Al and Dee's Travel Blog

The colorful jungle town of Iquitos,Peru

Click here for the Amazon Iquitos Photo Album

Shifting gears from Lima to Iquitos certainly jarred us out of the sense of chilled complacency we’d managed to cultivate in Lima.

The town is a riot of color and noise, literally crawling with the three wheeled motor taxis that form the backbone of transport on the island. They’re noisy, smelly, and absolutely bloody marvelous !

Our first sighting of this immense river was soon cut short as the first of many torrential rainstorms swept in off the river, but a conveniently located bar supplied a spectacular view of the storm over some cold Iquiteña cervezas.

The butterfly farm “Casa de Mariposas”

Dee’s relationship with the gentlemen of the jungle was true to form during a visit to the butterfly farm on the morning of her birthday.

After an hour she’d managed to aquire two new suitors – a red faced Bald Uakari monkey called Chavo and a frisky Howler Monkey by the name of Igor !

Into The Jungle

We travelled in to the Peruvian Amazon via ferry later that day, a rather unique experience and memorable birthday for Dee. The journey lasted 32 hours on a ferry, sleeping in hammocks in rather close proximity to our Peruvian neighbours on the partly open upper deck. So close in fact that if we moved our elbows out from our sides we could touch both neighbours. We were the only “Gringos” amongst the friendly Peruvians with their pigs, chickens and boxes of sting rays (the only tourists for the whole trip actually).

The scenery for the first few hours of cruising on the Amazon was amazing and surreal. Shortly after a mind boggling sunset, the wind picked up out of nowhere followed shortly by twelve hours of torrential rain. Nobody thinks to mention the fact that it is quite possible to freeze in the Amazon basin, but we can both attest to the fact this is entirely true !

We landed late the following night and hauled our supplies up to the local village where we spent the night in a hostel – ironically this was the only uncomfortable night of the trip on a thinly stuffed straw mattress.

We were up early the next morning for breakfast in one of the villager’s gardens and then watched in the relative shade with growing trepidation as a canoe was loaded to the hilt (and some way beyond) with our supplies for the next ten days. We were eventually summoned to the bulging vessel and instructed to get in… and sit where?!? Al, graceful as a swan clambered in, followed by a nervous Dee and no fewer than four others!

Unbeknown to us, we were to be joined by two local guides on our travels – bringing the tally to six including ourselves. Somehow the canoe moved off without sinking, and actually appeared to be surprisingly stable when the engine was on. It was however only a matter of minutes before the first of many engine failures..

After five hours of butt numbingly long travel up a small creek, we eventually arrived at our first villiage settlement within the Pacaya Simiria reserve. It quickly became evident that our rights to camp within the reserve were not as ironclad as our guide(s) had ensured us was the case.

In true South American style, a blistering arguement ensued with the two of us sitting in the canoe trying to follow the proceedings. After 15 minutes of posturing and gesticulation, smiles broke out all round and we handed over two packets of spaghetti as a bribe and we were off !

Our tiny creek soon gave way to a massive lake, certainly not what we were expecting to find in the middle of the jungle. Our night excursions involved trips skimming across the shimmering lake, a tapestry of brilliant stars overhead and wet slippery fish hitting us in the face as they jumped into the canoe !

The snake conundrum

Our complacency towards the dangers of the jungle was shattered on the second night on returning from a trip on the lake to discover a baby Fer De Lance snake slithering it’s way through the camp.

For the first time on the trip both of us were in complete agreement with the local’s bloodthirsty desire to kill anything that moved so that we might photograph it.

Far more importantly, Dee’s evening toilet trips into the jungle came to an abrupt end. This theme continued when we moved camp, Dee insisting on having an en-suite loo machettied from the virgin jungle right next to her hammock. So great was the sudden concern for physical safety that an hour was spent patching every tiny hole in the mosquito net when our guide Kid nonchalantly remarked that the Tarantulas liked to crawl through any holes to escape the almost nightly rain.

Al restored some injured pride from previously disasterous fishing attempts by pulling bucket loads of Piranhas from the river. These fish are incredibly stupid, you dangle a hook with something bloody dangling from it in the water, and with a few seconds you’re the proud owner of a very angry snapping Piranha. In a twist of irony, the best fishing spots turned out to be the same places we had been swimming in only minutes before !

The Eco Tourism Memo

Apparently our guides failed to get the eco tourism memo and seemed determined to kill just about everything they saw despite our protestations.

Amongst the tally were two beautiful sleeping kingfishers who were knocked out of a tree with an oar (apprently this is hilarous too), a 2.5m Caimen killed for meat, 4 electric eels and we’re pretty sure that the baby howler monkey they “caught” while we were sleeping never made it in the end.

If you happen to find yourself in a Peruvian jungle and anyone asks you “Do you want to taste…”, the answer should be an emphatic no. Two huge palm trees met their end when we stupidly agreed to try Palm Heart in a salad. Destroying a 20m high tree to get a handful of salad from the top is more than a little galling.

