From Andes to Amazon, How I Met Gil

Yawar, our leader and guide, was undeniably drunk. The farewell party for the volunteer team we had traveled through the Andes with, ended on a sour note. Yawar had capitalized on his partner’s absence by flirting with the Australian girls. His behavior was entirely inappropriate. The young women were disgusted by his sloppy affections. I monitored him closely, ready to intervene if the girls needed me.

Yawar’s girlfriend, Chaska, was also a certified guide. She had left Cusco that morning to deliver her son to his father’s house in another city. Chaska and Yawar are both indigenous. Since they spoke the native language, Quechua, they guided groups into remote regions where Peruvians lived traditionally. It had been an interesting couple of weeks. I had arranged to film the volunteers who built greenhouses in the mountain villages.

We were the last to leave the bar. Yawar struggled to get in the taxi and I shut the door behind him. I got in on the other side. He moved across, closing the gap between us. His lack of tolerance to alcohol severely affected his better judgment. I turned my knees toward him, attempting to create a gap. “Tell the driver your address.” He was patient while Yawar slurred out the details. We pulled away from the curb with a lurch. Yawar flopped into my lap, partly because of his intoxication and partly because of his intentions. I pushed him upright, but he resisted. “Yawar, pay attention, I have no idea where we’re going.” It was true, I was completely disoriented.

I was trying to get my bearings, searching for familiar landmarks, when Yawar yanked me towards him. He attempted to kiss me. I shoved him roughly and told him to smarten up. “I know you want it. I can feel it.” He grabbed me forcefully and pinned himself against me.

“No!” I shoved back, “I don’t want it.” He was mauling me clumsily. “What the hell are you thinking?” Either the taxi driver was deaf or he didn’t care. Yawar grabbed me more aggressively.

“Don’t lie. I can see it in your eyes. You want to kiss me. Don’t fight it.”

I was fighting it! He was groping me. I checked the rear-view mirror searching for the driver’s reaction. None. He ignored us.

“Stop being an idiot, Yawar. I don’t want to kiss you. I don’t want you touching me. Just stop!” I startled him by shouting. The driver was unfazed but I was relieved when he finally pulled over.

I looked out to see that we had arrived at the apartment complex. I flung open the door and scrambled out. Yawar was paying the fare so I waited at the stairs for him to open the door to his flat.

I wanted to say something but experience had taught me, the futility of arguing with a drunk. I just wanted to sleep. He unlocked the door. I pushed past him and rushed into my room, his stepson’s bedroom. I slammed the door and stood vibrating. Tomorrow, better in the morning, tomorrow. I composed myself, removed my jacket and shoes, and then the door flung open.

Yawar stumbled towards me. His pants off, boots on. His hard dick pointing at me. I stared in disbelief.

“What the hell!? Put your pants on!” He advanced with remarkable speed for someone so intoxicated. He grabbed me, squeezing me too tightly. I broke free and ran from the room. He was right behind me.

“Leave me alone!”

I hadn’t expected this from him. I was 56 years old. He was 31. He chased me around the apartment. I kept yelling at him to go to bed. I was screaming that he was out of his mind.

I was crashing around the kitchen, circling the table and chairs. I was just beyond his reach. I ran back through the hall to the bedroom. I pinned myself against the door summoning all my strength against his. I was screaming and swearing. I was fucking furious. I had hired him to be my guide and interpreter. I had no interest in him. Zilch!! He lived with his girlfriend and her kid for fuck’s sake!

The door was banging repeatedly. He’d push it open a few inches and I’d throw my weight against it, closing it again. “Leave me alone!”

The doorbell rang. I held my position against the door. Footsteps, grunts, thudding, then footsteps. I imagined he was putting his pants on. I heard the neighbor’s voice and opened the door to see her in pajamas; arms folded, red face, and angry eyes. Yawar was speaking Spanish, but she wasn’t buying it. We exchanged looks. I stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife, then walked past them brandishing it triumphantly. I knew what to do with it. I slammed the door and rammed it between the casing. It worked. I damaged the wood but the door was locked now.

I heard Yawar shut the front door; footsteps approached. I screeched at full volume, “GO… TO… BED!” He shushed me. Footsteps. A door closing. I stood a moment listening. Nothing.

I kept my clothes on and climbed into bed. What a mess! What the hell was I going to do now? My eyes were wide in the darkness.

We had a midday flight booked to Puerto Maldonado, in the southeast corner of Peru. I wanted to shoot footage of the illegal gold mines in the Rain Forest. Toxins caused epidemic illness in children who ate contaminated rice and fish.

Shit! How would I find a replacement to interview the locals in Spanish or Quechua? I was fucked. I squeezed my fists and shook them impotently in the darkness. I came up with a solution as I was drifting off to sleep. He wasn’t going to like it.

