Iquitos

Today was our one day to explore the fascinating, lively, colorful city of Iquitos! If you can already tell by the way I described it, I loved it there, though there’s not much to do besides walk around, and though the weather downright sucks. I mean, by the end of the day, I was dripping in sweat, and I changed shirts half way through, as the old one had become sopping wet.

When telling people about my trip beforehand, Iquitos was always the one thing I’d bring up specifically. Yeah, Peru is known for Machu Picchu, and of course, we’re making it there next week, but exotic vibe I got from Iquitos was irresistible when describing what I’d be doing. So here I go, describing my long-awaited day in this fascinating city.

To start off, Iquitos is completely isolated from the rest of Peru, and the only road leading out of the city is the one we took to and from Nauta. This means that the materials there must be brought in either by river or by plane, and therefore, what is there—the cars and building materials, just to name a few—is very homogenous. We commented on the complete dominance of Honda in the motor industry, for example; every tuk-tuk is a Honda motorcycle with the same exact carriage on the back of it. Even our boat through the Amazon had a Honda motor powering it. Therefore, personality shows exclusively through decorations. Each tuk-tuk, though identical when bought, has its own array of paint, stickers, sun cover, and divider between passenger and driver to differentiate it from the other hundreds of thousands of tuk-tuks on the road.

There are, in my opinion, three sides to Iquitos. First, there’s the clearly Spanish inspired downtown, with its colorful cement buildings, arches and tiles on façades of buildings, grand squares, and gridded streets, housing the vibrant, exotic, stinky, and chaotic Mercado Belén. This is what I was most excited to encounter, as it is, after all, what Google shows you when you search Iquitos. But there’s also the areas a little out of downtown with their accordion aluminum sheet sidings and roofs, each painted with bright reds and blues, where businesses dispersed among houses advertise ceviches and haircuts with laminated, pixelated pictures on whiteboards at impossibly low prices. We never explored this area, as it’s too far a walk from downtown, though the drive to and from both the airport and Nauta passes through this area. From the looks of it, it’s not really walkable, and we saw much of it from the cars and tuk-tuks we rode.

The European Side of Iquitos

Third is the Barrio Flotante: the floating neighborhood. Here, the houses are made of wood, from the flooring to the walls, only with aluminum accordion sheets on the roofs to keep the rain from pouring in and ruining what few possessions everyone has. Chickens and stray dogs roam as freely as humans. This area is much lower in elevation than the rest of the city. Overlooking the water and the floating sector right at the edge of downtown is a boulevard, which our hostel was on, and within a few miles, turns into a main street of Belén. Several stairways link this bustling, comparatively wealthy and touristy boulevard to the floating sector, and as you descend the three flights, the stairs increase in level of disrepair, the amount of dog poop on them increases, and the bustling sounds of tuk-tuks and bargainers fade into the sound of one lonely radio playing Peruano pop, and otherwise into quiet tranquility. The ground fills with crushed plastic bottles and a questionable amount of animal waste, wood shavings, and scrap metal. As we exit the wet season and prepare for the dry season, the floating sector was not floating, but it is obvious they are prepared for it. The houses stand tall on stilts between about five and fifteen feet off the ground, and an extensive set of precarious walkways and rickety stairs connect each house. These people, unable to afford the prices of downtown, have created their own community resistant to what the harsh Iquitos weather can throw at them.  

When we stepped out of our hostel, we walked down the boulevard in the direction of the market, as paying Belén a visit was indeed our goal for the morning. But the stairs down to the floating sector caught my eyes, and I quickly suggested to Zack that we head down there. At first, I felt out of place. Two friends sit next to a radio at a local shop, grabbing a morning beer. A man drives nails into the front guard rail of his balcony. A tweenaged boy carries accordion aluminum sheets over his head, down the stairs, and to the back of a tuk-tuk. A rooster pecks at the ground, hoping to find a bite to eat. A wrinkly, skinny man stands next to the stilts of his house, sharing a cigarette with a friend. A mother, carrying her baby in her arms, navigates the wooden pathways with ease. Time seemed to stop, and the bustle of Belén I’d long looked forward to seemed only a distant memory, not what we were heading to.

A boy with an Apple Watch, a nice backpack, white skin, and a comparatively tall stature eagerly takes his first steps in this neighborhood. There was no way that I’d fit in as a local. There were no other giddy, disposable camera-clad boys enamored with the charm of the area, especially at 8 AM. I wasn’t meant to be here, and yet, here I was. I still tried to act as if I knew my way around the place, though, and I confidently stepped onto the ramp leading us to the walkways.

