Wednesday, July 17
Bleary-eyed from 23 hours in airports and on planes, flying into Iquitos was quite an experience. We took a small commuter jet from Lima, with a stop in Tarapoto, which is best described as a wide spot in the runway. It was somewhat disconcerting to find that when we reached cruising altitude, the tops of the Andes Mountains were poking through the clouds and at times were higher than the airplane.
It was a very cloudy day, with little to see on the Tarapoto-Iquitos leg of the flight, until we descended below the cloud cover. Green vegetation as far as you could see, nothing else except the wide, muddy-brown swath of the Amazon. It wound back on itself in hairpin turns with oxbow lakes protruding occasionally into the jungles.
Arriving at the airport was uneventful (except for a few minutes when we thought we were missing a piece of luggageworse yet, the one with our malaria medication); leaving the airport was another story. Walking out of the doors, we were descended upon by a mass of taxi and motokar (a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi) drivers all vying for the opportunity to transport us to our hotel. Picking one at random, we then entered what seemed like a stock car race into the city, with buses, cars, motokars and motorcycles weaving in and out of two-way traffic that didnt really seem to have any designated lanes.
By that point, the things we were looking forward to the most were a shower and sleep, but no such luck. Shortly after we arrived Christine Beier, one of the students we were expecting to meet, came to the hotel to start making plans. Over a quick meal, it was decided that we would spend the next two days buying supplies for the project, meet with several officials and arrange for transportation to San Antonio and back. I was hoping to meet the minister of culture and education and the director of the bilingual education program for interviews, and Chris wanted to meet with each of them in order to line up a support system for the linguistas and especialistas for the coming year.
Meeting Chris the next morning we found out bad newsthere was a national strike for the next two days. The gist was that all of the shops and restaurants were closed, and that we would not be able to conduct any meetings or interviews because the officials were worried about having their cars' tires slashed if they came to their offices during the strike. On top of that, we couldnt even spend the time shopping for supplies because the stores were closed. Fortunately for us, the restaurant in our hotel was openand doing a booming business because it seemed to be the only restaurant that was open in this city of 300,000. Even the tourist office, supposedly run by an ex-pat Texan, was closed. The purpose of the strike is a little fuzzy. When you ask someone about it, the only answer you really get is that it is a strike against the government, but nobody really seems to know anything more specific.
We spent a few hours wandering the streets, nearly deserted except for the parade of protesters, and more alarmingly, the riot police and military we encountered on almost every corner. The streets were covered in glass and debris. Chris said she had trouble sleeping because of the protestors smashing glass the night before.
We found that many of the closed shops were anything but. While storefronts were generally covered with bars and locked garage-type doors, if you knew what to look for (and Chris did) there were miniature doors, about three feet tall, off to the side that were sometimes ajar. We finally found a cyber café with one of these doors and a worker sitting out front to clandestinely usher us inside.
After a quick consultation with Chris, we decided there really wasnt much more we could do today, so we went our separate ways with plans to meet for dinnerassuming we can find an open restaurant.
Thursday, July 18
Today saw the continuation of the strike, or paro, and another day of being stuck in the hotel. Today even more so than yesterday because of a downpour that lasted the better part of the day.
One appointment I had scheduled with the director of the bilingual teaching program based in Iquitos had to be cancelled because of the rain, as well as the fact that trying to take a motokar would have been risky. We woke up to the sound of shouting and what we hoped were firecrackers outside of our window near daylight. A quick look confirmed that motokars were being pelted with bricks and the streets were again covered with debris.
Though Chris and I had both hoped that we could meet with Gabel Sotil, director of education and culture, early in the morning, he again did not feel like he should be seen at his office. As an important and well-known government official, his appearance at work during a paro would have been both dangerous and ill-advised.
After spending most of the morning watching the rain from the hotel lobby, Tom and I ventured out on the rumor that a travel agent was open. We still needed to buy our return tickets to Lima, and it had to be done before our departure for San Antonio. Indeed, there was an agency open, and after more than an hour, we departed with tickets in hand.
The rest of the day was spent looking forward to the next.
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