Misahualli, Ecuador March 31 – April 3, 1979

Made a brief stop in Banos on my way to the Ecuadorian jungle.  It’s a small, shabby mountain town with dirt roads and a couple of well-flowered plazas.  Has a distinct wild-west kind of feel, including the police, who saunter down the main (and almost only) street, with guns in leather holsters hanging from their ample hips, Stetson-like hats, and a kind of nonchalant attitude reminiscent of old western movies.  The town’s known for its thermal baths (aguas thermales), which are a nice walk, on an old cobble-stone road, up into the mountains.  The baths are a cloudy ‘piss-yellow’ and unappealing looking, but felt wonderful, and there was a cool fresh stream running beside them. 

I met a gringo couple at the baths and as we all wanted to go to the jungle we decided to take a bus from Banos to Misahualli, the ‘gateway to the Ecuadorian Amazon’.  It was a wild ride with a crazy driver who kept all of us gringos at in a state of heightened anxiety (the locals, almost entirely Indios, were as usual unphased).  The first hour and a half of the drive was on a rough dirt road that wound around and through the mountains, with great precipitous drops on either side of us.  At times it looked as though there was nothing under the wheels of the bus. I couldn’t decide whether it was better to look or not; my crochet hook drilled a hole in my finger… .  Once through the mountains the road through Puno to Tena was still bumpy, but not dangerous as it was mostly flat.  We tore through the lovely vividly green jungle, passing several surprisingly turquoise blue streams.  Many of them were cascading over large grey rocks where colourful women washed equally colourful clothes.  And where just as colourful butterflies hovered.  Saw many wood and thatch or bamboo and thatch houses, often raised on stilts several feet above the ground, and surrounded by big orange, yellow and red flowers.

 

Tena was a dumpy little town where we sat for an hour waiting for a bus to Misahualli.  The ride there was much calmer, on a less bumpy road, through a lovely hilly landscape with lots of bamboo and multi-coloured flowers.  Misahualli is a very small settlement – just few families – on the edge of the jungle, and the Napo River.  But its tourism potential is clear: despite its small size, Misahualli does have a few hotels and several restaurants.   We decided to stay at ‘La Negrita’, a small family-run pension which came well recommended by other gringos.

 

“When it rains, then is the time to stay in bed and make children.”  Hector says this is an old indigenous saying, but it sounds more Latino to me.  Anyway it’s been raining all night and all morning (this is the beginning of the rainy season) – so no wonder there are so many children here!

 

Hector, the proprietor of ‘La Negrita’ has five children (no more! no more!), all under eight years old.  The whole family sleeps in one of the rooms, and Hector’s wife cooks for family and guests while Hector goes about his ‘businesses’.  He is a real entrepreneurial sort, who runs his little pension, offers guide services, and sells feathers and things made of feathers at markets in Quito.  Although he and his wife are living here in Misahualli for now, he plans to move them all soon to a new ‘tourist hotel’ he is building on an island nearby.

 

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Rained hard all morning – a real downpour.  I watched from my window as the raindrops smacked into the giant leaves of the banana palm next door, and listened to the plink-plink of the rain and the tin roof.  Found myself enjoying the pleasant and soothing sights and sounds, wondering where the birds and butterflies go to shelter in these downpours, and feeling lucky to be in a relatively warm and dry spot.

 

In the afternoon a couple of Hector’s ‘boys’ (workers) took a few of us for a lovely ride down the Napo River in a ‘canoa’ – a long, skinny canoe with a motor on the back – to see Hector’s new hotel.  In rough sections where the water was choppy, we traveled close to the shore, almost touching the trailing branches and vines.  In smoother sections we glided along in mid-stream, the motion of the canoa barely perceptible.  Here the banks of the river were about a hundred feet away on either side.  It’s hard to believe, seeing the breadth and strength of this great river, that it is but a minor tributary to a tributary of the mighty Amazon.  What a river it must be! 

 

We passed by several clusters of houses in small clearings in the otherwise dense jungle.  Some traditional wood or bamboo huts with thatch rooves, a few wood-frame, and wood clad, generally unpainted.  One or two tin rooves. 

 

After around 20 minutes we reached Hectors new ‘hotel’, a group of around eight bamboo and thatch huts with a central restaurant hut.  The island is owned by the Indians, which seems to mean it’s up for grabs by developers who seem to believe there’s going to be a big tourist boom here.  And they’re probably right.  Hector’s hired a young Swiss couple to run the hotel.  The woman showed me round the place, bubbling with enthusiasm about what she was going to do – gardens here, flowerbeds there, her children catching butterflies to sell, herself cooking fabulous meals using the plants she would grow, and those growing wild around the hotel, experimenting with the herbs.  As we walked she showed me some of the plants, explaining which were dangerous and why, which could be used as poultices, which were good for drawing out poisons from snake bites.  We came upon a large black ant with ferocious-looking pincers which she said could cause a few days of fever if you were unlucky enough to get bit.  It was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm, but I couldn’t help thinking about how the developments she was planning might affect the people and the land.  I did ask a few questions like “Who owns the land?”  “Indios.” “Where will they go once the hotel is up and running?”  “Oh, they have other places to go…” (her response was decidedly vague).  

 

It took us about half an hour to travel back up river in the canoa.  I sat with my arms over the sides, enjoying the feel of the water as it ran through my fingers, thinking of nothing, and everything. 

 

Later that afternoon went for a walk along the river and then up and back into the edge of the jungle.  It was close enough to nightfall that animals were beginning to make their night noises – lots of birds and crickets clicking, trilling, humming, and squeaking.  And even later, in the dark of a sliver-moon night, strolled up the road a bit, again listening to the insect noises, now louder and more urgent.