Despite my confidence, we were hesitant about whether we should be going there in the first place. Now, this wasn’t out of safety concerns—Iquitos struck us, from the beginning, as a very safe city—but rather, out of privacy concerns. Is it our place to go? Should we be entering this quiet, private slum, or should we leave it? Is romanticizing and touring this poverty even appropriate? Well, there we were, and if there’s one thing I am reluctant to do when touring a city, it’s turning back. I’ll rather go ten minutes out of the way walking in a circle than turn around on the spot, admitting to both myself those around me that I don’t know where I am or what I’m getting myself into. I took every step carefully, dodging the loose boards and dog poop on the walkways, while only occasionally glancing down at the ground. With my eyes off the ground, I had them on my surroundings. I tried to peek into houses, hoping to catch a glimpse of what life means here. I saw houses of a single room, maybe two if you’re lucky, or for the really lucky, two stories. Tacky bedsheets with Lightning McQueen or Disney princesses or Paw Patrol sat over mattresses just barely over the floor, and those with stores lived in the back. There was power where it was needed, as stores advertised cold drinks. We made our way around to a point where the walkway drops off, extending a view onto the marsh and river that, at the north of the city, joins into the Amazon. We sat there for a few minutes, admiring the view, before heading up to Belén. As we climbed up the steps, back into the bustle of downtown, I grew increasingly frustrated with myself for not having found a friendly local to question about their life. That frustration stuck with me all day, and would eventually bring me to return and complete my quest.

Three dogs all fighting aggressively at the top of the stairs welcomed us into Belén. As we ascended, step by step, we could first see the umbrellas covering the stalls, lined up by the dozens on both sides of the street. Then we saw the people filling the road, running from shop to shop with bags of food they’ve bought and goods to deliver. There was the occasional tuk-tuk making its way through, whether it was a brave driver, navigating the sea of humanity to find the two tourists who may be interested in a ride, or maybe it was to transport goods to and from the market.

Scenes from Belén (yes, that is turtle in the fourth picture)

Before buying anything, we scoped the market out to orient ourselves, understand the layout, see what’s sold, and what we may be looking to buy. We found where the fruits were, the clothing, the meat and fish, and where all kinds of stalls lived simultaneously. In these last areas, you’d see fresh cilantro being sold right next to raw chicken, with flies landing on one before jumping to the other. One of these stalls, outside the meat sector, sold turtle meat. And I’ve heard as well that there’s a decent amount of illegal wildlife trade going on there as well, though it seems to be quite hidden. I looked around for any alligator—in a picture I had seen online—but after hours of roaming the market, I still came up unsuccessful. Most of the meat and fish is sold outside, though there is a big blue building at the heart of the market, a block away from the fruits and at the end of the clothing street, where butchers also have more permanent stands. As you may be able to imagine, the building reeks. Walking around the market, you may catch a whiff of raw chicken or God-knows-what, but inside, it’s inescapable. I, unfortunately, overestimated my confidence going in, and convulsed secretly a few times, trying to act as if this wasn’t among one of the foulest stenches I’ve ever had the pleasure of smelling. We made a few loops, hoping to find something exotic, but the closest we got was what looked to be horse foot.

So I mentioned confidence going into this building. Why so confident? Well, first, I find something so exciting, refreshing about going into a market. Taking in new smells and sights at each corner, seeing people go about their routine bargaining, and knowing that most of what’s around me was locally produced and brought here on very similar boats to the one I took with Tony and his dad just a day before.

But there was something even more confidence-boosting about the Iquitos market. Now, you may remember my article, nay, love letter crossed with post trauma debrief, describing my experience in Marrakesh’s souq. The idea that hustle is everything—that a white boy dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt cannot go two stalls without being called ‘my friend’ and invited in to negotiate with a rather hostile, and very experienced bargainer. I learned to brush them off, to avert my eyes when approached by vendors. This was a habit I hated, and one I hoped to break in Dubai, only to resort to the same coping mechanism in the Global Village. Instead, Ansh’s mom did all the conversation for us, freeing us from the invisible chains of the vendors with whom we dared to make eye contact. Here, though, the Middle East hustle was gone. Vendors were friendly, and though still a force to bargain with, one who would not rope me in simply for looking like a foreigner.

I felt confident, maybe even invincible in Belén.

Well, invincible as long as my hand was in my pocket, protecting my wallet and phone. Armed with my confidence, we decided it was time to go spend some soles! Our first target: fruit juice. Though I still have absolutely no idea what kind of smoothie we ended up getting, it was delicious. Just thick enough, very sweet, and a nice refreshment for the weather, still aggressively humid even before 9 AM. Could have we bargained for the juice? Yeah. But it was 2 soles (soles are denoted by S/), so for the two of us, we spent $1.20 on our two large smoothies. I did try to pull a trick on the vendor—she told me two soles for the smoothie, while looking at me, then Zack. I then confirmed to her that we’ll take two, totaling S/ 2, right? She saw through my trick, and 60¢ isn’t worth arguing over, so I handed her the S/ 4 and we got on with our refreshments.

I do suppose that all my recent time in the Middle East has gotten me to take Ansh’s mom’s attitude towards a market: that nothing comes at full price; even if you’re happy with the first price, you still pay them less than they offer, just to leave with the upper hand. I also owe a huge thank you to Matt Sequeira, who helped me to bargain the first time in Marrakesh, and who showed me a few of tricks that I pulled today.

