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Posted March 17, by Jungle Love in characters , Iquitos. Tagged: addiction , amazon , Belen , con artist , con men , confidence man , crack cocaine , estafadores , iquitos , pasta , Peru. The city of Iquitos, capital of the Peruvian Amazon, is no exception. It is full of con men and swindlers of all varieties, from street-level hustlers to high-ranking businessmen and politicians. There are a lot of thieves here too, and the line between a theft and a con is hard to discern sometimes— using forged paperwork to sell a house that does not belong to you, for example, is an elaborate con, but theft is at the heart of the gesture, because something promised was not delivered. A true street-level con, on the other hand, is just an act of creative storytelling, in which you get someone to hand over money willfully. The greatest street-level con man in Iquitos, by a wide margin, is not a Peruvian at all, but an Englishman in his early forties named Brian. When I first met him, he approached me in the street and introduced himself as George. Speaking in crisp, polished English, he proceeded to paint a brief portrait of himself as a stranded traveler who had been robbed and just needed money to eat until his wire transfer arrived. I gave him nothing, although I was tempted to. That was three years ago. I have since gotten to know Brian as well as his friends from England, with whom he first came here as a tourist. I remember when I came back to Iquitos a year after that first encounter, and ran into Brian again. He approached me in the same way as before, but as soon as he recognized me, he instantly dropped the pretense and we had a friendly conversation. His lifestyle was taking an obvious toll on him. His teeth were a mess, and he was as thin as a wire. But his piercing ice-blue eyes still darted about, aware of everything, scanning the streets as we talked, like a predator on perpetual alert. Recently, word got around in Iquitos that Brian had received a beating from some tourists who were not happy about being conned. I finally caught up with Brian recently in the main square of Iquitos, the Plaza de Armas, to talk about the state of his life. Before I could even ask him about his various confidence games, he cut me off with a demonstration. As they approached, he addressed them, and the exchange went something like this:. What a relief, to meet another Englishman. Anything you could spare towards my plane ticket home would be such a great help. But you have to consider my situation, I mean, look at me. He held out his right hand, and they both winced at his little finger, which was half-shrunken and stuck out from his hand at a crazy angle. However his index finger was broken as well, and this was obvious by the color and inflammation. I just want to go home. If you could maybe just manage, oh, twenty soles, that would really be something. Inside of five minutes, the man handed over twenty soles and they both wished him good luck. He thanked them profusely and we walked off together. As we did, I noticed an angry-looking Peruvian sitting on the bench next to ours. I thought for sure he was going to intervene, because he knows me as an estafador already. Brian truly is an estafador in full. This is because the estafador is using his wits alone for gain, without resorting to violence or robbery, and Peruvians respect a good liar, because a good liar is someone who is smart enough to manipulate a situation to their advantage, and get away with it. Brian himself told me a story that makes this distinction better than I can. One night recently, a couple of Welsh rugby players on vacation, who Brian had conned ten days earlier, ran into him in to the street. They chased him down and then knocked him around a little bit. During this beating, a local street vendor came over to see what was going on. The second time, incidentally, was at the hands of a French tourist who took issue with Brian. He landed a few hard punches to the head before chasing him through the maze-like Modelo Market, weaving through vegetable stands and crowds of vendors. He even chased him into a motorcar and out the other side, like something out of a Benny Hill routine, until the chase ended at a crackhouse where Brian had been staying, and the other fumadores pasta smokers turned the tables. In the end, Brian had to pull them off and usher the tourist out the door before he was badly hurt. All the local business owners in town know about Brian, so he does not show up along the main Boulevard of Iquitos much anymore. But the employees recognized him and chased him off. Once, standing in line at Saby, the corner market on the first block of Nauta street, I watched Brian conning a tourist right outside the entrance. Brian looked inside the store, then calmly turned again to the tourist. I think he has me confused with someone else. Look, his picture is right there on the wall! By this point, Brian had the attention of everyone in the store. All eyes went to the wall, a few feet from where Brian was standing, and sure enough, there was the Iquitos Times article, and his photo. Brian looked at the tourist, and could see the game