I woke up early to pack. I had canceled our flights exchanging for the thirteen-hour bus ride. I was writing Yawar a letter when he wandered out, acting as if nothing had happened. Before he had a chance to speak, I rattled off my conditions. “You will wait until Chaska arrives back tomorrow. You will tell her that our plans have changed. I don’t care how you convince her, but she will come with you to meet me in Puerto Maldonado. I am not going to travel alone with you. If you want to work with me, you have to bring her. Tell her that we need her to translate the videos or something.” I crumpled up the half-written letter and threw it at him. “I’m leaving on the 8 am bus. I’ll text you the name of the hotel once I check-in. Let me know when the two of you will be arriving.” I stared at him, and the laser intensity of my anger landed. “Don’t bother coming if she isn’t with you.”

He started to speak but I cut him off immediately, “Don’t talk, I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” I slung my backpack over my shoulders and left without turning back. I didn’t know if I would see him again. It was a gamble that he’d persuade Chaska to join us in the jungle. I knew the odds of getting a replacement were slim to nil.

On the bus, I fell into a deep sleep. Because I’d barely slept the night before, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained. I woke up after the sun had gone down. It would be 2 or 3 more hours before we arrive in the small town near the borders of Bolivia and Brazil. I had to book a room. I began searching on my phone, grateful for the signal but aware that I could lose it at any moment. We’d be arriving after 9 pm.

When I found a cheap hostel near the bus station I felt a torrent of relief. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I let them flow. I had to get it out. The past 24 hours were brutal. I had financed this project solo and the chance it could collapse because of that selfish prick was heartbreaking.

I woke up to noise and chatter in the 8-bed dormitory. It was morning. I could smell toast and coffee. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched a petite young woman with golden curls organize her toiletries and hang her towel on the ladder to the top bunk. I was famished. I had barely eaten on the bus. I dressed quickly, I needed coffee. The hostel included a basic breakfast; eggs, toast, bananas, coffee, and jam.

I filled my plate and searched for a table. I sat stuffing the food down ravenously when the woman with curly, blond hair passed by talking with one of the hosts. She spoke Spanish fluently. After gathering her breakfast from the buffet, she came over to my table and asked, in perfect English, if she could join me. “Absolutely. Good morning.”

She put her plate down and left to get a coffee. When she returned, I had to ask, “Your Spanish is excellent. Where are you from?” She held up her hand, I waited while she chewed, then swallowed.

“I’m from the Czech Republic. I work as a court interpreter. I have a degree in Spanish.”

“Wow, that’s a challenging job.” I let her finish eating before striking up the conversation again.

“What are you doing in the Amazon?”

“I’m here for 5 weeks. I volunteer at a lodge in the jungle. As an interpreter.”

“5 weeks!” I pushed my plate to the side and pulled my coffee closer. “That’s a long time to be in the jungle.”

“Yeah, I do it every year. I love it. The lodge is 2 hours upriver. It’s beautiful. I translate for the tourists that stay there.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Noni.” I added in my limited Spanish, “Como la fruta”

“Martina.” She laughed, “Yes, but Noni is a horrible fruit. It smells like rotten feet.”

“Everyone laughs when I tell them. I didn’t realize it was such a big thing here. It’s a superfood.” Now I was laughing. “I gagged at the smell. Wasn’t brave enough to try it.” I collected our dishes and asked if she wanted a coffee refill. She shook her head and stood up to follow me to the sink. “It’s cool, I’ll wash yours too.”

“Oh, that’s so kind. Thank you.”

“Well, it’s only a plate and a knife.” I held the knife up and thought back to the other night. Her smile melted the anger of the recollection. “What will you do in the jungle for 5 weeks?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, I love it there. It’s incredible. I help with food preparation, clean the rooms between guests, translate for people who don’t speak Spanish, and act as a host.” She picked up a towel and started drying our dishes. “It’s not that busy because there’s only 4 bungalows and I stay in one of them. I meet the guests at the boat and explain everything as we travel down the river. It’s two hours from here. The only way to get there is by boat. We have no phone or internet signal, a generator that only runs for 2 hours in the evening, and no fridge. But the food is fresh and delicious. There’s so much to see and do.”

We finished our cleanup. I wanted to know more. The journalist in me was always asking questions. “Sounds fantastic! When are you going there?”

“Tomorrow at 11. I meet the owner in the town square. She lives in Secret Valley but she’s coming for a few days to check up on everything. There’s a local guy, Alex, he runs the lodge and acts as a guide.” I thought about my guide, Yawar. I hoped she didn’t run into the same trouble, especially being so isolated.