Now, I’ve also really wanted a soccer jersey, and walking around, I saw the newly classic pink Miami Messi jersey with the Royal Caribbean logo on it. I’d also been wanting a Peru jersey (which looks suspiciously similar to the Sevilla jersey I have already), so I figured I could use buying both as some sort of bargaining chip. I pointed out my desire for the Messi jersey to Zack in front of one vendor that had it, and hence, he knew I was interested. I had to walk by—he’d upcharge me if I didn’t. We went a few stalls down, to a guy eager to sell me a jersey, which was something I obviously didn’t want. S/ 45 per jersey; honestly, quite a good price, though the jerseys are 100% fake. We looked around his stall for a while, while I passed on the two I really wanted. I tried to leave, before letting him pull me back in. I showed him the Messi one that I wanted, “forgetting” about the Peruano one I’d been pining for.  S/ 40. I countered with S/ 25, but he was completely reluctant to bargaining. He said it’s 40 or bust. I pulled out the second one I wanted, saying that for two, how about we do S/ 60? He declined again, saying that it’s S/ 40 each, no matter how many I buy. So, I pulled out S/ 40 to go and buy just the Messi one. Seeing that he was about to miss out on S/ 40, he dropped it to S/ 70 to secure my business. I felt, for the first time ever, successful in a bargain. Previously, I either needed help from a more experienced bargainer, or the salesman had the upper hand from the beginning and never relinquished it. But here, I knew what I wanted, I had my plan, and I wasn’t leaving until I left with a price lower than I was offered. I’d love to hear his side of the story, hear how much money he made off me, etc., but alas, the world has its secrets, and our paths diverged, with me clad with two dry fit jerseys, while the shirt I was wearing was dark with my sweat. Let’s just say, buying some clean dryfit shirts that didn’t make their way to the Amazon and become stink bombs of their own was certainly the move, and I’m super happy with both my purchases. Though clearly knock-offs just based on price alone, both are of good quality, have few strings, and feel very similar to the Sevilla one I bought for 70 € or my Cade McNamara one I bought half off, originally priced at $120 at the M Den.

Continuing to patronize the market, we figured that we wanted to grab some breakfast. So, we constructed a bit of a quest: buy the ingredients we needed to make a fresh, Peruano desayuno in the fruit sector of the market. All the fruits we bought came to be less than S/ 2 per purchase, so we skipped bargaining here as well, figuring that the shop owners can use the sol or two that we can spare. After walking up and down the fruit street, we ended up with passion fruit, avocado, Amazonian spicy peppers, cilantro, and limes. We headed back to the hostel to prepare the fruits of our labor, and all I can say is that it was nothing short of amazing.

The rest of the day was spent walking around different areas of Iquitos, including going into a museum about the cultures of the Amazon. The museum, also on the boulevard overlooking the marsh and the Barrio Flotante, was filled with replica artifacts and an aggressively exuberant tour guide hungry for tips, but it had some very cool aspects to it. First, the museum looked straight out of southern Spain—an exciting and familiar sight for me. There was the classic Andalucian octagonal fountain in the center of a wide courtyard, with covered walkways surrounding the center. The fountain was adorned with intricate, Andalucian style tiles (probably fake, though), and intricate woodwork lined the ceiling, just like in Seville’s Alcázar. Though much of what was there was not original nor authentic, the museum space supposedly replicates how the building used to look back when it served as the governor’s residence.

Running all around the courtyard were dozens of statues, replicas of those created by a Swedish-Peruano artist from the late 1800s. He was passionate about the people of his country of birth and spent months at a time out in the Amazon, living with each tribe, learning about their customs, studying their objects, and immersing himself in their traditions. Each of these sculptures indicates something unique about their tribe. Maybe the tribe wears long clothes because they live higher up than most, or maybe they have a unique way of communicating with the nearby tribes, and this primal telephone is shown in the statue. Maybe they have a unique marking made on the body or costume to be worn that indicates high status in the tribe. One tribe had a peacock costume for their leader, while others would shave the tops of their heads or split their lips. It was very interesting to me to see how diverse the traditions of the Amazon could be, given that, in the end, they are all living in the same environment.

We walked a bit farther away from downtown, but our search to find something interesting came up fruitless. Both sweaty, wet from rain, and with achy feet, Zack and I turned into the hostel. I mean, at least the hostel had a fan, but it still lacked AC.

Remember how I mentioned that I still felt the sting that I couldn’t muster the confidence to grab someone not up to much in the Barrio Flotante and talk to them? Well, seeing as our return to the hotel brought us within minutes of the Barrio, that sting grew evermore difficult to dismiss. I was, after all, proudly sporting my new Inter Miami jersey, and felt like I may fit in just a little more. I told Zack that I’d be back before our tuk-tuk to the airport, and that I’d be heading to the Barrio to catch the vibes a little more. I’ll relay the rich, heartwarming, and mildly poignant story I captured there in my next entry.