was lost. And then he just kind of sighed, and seemed to smile a bit as he turned and walked away without another word. Brian, holding the article warning tourists about him. The mangled pinky finger, the urgency in his voice, the contradiction of a person so clearly bright and articulate, who is disheveled and hungry, strikes an instinctual chord—most people would think: this person is clearly out of place, he is obviously educated and well-spoken, just a poor chap who has found himself in a tight spot. His pitch also rings true because ninety percent of what Brian says is accurate. He has lost his passport, he has been injured, in actual fact he has no money to his name, and he really is living out on the street, so very far from home. He is merely leaving out the other ten percent—the part about his addiction to pasta. Pasta, or cocaine paste, is a crude, intermediary product that results from the first step of cocaine processing, which usually happens on-site in remote locations throughout the Amazon. Peru now leads the world in coca production, and the impoverished back streets of Iquitos are awash in pasta, which is cheap and plentiful. To make it, coca leaves are put in a barrel or a pit, and kerosene or other chemicals are poured over them to extract the cocaine base. Brian was remarkably frank with me about his pasta problem. This kind of addiction defies logic or reason. It has become all-consuming for a man that was once living life in style, and making more money than he knew what to do with. Of course Brian is smart enough to know better. But being smart has nothing to do with it—addiction is its own reason for being. Brian has spent years now living in crackhouses, with friends in very low places, living a life of petty crime, and for what? I think back to the words of my friend Marco, who I ran into while talking to Brian in the Plaza. And I really do believe that if you ever decide to go straight and work a regular sales job, you could make a lot of money, if you wanted to. Yes, someone had ripped me off. And half of that was my own money, and the other half belonged to a syndicate. It should be a lot easier, hopefully. I did. But that kind of money is easy come, easy go. You open it, and your goal is to open the envelope as soon as you can. She was the first person that I spoke to that day. When I got round the corner and opened my hand, I almost dropped to my knees. I was like, hallelujah! That would be just going out once. Sometimes on bad days, I make thirty or forty soles. But other days, I just drop onto a really nice person, and I get a hundred right off. And you were helping out people in lower Belen, the Robin Hood thing. I hear that the kids call you Papa Noel Santa Claus. I was helping out old ladies, people who needed the help, and there were a few people who would always come and ask. And they would approach me with some sob story that was obvious bullshit, but I over overlook that and give them something, and that was another way to justify what I was doing. Because they are such genuinely good people, that it kind of echoes in your mind. Oh, there was lots of fights, lots of beatings. And no one wants to get involved. Men beat. Quite a lot. With almost no reason. I did it a few times. I pulled a guy off and people jumped in on me. I would share it along the way, a handful here and there, it would always be shared. They eat the bones too, you know. In the initial days, I walked down the stairs of Belen with a quarter chicken, and somebody stole it from me. I mean, what can you say to somebody who steals food from you? My fault? I like to start from zero, every day. Every day when I wake up, I have nothing. A year and a half. After that, the riot squad and the drug squad came down to deal with, like, four houses that were being used for smoking pasta. Although they were my friends, I also saw them as just human. Anyway, the police came and just went berserk, because the government was building a new clinic down there and they wanted to clean up the area. And basically, they squashed the houses with us inside them, literally, and all the contents inside them. No, just, militant police squads, they pushed the houses over, I mean they were made of wood, so they rocked them until they fell over. They had guns, they had sticks, they flushed us out like rats. The majority of the people there, they moved one block over to San Martin and Ucayali, and I then resided in similar sort of conditions for another year, until the police came and did the same again. We had a little sort of village by then, and after the second time I moved to Punchana, to a house with a huge reinforced iron door, with about six locks on it. It has a long stone corridor and then opening up onto a little yard. When I first got there we looked at getting electric currents running through the roof, which is the only way anybody could get in. The guys who run it, they get a package every morning, of a hundred grams of pasta, and they cut it up into little folded square packets made of newspaper, called tickets. And a ticket costs one sole each. So they pack them up into ten piles of sixty four tickets each. When you cut a sheet of newspaper in an