My phone beeped indicating a text. It was from Yawar. He said they’d arrive in 4 days. What am I going to do for 4 days? I can’t stay here doing nothing. I looked at Martina, it was an option, “Can I come with you? I’m waiting for my interpreter and his girlfriend to arrive. I have a few days to kill.”

She sent a message to the owner of the jungle resort, asking if I could accompany them tomorrow but that I had to be back on Tuesday. Martina offered that I could share her room since it had twin beds. I arranged an exchange. I would take photos and write content for their website, in return, I got free room and meals. It was a lucky turn of events and perfectly timed since the owner also had to return to Puerto Maldonado on Tuesday to sign documents at her bank.

The next morning, I followed Martina to the town square where we met the owner, Lubicia who was also from the Czech Republic. At the primitive-looking dock, we hoisted our packs into a long wooden boat piloted by a tall, thin Peruvian. It was rare to see such stature in the region. Martina told me Alex was also the chef, caretaker, gardener and guide. He passed us packets wrapped in dark leaves and tied with string. We devoured the local specialty of steamed vegetarian rice as we cruised upriver.

The Madre de Dios River was the color of milky coffee. The current was strong but Alex expertly maneuvered our transport like a trucker would drive on a familiar roadway. Trees, lush with bright blooms, crowded the banks and blocked any hint of habitation along the way. The putt-putt engine seduced me with its rhythm, the vibration soothing and hypnotic. The vegetation, exotic and savagely invasive invited me to appreciate its resilience. I filled my lungs with the oxygen-rich air. I was invigorated. Yes, this was just what I needed.

The Madre de Dios region was like no other I visited. I was fascinated by the sights, sounds, and smells. Before I knew it, we were pulling up against the river bank. There was a narrow winding path that disappeared into the foliage. Alex handed me my pack after I had climbed out of the boat. I followed Martina up the path. It was steep. “Why don’t they build some stairs?”

“For better camouflage. If people see stairs or an elaborate dock, they think it’s worth robbing.” I understood the concept given the remoteness. Thinking back, I hadn’t seen any buildings or hint of human existence along the entire route. Martina was nimbly climbing the bank; she waited at the top. When I reached her side, I let out a gasp. “This place is beautiful!” I was stunned. Perfectly manicured grass, flowering shrubs, hundreds of pure white, star lilies, and well-built wooden structures with mosquito net walls. I understood why she’d spend 5 weeks here. I was a mini paradise.

When she opened the door to her hut, which we would share, I was blown away for the second time. Inside the immaculate cottage were 2 beds with white netting, a small table with a candle and two chairs, a hammock, and open wooden racks for clothes. We took off our shoes and she welcomed me in. “The bathroom is through that door.” She indicated the only solid walls and door, everything else was mesh. “There’s no hot water but it’s not cold so you’ll find it refreshing in this heat.” She pointed to the shelves, “Put your stuff there. If anything is wet, hang it up on the line outside. It’s so humid here, stuff gets funky really fast.”

“Wow, it’s so cute.” I was lost for a word that could adequately describe the place. Cute wasn’t doing it justice. “It’s spectacular. Thanks for letting me come along.”

Martina hung her pack on a large hook and called over her shoulder on the way out the door, “Freshen up and follow the gravel path back to the main buildings. I have to check in with Lubicia and Alex.” I nodded, still at a loss for words. “And make sure that the door is shut properly. We don’t want critters coming in.”

She was gone. I sat in one of the chairs and stared at the magnificent view. Banana trees, star fruit, pineapple, and other, yet-to-be-identified plants grew in clusters around the property. The land had been cleared but the thickness of the jungle was only 100 meters away. I sat listening to the cacophony of nature calls. I had been warned about snakes. I would most certainly remember to stay on the gravel pathways.

When I returned to the commodore and kitchen area, I found Martina relaxing on the steps, looking at the river. I sat silently beside her. It was truly a paradise. I could hear the putt-putt of a boat; it was getting louder. Then the engine cut. Not much time later an odd-looking man crested the embankment. His hair was crudely cut. He wore a white collared shirt with rolled-up sleeves, open buttons, and tied at the waist. He had baggy black trousers. When he spotted me, he walked directly towards me. His eyes intently bore into me. He smiled and a beam of love radiated into my core. “Who is that?” I whispered reverently.

“That’s Gil. He’s the Shaman.”

Gil walked straight up to me, grabbed my hand with both of his and pumped an enthusiastic greeting. “Hola! Eres una curandera.”

“Hola.” I looked to Martina who held a puzzled expression. “What did he say?”

“He said that you’re a healer.”

And that’s how I met the man who would change my life.

I am a healer. Gil knew.