Quietos

The remote Amazon, Ecuador, sometime in 2015. Afloat on the River Pastaza in a small, motorised canoe.

“Quietos, todo el mundo, ¡quietos!”

Adán was generally a calm and measured boy, the oldest unmarried male in the community, with a certain complacency to his airs. He had seen everything before and was quite evidently evolving beyond the reach of this isolated, insular world. His eyes would illuminate at the mention of the city, his family there…girls, before returning to their normal state of the jungle interior: dulled, half-cocked, observing the glacial pace of progress with ennui, with a weary sigh ever forthcoming.

In this moment, though, the nerves were evident in his voice. The canoe’s motor had failed on the fast-moving river. We were aboard, floating not only on the water, but also on top of the boat, the dimensions of which only permitted us to balance on the planks that crossed from one narrow rim to the other. The only part of our bodies that could be said to be actually inside the canoe was our feet. The rest of our forms dangled awkwardly above the protection of the vessel’s folds: puppets hanging loose, waiting for their master.

Andrés, motorista, was in charge of the engine. He was on his feet, tugging hard at the starter chain. The motor would reply with a stutter and a splutter, but refused to spark into life.  The familiar, comforting peque peque, which gives its onomatopeiac nickname to the vehicle, did not want to. Not today. It had performed, workmanlike, for many months, on a bare minimum of gasoline (with prices per litre several times over that of the city), and with only the men of the village to tend to its many ailments. It had been ragged too hard by proud hombres, intoxicated on testosterone; themselves bored by the lack of action, the stasis, the permanent present, of the rainforest.  Their energies had nowhere to go, which is why they often ended up – grimly - on their wives’ bodies. They had images in their heads of who they could be. They had bootleg copies of all the Rambo films, including the one which opens with a paean to “the brave mujahedin freedom fighters of Afghanistan”.

With each yank by Andrés, the canoe quivered on the water, and our luggage (backpacks, devices, clothes, medicine, the lot) contemplated the depths. We also peered into the sedimented drink, wondering about the boa (anaconda) and caribe (piranha).  In between the convulsions, the boat careered unconsciously, letting the humour of the river dictate its pirouettes. At any point, we could come upon a sand bank, a tree trunk, a rock. And that would be it. An unscheduled sortie into the brown. Our laptops would be donated to the fishes, and, as for us, our boots would be our rubber rudders.  

“They fill up with water,” Roberto, the oldest of the nine brothers whose families constituted the village’s inhabitants, once told me. “And you sink like blum. Por eso, los chalecos.”

There were no life jackets on this ride though. 

If there could be said to be a wrong side of the tracks in such a miniscule, close-knit community, then Adán and Andrés were from it.  Andrés had a swollen hand from being bitten by a guatusa on an ill-fated, unarmed, unsuccessful hunting trip. He had asked me if I thought it was infected. It was huge. I really wanted him to see a doctor, and he was on his way to see the shaman.  His head was partially shaven, in the style of the soldiers he had seen around the border post with Peru. I say partially, not fully, since the batteries on the razor must have run out, so his hair was uneven, tufts coexisting with depressions which penetrated the scalp. It was all an attempt to obscure his larger than life appearance. His stomach, though, it must be said, was distended, not fat. In his household, they mostly ate plantains grilled over the fire, unless they could catch some protein (hence the hunting trip). 

The truth is that I remember Andrés as being a little unbalanced, a little wild. Much like his brother Adán, he longed for some movement out here. I later discovered that he had moved to the city and ended up in prison after stabbing a taxi driver in the neck.

As the scene continued: us drifting down the river, at the mercy of its gurgles and cackles, Andrés deploying all of his masculinity to start the engine, it occurred to me that while this was a moment of almost infinite possibility, our options to influence it were decidedly limited.  We could easily have ended up in the water. We could have drifted to our destination (luckily, it was downstream). Or a passer-by in another boat might see us and come to assist. Or they might not, since the long, glassy stare that they would fix on you as your boats drew parallel, mere metres apart, would not necessarily imply solidarity, or even the slightest concern for your wellbeing.

Much like the river itself, they were apathetic, at best, understanding that we, in common with them, were beholden to forces beyond our control.

Despite all of this, I was relaxed. I always had a remarkable capacity to keep calm in crisis - somewhat ironically, since I was naturally a nervous person, prone to stress and over-analysis. However, in this moment, a sort of calm blanketed me. I couldn’t see the way out, but I knew there was one. Throughout the entire episode, I had this unshakeable conviction:

I can’t die here. I’m white and male. This is not how my story ends, for I am destined for greatness. Someone or something will intervene to preserve my privilege.