eight by eight grid, you get sixty four little squares of paper. And they usually sell out every day. So the first thing I do is I agree with them. And this guy, he gives me twenty soles, and then maybe the same night he reads in the Iquitos Times about the gringo con man, sees my picture, and he realizes, shit, that guy conned me. He will never again give money to someone in the street. There are too many facilities. And the conviction, is, well, enchantment, and charm. I was actually born near Sheffield, in a place called Rotherham. Sheffield is where they make all the nice stainless steel knives and forks. Let me go back to living in Belen. Occasionally I would see gringos walking down the stairs to go to the market down there, but no other gringos lived there. It is fairly dangerous there, but the grounds that I entered there, I entered already knowing the worst people, as it were, and they were the people protecting me. I had quite a few. There was one point when I was trying to teach the guys to use fists instead of knives, and I got cut shows a scar on his chest , not very deep though. That was from separating a fight. I also have a cut here, on my hand, about three inches, down to the bone. This was a meter long fluorescent light tube, and they broke it, and then stabbed me with it—I put my hand up to block it, and got stabbed there. And the finger. Oh yes, the finger. That got a lot of sympathy! How did it actually happen? Well, I was smoking, I was out of my head, and it was nighttime. I was talking to a friend, we were sitting around a large table that had candles on it, about as big as half your thumb. This was not long after being stabbed in the hand, and it must have severed a nerve, as I lost all feeling from the point of my little finger, to about two inches down on my wrist. As I leaned over to talk, I felt absolutely nothing but I actually burned my little finger on the candle without being aware at all. I blew it out, and I just looked at my finger and I could see the bone. And I felt nothing. Not until the other day, when the Welsh guys stamped on it. Yeah, definitely. They broke the first joint of my index finger, maybe not the second but it hurts, and the one that was already broken, they broke it again. But they did not blacken my eyes, and I still hold my head up high! For the moment, yes. But, there are certain things. There are a few wrongs that I would like to right. Until I do that, I will feel incomplete. I will leave, one day, and I will leave alive. Later on that night, after our interview took place, Brian encountered another of the Welshman who had earlier given him twenty dollars. This was Ian, the unofficial leader of the group, and he was the biggest and baddest of all of them. With his bald head, tattoos and facial piercings, he could have stepped out of the landscape of a Mad Max movie. This might appear to be kind of a contradiction—to go from the peace-and-love vibe of jungle medicine, to delivering beatings in the streets of Iquitos—but in fact it was a matter of principle. The Welshmen had told Brian quite clearly, before giving him twenty dollars apiece, that if he turned out to be a liar, they would find him and give him a thrashing. The universe must have quite a sense of humor. I say this also because, after Ian was done with him, Brian actually went and summoned the police, who detained them both and took them to the police station. According to Ian, Brian was furious at him, saying Ian would be put in jail, and was going to be in a lot of trouble, because Brian knew the police at the station and they were friends of his. But when they arrived at the station, the police inspector talked to both of them, and then had Brian temporarily locked up. Afterwards, he came over to Ian and shook his hand. It seems quite unclear what the future holds for Brian. How can an intelligent person find contentment in such conditions? Sooner or later his tickets are going to expire. So I hope that one day soon, he will wake up and decide to use his powers only for good, in someplace worthier of his abilities, someplace more refined than an Iquitos crackhouse. Posted by projectamazonastree on March 17, at pm. Great story, great writing. There was also a Hungarian, really nice fellow who actually had one honest minimum wage job after another, great stories, last I saw him was several years ago, trying to sell a drum on the Boulevard for 10 soles. Only about two days before you published the story I had met Brian for the second time, and for the second time he came up empty with me. I really did enjoy his sales pitch and told Brian that it was much more refined than a year and a half ago. Was great to finally meet you at The Amazon Cafe. Good luck and best wished for your writing career. I think you have a bright future. What a great blog post on yet another unforgettable Iquitos character! Personally, I respect anyone who can survive 1. Hey Caleb, sure enjoyed this story and your writing style. This was stopping on the way through Merritt BC Canada. And now come to think of it I bought into another trying to get home plea six months ago in Calgary. Met the guy too. He could make fortune with that stuff…. Posted by