In the end however, we both agreed that no matter how personally abhorent we found some of the customs of hack,slash and kill in the jungle it simply wasn’t our place to judge. There are too many local customs around the world that others disagree with and a certain patronising arrogance is implied if you try to change them.

The triumphant return

The return trip included a stop over in the tiny villiage of Flor De Punga where we were the star attraction at the Spring Festival at the local school. Apparently not many Gringos visit as every time we turned around we were confronted with a crowd of school kids squeeling in delicious terror.

Thankfully the ferry downstream to Iquitos was much quicker – only 24 hours on a ferry this time. Although the experience was incredible, we were both sorely in need of a long, long shower to remove the accumulated dirt from our travel weary bodies.

Next on the itinerary is a return to Lima, then on to Paracas for the Islas Ballestas, the Nasca Lines and the volcanic city of Arequipa.

Lima itself is a sprawling urban jungle of contrasts – run down in parts and opulent in others. There is however one over-riding constant throughout (with few exceptions) – and that is the friendliness of the people.

This was typified by the owner of our first ‘home’ in Lima – the charismatic Quique, owner of the Blue House Hostel. The place has a really chilled vibe as soon as you get away from the tourism attack zone.

We had been warned that the arrival process in Lima would be something of a shock, with taxi drivers and tourism agents ambushing the arriving Gringos to pick up their business. We were subjected to a particularly stern examination as the taxi pickup our hostel owner had organised for us failed to show up.

Eventually giving up we chose a driver who’d managed to be persistent and helpful in equal amounts.

Driving through Lima soon had the adrenal glands pumping.

Initial observations on the driving methods yielded the following conclusions:

1. The lines on the road are for mostly decorative purposes only
2. The object of driving is simply to get in front of the car in front at any cost
3. Sidewalks, parking lots etc are to be considered part of the road at all time
4. Pedestrians have no rights. Ever.

The first imperative order of business after arriving at our hostel was to locate a vendor of beer to calm the nerves. Managing our first timid transaction, in what was frankly the worst Spanish to leave a Gringo’s mouth, left us with a warm happy glow. We had shelter and the tools to buy beer. Things were going to work out fine.

We drank our beer until late into the night with our new Argentinean friend and fellow guest Gustavo, gathering vital local intelligence for our upcoming visit.

We set out on a mission to explore our new surroundings after a predictably late start on Saturday morning.  Lima is a coastal city, and our hostel was located two blocks away from the steep bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

It was a long slog down to the pebbled beach, where we were instantly set upon by the legions of surf instructors. We were assured that today was the day we would stand up on a surfboard! Indeed, should we in any way fail to stand the cost of the lesson would be instantly refunded!

Employing the if-not-why-not policy, we duly returned at the appointed hour for our lesson. The theory was a formality quickly glossed over with three practice attempts at standing on a concrete block (if you can’t stand on a stationary block then you’ve probably got no place being on a surfboard).

Our kindly, wise and gnarly surfer teacher dudes morphed in the worst surf Nazis known to man as soon as we hit the water. Paddle, Paddle, PADDLE!!

Dee caught by far the worst of it staying closer to shore while Al was dragged out to bigger waves on the back line more suited to the larger man. The paddling was nearly the end of us both.

It’s not worth dwelling too much on who had more success on the day, but let’s just say that Al got the face plant of the day award while Dee actually managed to stand up a few times.

The El Sol Spanish School

Going back to school for the first time in over a decade had the two of us feeling a little nervous and unsettled. Would the other kids point and laugh ? Can everyone else already speak some Spanish, are we going to be the dunces of the class ?

Thankfully our fears were quickly put to rest. Our only class mate was a fellow South African girl called Sue who appeared just as nervous as we were. Our morning teacher Edison employed a “total immersion” method, which would probably have worked better if we actually understood what he was saying.  Thankfully Rosa (our teacher in the afternoon) put us all completely at ease and was more than happy to translate for us when we lost the plot.

Clearly one week of Spanish tuition is nowhere near enough to hold any meaningful conversations. It did however give us the basis for some functional communication which we can continue to build upon.

Far more important were the friends we made doing it – classmate Sue was staying with a Norwegian guy called Nicholas at a Peruvian family’s house.  Nicholas is Ewan McGregor’s evil twin, if you doubt us then see the pictures below !

We had planned a quiet celebration for the Friday that school finished, a quiet dinner somewhere nice and a few beers would round off the week nicely.  Things were going mostly to plan until we found ourselves in “Pizza Alley”, a Gringo alley filled with restaurants and bars.

One more beer before heading home turned into a few, Nicholas starting to get warmed up for a biggy. A disco seemed like the only viable option once the beer supply was abruptly cut off at midnight. To cut a long story short, we ended up leaving the disco at 7am Saturday morning after an eventful night !

Our plans to leave for the jungle town of Iquitos later in the day now in ruins, the only thing left to do was sleep the rest of the day (although Al did pull through to watch the Boks win the Trinations, quite weird watching rugby at 8am with a beer but hey?!)

P.S. We know we’re behind on blog entries, working hard to catch up !

P.P.S Don’t forget to check out the travels of Duckee album for some frankly shocking photos of the little fella ! Here are some snippets.