 

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Today we were taken for a hike into the jungle by Douglas MacIntyre, a Spanish-speaking guide.  We hiked first up and through a small creek known for its blue butterflies.  We all took nets.  The creek was gentle and clear, with jungle right up to the edge on both sides.  We hopped from side to side, sometimes just walking in the stream, getting our boots filled with water, and slipping and sliding on the mossy rocks.  About an hour into our hike it started to rain.  It was a beautiful, soft rain, but there was lots of it.  We tried to wait it out under a rocky ledge for a while, but as it began to rain harder Doug suggested we press on.  The river began to rise, flowing faster and getting muddier; the going became more challenging: we had to leap from rock to rock, some of which were submerged, so difficult to know how big or secure they were.  I was grateful for Doug’s helping hand for the most daunting leaps (of faith!) from rock to rock.  

 

All of us had stared out wearing rain ponchos, but we decided to abandon them as they were more of an impediment to our movement than helpful.  We were all drenched from multiple slips and falls.  I felt acutely aware of the how dangerous the situation was, but continued to have confidence in our guide and his knowledge.  Surely if we were in real peril he would suggest we turn around.... .  

 

We finally reached our destination – the falls and pool where we had intended to swim. 

 

Note:  This is a photo from Trip Advisor.  I did not take a camera with me on this hike.  

And this is how the waterfall must look on a 'normal' day, not as we saw it...

But by this time the ‘creek’ was a raging river, and the ‘pool’ was a seething basin of foam and froth.  We rested briefly, gulping down some soggy cheese sandwiches, and started back down.  We all recognized that the situation was getting worse, not better: the rain was not letting up, the river continued to rise.  Doug forged ahead, encouraging us to move quickly.  But we didn’t get far before we found our path was completely blocked.  Since we’d passed this way, just a short while ago (not even an hour), the river had risen about 3-4 feet, and was running as a swift muddy torrent, carrying sticks and other debris with it.  The rocks we had used as stepping stones were completely submerged.  Furthermore the cliffs on either side of the river, from the falls to quite some way down, were very high – vertical rocks, completely unscalable without climbing gear, and expertise that none of us had.  

 

Undaunted, Doug suggested we wait where we were while he carried on to find a path.  I think all of us felt abandoned when he disappeared, and couldn’t help but wonder just how experienced and knowledgeable he actually was, and if he’d come back, or just leave us here.  It was a somewhat sombre and grim hour as we waited, watching the river rise.  But he did come back, and gave us the good news that we could make it out but we might get ‘a little wet’.  That turned out to be a bit of an understatement.  

 

We formed a line, and waded waist deep into the rushing waters, our feet searching for secure footholds and our hands grasping onto rocks along the sides of the cliff.  Within half an hour or so we found a place where we could climb out of the river.  From there it was a steady uphill climb, with Doug bushwhacking a trail for us with his super-sharp machete, through beautiful, wet, earth-smelling, green-brown jungle.   Now that I was safe, I was able to appreciate the richness and fecundity of the jungle – all the plants growing out of other plants – dangling, supporting, parasiting off of one another, and the huge vines twisting around tree-trunks, sending out great aerial roots.  As the rain let up, the butterflies came out, darting and swooping around us like messengers of hope – or deliverance.  

                                    Note:  above two photos from Trip Advisor.

 

We climbed to a small Auca Indian village – a loose collection of bamboo and thatch huts with a large football field in the centre.  The women and girls hid themselves inside and the young boys sat on stones and stared at us while a middle-aged fellow came forward and chatted with Doug.  After some backing and forthing this man lead us down through a banana plantation to a few palm trees.  He used a machete to cut a small one down, and then peeled away several layers of bark and outer skin to reveal a very white inner core, about 6” in diameter.  He cut a section about 4’ long and presented that to Doug.   There was no other exchange – no shaking of hands, no words, no smiles.  As we walked away I felt badly about the way in which we had intruded into their lives.  I was also offended, but said nothing, as Doug later talked about the Auca as primitive ‘naked savages’, living no better than animals.  This despite the fact that I noted that several of the men were wearing European clothing, and I saw and heard radios.  

 

That night we had an ‘all white’ dinner of heart of palm – the heart given to us by the Auca Indian – and mashed yucca and rice.  The heart of palm was delicious – somewhat reminiscent of asparagus, but sweeter, and very tender.  I went to bed still thinking about the day.  Interestingly, it was not the treacherousness of the river, and our perilous situation that dominated my thoughts.  It was the exchange with the Auca Indians, the reasons why the women and children were hiding in their huts, the young boys sitting and silently staring, and the older man doing as Doug asked, and no more.   I wondered how increasing tourism and development would impact these people, and the Latino developers’ relationships with them.  I found it hard to feel positive or hopeful for them.  

 

Note: The group of Indians that our guide called 'Auca' are actually the Huaorani people.  According to Wikipedia: "The Huaorani, Waorani, or Waodani, also known as the Waos, are native Amerindians from the Amazonian Region of Educator (Napo, Orellana, and Pastaza Provinces) who have marked differences from other ethnic groups from Ecuador. The alternate name Auca is a pejorative eponym used by the neighboring Quechua natives, and commonly adopted by Spanish-speakers as well. Auca (awqa in Quechua) means "savage".   

Wikipedia also notes:  "In the last 40 years, they have shifted from a hunting and gathering society to live mostly in permanent forest settlements. As many as five communities—the Tagaeri, the Huinatare, the Onamenane, and two groups of the Taromenane - have rejected all contact with the outside world and continue to move into more isolated areas."

For more information see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huaorani_people