Lynette on February 10, at pm. I was recommended this blog by means of my cousin. I am not positive whether this publish is written by means of him as no one else recognise such special about my trouble. You are incredible! Thank you! Thank you. I know what you mean—no one else recognise such special about my trouble either. Good luck to you. Posted by Enterhase on February 18, at pm. Thanks for another great Amazon story. On the darkening streets of shantytown Belen in Iquitos, a Caucasian four years ago approached and asked for a handout. I thought I was the only one out there at night. We talked at length, and though the wound was as real as the need for sutures, he seemed content to chat for fifteen minutes about the incident. I would later meet other ex-pats who said that the prey was actually the predator. I told him it was a one-time loan, one time repayment, but never saw him again after that night. Hi there I went to school with Brian mcarron at a small village in Rotherham, spent quite a bit of time together in and out of school. So in that sense he seemed more grown up than other kids my age although he was a nice kid. After leaving school quite a few lads went down south and even abroad,some came back some not. Bri has his mum n sisters in Rotherham still and I for one have spent time with him here in England and out in Peru.. He is a complex person who has somehow left his 7 kids to grow up without there father just like he did Its a shame he has ended up without a passport and unable to get home.. He is very talented and intelligent.. I hope he is ok and wish him all the best.. God Bless. Thanks for leaving a comment. It took me a couple of years to get Brian to sit down with me and agree to tell it, and to his credit, he was totally honest about his entire situation, not trying to spin it in any way. Whatever else you can say about him, he is not in denial about his behavior! I would like to think he is also smart enough to one day turn it around. Posted by Theresa on April 21, at pm. I am a very old friend of Bri from his home town Rotherham! After reading this my heart fills with mixed emotions…. But right now anger is taking over… If I could sit for a minute and have a conversation with Bri I would remind him his calling is to grow some bollocks face his demons!!! Grrrrr he clearly is in pain I can see that in his eyes from the pictures you have printed!!! But us his true friends can see through that stupid ego of his that has always got him into trouble! What can I say…. If you see our friend again tell him we miss and love the real Brian Mccaron love n light hold on tight as you once showed us!!! Just come home Bri! Tree,Jay,Arran,Stanton xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Thanks so much for the comment. This story found its way to facebook and several of his old friends have written with similar comments. His is a troubling story in many levels. Like you, I wish Brian nothing but the best and hope that he will one day soon get on a different path than the one he has been on in recent years. Hi just by reading this I can not believe it. As I have none Brian for years really nice kid. U have told his story or should I say his last few years good as not to put Brian down but to tell true. My heart goes out to Brian hope he comes back home one day. Very sad. Brian is a con man, an undesirable way to be for sure. But that Ian guy is a psychopath from the sounds of it, ha. Who drinks ayahausca and finds it in themselves to beat a man on a promise. Probably a pasta fiend himself. What a lovely place Iquitos can be. Email Address:. Blog at WordPress. Jungle Love life in Iquitos. Where are you from? Share this: Email Facebook Twitter. Like Loading Posted by Rere on March 17, at pm. Great story, Caleb. Re Reply. Don Reply. Posted by Loren Whisenhunt on March 19, at am. Posted by Dan on March 21, at pm. Posted by Don Campbell on December 23, at am. Cheers, Don Campbell Reply. Posted by Marc van Ardenne on January 6, at pm. He could make fortune with that stuff… Reply. Posted by Jungle Love on February 11, at pm. Fantastic story! Very well written. Posted by bo keeley on February 28, at pm. Posted by grace on March 19, at am. Posted by Nick cox on April 21, at am. Posted by Lydia Birkbeck on April 21, at pm. God Bless Reply. Posted by Jungle Love on April 22, at am. Thanks so much for commenting— could not agree with you more. Thanks so much for commenting. He is indeed a survivor! Posted by tom on April 21, at pm. Omg I went to school with Brian. Posted by Dane King on April 21, at pm. Posted by Dane King on April 22, at am. Tree,Jay,Arran,Stanton xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Reply. Posted by Craig ball on April 22, at am. Very sad Reply. Posted by Nathan on May 30, at am. Leave a comment Cancel reply. Help support Jungle Love! Because why not. Jungle Love e-mail subscription Enter your email address to follow Jungle Love and receive notifications of new posts by email. Email Address: feel the love Join 64 other subscribers. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Jungle Love. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website. Design a site like this with WordPress.