..and the travels of “Duckee Tutanquacken” the Egyptian Duckee

Due to a last minute, unscheduled trip back to South Africa for Dee, I decided to take myself off to Taba Height in Egypt (about 200km north of Sharm El Sheik) for some sun, sea, golf and diving.

The adventures of Duckee

So whats the deal with the duck then ?

Those from my old office at AOL will hopefully recognise the redoubtable Duckee.. (…eeee), who stowed himself away in my luggage so that he might share in the adventure !

Duckee was most often observed flying across the office at someone’s head, although where he came from is a matter for scholars and historians etc.

The look on the kid who owned the camel’s face was priceless when I whipped Duckee out of the bag for our big photo shoot.

Duckee and I actually paid the dastardly little rascal 30 Egyptian pounds for the photos so it wasn’t actually all that “priceless” after all.

The camel in the pictures below (I call her Mabel, but the reason escapes me) took an instant and visceral disliking to Duckee. I can’t imagine why – I was just trying to balance him on her nose.

There was a rather close escape when I tried the “flying Duckeeeee” maneuver passt Mabel’s head, she nearly ended Duckee’s life right there and then between her horrifically nasty gnashers !

Duckee Els caddies for Al

The Taba Heights Golf Course is breathtaking, literally.

Carved out of a desert best described as a bazillion rocks crushed up into various sizes and baked at 40°c for millions of years, a step off the lush green fairways feels like the opening of a blast furnace door.

Thankfully the enigmatic Duckee offered to accompany me around one morning, insisting that in the desert the old adage of safety in numbers holds truer than ever.

His insightful golfing brain helped me to a respectable round of 84 – not too shabby for me !!

Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of Duckee in far fly places across the globe shortly, and of course with Dee there too.

Here are our various ramblings on the recent visit to Chianti in Tuscany.

The basic itinery was to fly into Florence late on the Thursday night, spend the day exploring the city before picking up the hire car and heading out into the country side to a villa in the Chianti region.

The taxi ride to the hotel in Florence should probably have given me some warning that the driving in Italy is something that only Italians could truly understand – our taxi driver spent most of the trip talking to us over his shoulder with the steering wheel expertly wedged between his knees.

“Looks easy, I’ll have to try that”  I think to myself..

The morning was spent walking around Florence admiring the Duemo and the street market, followed by a climb along some of the hilliest roads to the Piazzale Michelangelo which was highly recommended by our taxi driver.

Time to head to the Avis office to pick up our “Compact” hire car and head for the hills.. of course Avis decide to upgrade me to “The Beast”, a VW Passat the size of a small ocean liner – I’m going to need a drink after this..

The villa at Fattoria Pratale was definately what the doctor ordered – great view of the vineyards and a braai nearby, can’t really ask for more.

The Firefly Hypothesis

These things only seem to happen when we’re well into the second bottle of Chianti..  The first thing to explain is that I’ve never seen fireflys before, and the site of the blinking little beggars on the vines below the braai area got me pretty darn excited..

Excited enough in fact that with the urging of  Dee and the rather fine Chianti in my bloodstream I relented and went down the little hill to the vines and sat with Dee in the Tuscan dirt (I’m more of a chair by the fire kind of guy).

Needless to say it was awesome, leading me to expound the the Firefly Hypothesis: 

“To see the fireflys of life, sometimes you need to get your ass dirty”.

Yeah.. that’s probably the Chianti speaking again.

Dee immediately leaps on my Hypothesis and somehow it becomes her Firefly Philosophy – “A guide to live life by.”

I can’t really decide if we’re ineffably brilliant or blind drunk.

Saturday was spent walking around the quaint town of Greve in Chianti, followed by a walk to Montefioralle voted “the most beautiful village in Italy”.

The stone and terracotta buildings perched on top of a very steep hill were indeed stupidly beautiful, almost surreal.

Montecalvi and the “Firefly Hypothesis”

Wine o’clock can sneak up on one quite quickly in Tuscany apparently, and it begins to dawn on us that we’ve not replenished the supply we torpedoed the previous night.

I fire up the TomTom and search for the nearest wine estate and we’re off !

..and up a very narrow and rutted dirt road to what appears to be somebody’s house – bloody GPS again.

We decided to park up and at least attempt to establish some line of communication with  local watching us pull into what is quite likely his private driveway – Firefly Hypothesis and all that.

Turned out that the local is actually from California and no, they don’t usually do tasting, but yes his friend guy that owns the place may open up for us, and come on in.

We’re starting to feel a little like we’re intruding on someone’s lunch as the owner comes out pulling on a shirt, but we’re soon put at ease with the American owner as he opens up the cellar and feeds us a great Chianti Classico and an unlabelled Cabernet Sauvignon “Super Tuscan”.

The mention that we’re South African seems to break the ice and we leave after an hours worth of chatting with our one bottle of wine, somehow feeling that although the owner almost certainly made a financial loss out of our arrival it was still worth it.

I guess when you have views like these it just kinda makes you chilled. We decide that so far the score is Firefly Hypothesis 1, Life 0