Day 60 - Puerto Maldonado.

It’s overcast and has been raining during the night, though I hadn’t realised it; half-asleep, I thought that a train was passing through the jungle. I clearly didn’t pull the mosquito net down properly and am now covered in new bites. It’s cooler now, which is good news for me; in Puerto Maldonado it’s often over thirty degrees, and my research is easier when it’s cooler. I bid farewell to my new acquaintances, and hop aboard a motorcycle taxi which takes me from the airport into Puerto Maldonado proper. We weave past other road users through the thick red dust.

Puerto Maldonado feels like a frontier town (which it is, being on the border of Brazil and Bolivia) and I don’t warm to it instantly. Tambopata Hostel seems nice, though; I go in search of the tourist office while my room’s being prepared. The woman at reception clearly knew nothing; there’s no tourist office in the Municipality building, and both the Municipality building woman and a policeman that I ask send me on a wild goose chase. On the upside, I manage to cover a lot of ground on foot even before lunch.

Back at the hostel, I meet Gerson, the former Posada Amazonas guide who owns this place; he’s a really nice, knowledgeable young guy, and he whisks me off on a quick tour. We find a tourist office, which is really out of the way and guarded by a man missing many teeth; it’s closed, since it’s Saturday, but normally it should have all sorts of helpful info (if you can find the office, that is). Gerson points out good places to eat, brings my attention to the city’s Chinese heritage (the centrepiece in the main square looks a bit like a pagoda), and tells me about the multi-day tours they do into the local wilderness.

Lunch at Congo Cevicheria around the corner, which I spotted during my earlier round. The seafood fried rice is even bigger than in Arequipa, though not quite as tasty. My bill is verbal; they don’t even write it on a bit of paper.

Though it’s really cheap to rent a scooter, or a small motorbike, I decide against it today because I’ve never driven a motorbike or scooter before, and Puerto Maldonado on a Saturday afternoon is not the place to learn. Maybe tomorrow morning. I settle for a series of brief, thrilling motorbike taxi rides, hurtling through the streets on the backs of motorbikes, which weave in and out of traffic and dodge other motorbikes.

Check out buses to Cusco; they are well cheap (30-40 soles) and now claim to take 10-14 hours, depending on which company you speak with. Am debating whether or not to ditch my plane ticket tomorrow and get a bus instead, as 40 soles if how much I’d be paying for my room in Cusco. Then again, it might be a good idea to re-acclimatise before the Inca Trail…

The market is suitably chaotic, its rows piled high with yucca, mangoes, star fruit, chirimoya, clothes, plastic household utensils…The middle bit consists of cheapo eateries and jugerias, and I stop for a quick papaya juice. The local paper carries the story of the Dutch alleged killer of a young Peruvian woman, arrested in the ‘Peruvian territory’ of Arica, Chile (I like how Peru managed to stick in its claim over the north of Chile, won by the latter in the War of the Pacific). “What a shame,” the jugeria woman tells me. “He’s so good-looking.” As if being an ugly killer would be more acceptable. I notice that the paper’s already pronounced its judgement of the guy, though there’s hasn’t even been a trial.

At a crossroads stand the Obelisco – a tall observation tower from the top of which you get a great overview of the city – the parks, the tin roofs, the myriads of tiny motorcycles, then Madre de Díos river beyond. The ticket guy sees me looking at the posters which mention local dishes and talks me through any ingredients that I don’t know. They even eat capybara here.

I check out some places to stay and spend some time just staring out over the Madre de Díos; on the other side, I can see the buses, waiting to take passengers into Brazil. A car ferry is bringing some car back over. On both sides of the river there are massive concrete supports and the orange beginnings of what will be a mighty motorway bridge, connecting Peru and Brazil and completing the Interoceanic Highway in a year and a half.

Gerson recommended a ‘local place for local people’, so I hurtle through the night yet again. Am reminded of the night bike rides with Forrest through the streets of San Diego, and feel despondent.

The driver drops me off in front of an outdoor grill, on which one man is cooking giant chunks of local fish (paco), juanes (fish and rice wrapped in a banana leaf) and some plantains, while another man is mashing the ready plantains into balls in a massive black mortar with a pestle. My fish, ball of mashed plantain and tankard of maiz morado (local term for ‘chicha morada’) costs 10 soles. Bargain.

Exhausted for some reason, so crash out very early, trying to ignore the shrieks and whoops from the living room next door (the walls are pretty thin).