pavement and a scab on his forehead from where he headbutted another. In fighting back, he saved most of his belongings, but the muggers got away with his wallet. He plans to wear a surgical glove on the hand to keep it dry while paddling, but an infection is almost certain.

Pepe lounges nearby in his own blissful world. Earlier today he used the satellite phone to call his wife on a whim and found out, from 1,000 miles away in the heart of the forest, that he will soon be a father. The rest of the group banters in Spanish—a volley of comments, jokes and laughter. I follow some, but miss much. The minister stands and announces he’s going to bed and will see us in the morning. "Is that an official proclamation?" one wag asks. Later, when after another burst of laughter all eyes turn to look at me I am confused and they have to explain that I’m being made fun of. I hadn’t brought bug dope on the trip and was devoured by sand fleas on the first night, leaving a pox of red welts. They’d begun calling me "The Dalmatian." Someone complained that their bug dope was missing. The retort: "I’m sure The Dalmatian didn’t steal it."

We traverse a more pristine section of river. Steeper walls and protected lands mean fewer cows and more forest. The rapids, though weak from lack of water, are challenging. We pass "The Tiger’s Leap," a spot where the river is too narrow to pass the rafts. We flip them on end and pass them through by hauling on ropes.

The strangest adventure of the day is our pause at the border. We pull the rafts ashore to visit the guard post beside the river. The small cinderblock house seems deserted, so we call out. In a few seconds a bleary guard in a uniform top and soccer shorts stumbles out, clearly awakening from a nap. He is surprised to see visitors, especially a group of rafters. "So this is the border?" we ask.

"Yes, but the floods washed away the marker," he says, pointing to the spot where, presumably, it used to stand.

"And is this an Ecuadorian or Peruvian post?"

"Of Peru."

"Where is the flag?" We point to the bare flagpole.

"We only have one flag, so we fly it only at night when the sun won’t fade it."

He explains that he is visited by his superiors only once a month, and has far more Ecuadorian friends than Peruvian, as the nearest Ecuadorian settlement is only an hour away, as opposed to the two-day long trip to Peruvian settlements.

"So what do you think of the peace between the countries?"

"It is better," he says, suddenly proud to have an opinion. "I have friends from training who never came back from the war, so I know what it is like. I am glad there is peace." Then, remembering his role, he hastily adds, "but I am ready for any conflict."

More than anything, he seems ready for another nap, and so we thank the guard and set off again in our rafts, satisfied that this is a safe border. Safe not because of the diligent military presence, but rather because in a place where the border guard lives in timeless exile and has more in common with those he watches than those he defends, the notion of conflict seems abstract.

At last, my horoscope has come to fruition. Here, surely, is my demise. I’m standing outside my hotel in the town of Tumbes, where the river meets the Pacific Ocean. The trip ended yesterday with all safe, though sunburned, and with an overwhelming sense that we had pioneered what could become, with a bit more water, a premier commercial raft run. But now, at six in the morning, miles from the river, I am faced with my most hazardous moment: a motorcycle. Fernando had arranged a visit to the National Mangrove Sanctuary for this morning, but lacking a car, the park guards sent for me on a dirt bike. The driver knows I’m worried about taking to the mad highways of Peru on a mere motorbike; he can see it in my face and my hesitation to swing on behind him.

"Wait a minute," he says, and guns off into the frenetic traffic. He is back in a few minutes. "Here, put this on," he says. In his hand is my consolation, a huge, full-faced motorcycle helmet. I may be in more danger from whiplash when the helmet catches wind at 60 miles per hour than a collision, but to back out now would be ungracious. I take a deep breath, don the helmet and climb on behind my driver. We swing out into the frenetic traffic and accelerate among the lawless cars and busses, darting between them like an insect. The helmet is so big it slips down over my eyes and I can’t see much, but I’m actually thankful. We’re off to visit the mangroves at the delta of the Tumbes River, the literal end to our watershed journey. The brackish water of the mangroves is the Pacific’s nursery, where shrimp and dozens of other microspecies thrive, and the avian life is as rich as any place on Earth.

I hold on tightly to my driver, but the helmet is so big I have to ride with my face turned lest I clock him in the back of the head with the face guard. I prefer to look off the road, away from traffic, and that’s when

I start noticing the building storm. A half-

hour later, still miles from the sanctuary

and without a raincoat, the rainy season finally arrives.