10 Things to Know Before You Go to Peru

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We were down at the riverfront in plenty of time to board the first boat of our river journey. This boat was a rapido, a fast, sleek passenger ferry that would take us from Coca, where the road ended, to Nuevo Rocafuerte, the last town in Ecuador, in about seven hours or so. But figuring out what to do at the crowded dockside was made easier by the arrival of two other cyclists. Juliet from Brazil and Alfredo from Argentina were in the midst of a tour of the northern parts of the continent, along with their little canine companion. I had imagined that they would perhaps be lashed to the roof somehow, but instead some men who may or may not have been in charge told us that the bikes would have to be transported separately on another boat. I certainly was not happy about this, but Juliet and Alfredo seemed very okay to go along with it and we were being encouraged to follow them on board as our boat was ready to go. The bikes were still just leaning against the railing of the dock. We got on the boat and took our seats, and waved goodbye to our bikes, which we surely would never see again. The boat was at least very comfortable. We had big leather seats, enough leg room, and a lovely cooling breeze flowed past us as we sped downstream at about forty kilometres per hour over the smooth water. It really was rather a pleasant way to travel. After about half an hour Dea spotted a small boat going very fast behind us. And sure enough, there were our four bicycles, perched precariously on the roof of this other boat as it bumped over the water, and everything was now fine. Halfway through our journey we made a lunch stop and it was nice to get out and stretch our legs. There were a few other stops along the way too, just to pick up or drop off people at the little villages that appeared out of the forest every once in a while. There were quite many other boats on the river too, just little dugout canoes many of them. With no roads connecting the villages out here it was obvious that the river worked as the means of transportation for the people, as it must have always done. By mid-afternoon we were in Nuevo Rocafuerte and a little disappointed to be, as without the cooling breeze generated by the movement of the boat it was actually a lot hotter on land. Our first enquiries naturally concerned the whereabouts of our bicycles, of which there was worryingly no sign. So I took on the responsibility of tracking down the bikes, and was led by our boat captain to a nearby yard, where I was relieved to find the bikes safely stored behind a fence. The next task was to cycle to immigration, which was at the other end of the quiet town there was basically no traffic here, lovely. This had meant a three kilometre walk to an out-of-town immigration building, where they had refused to stamp our passports, and told us we actually could do it in Nuevo Rocafuerte after all. Now we were in Nuevo Rocafuerte and tracking down immigration, which consisted of one young guy in a house. Of course they would. Without stamps in our passports once again we just had to trust everything would be okay. After eating rice and eggs at a little restaurant, Dea and I went to sit on the riverfront in the evening. There was no traffic about, but quite a few people who came out to enjoy the cooler evening air and sit and hang out. There was a nice atmosphere here, and we felt safe enough to camp out in front of the church, a covered roof meaning we could leave the flysheet off the tent to keep cool. We were up again bright and early, for we needed to be back at the boat for This time there were hardly any passengers, and our bikes were allowed to travel with us. It was just a short ride across the border, and in less than an hour we were pulling up at Pantoja, Peru. This was a similarly small town, but plenty of people were around to watch us arrive. One of them was the immigration man, who directed us to come up a steep hill to have our passports processed. At the top was an immigration building, outside of which was a small troop of soldiers from the nearby military base, standing in formation. Well, for about thirty seconds. Halfway back to their base and still within full view of us they stopped marching and started walking casually chatting, but it was good while it lasted. The immigration man was very friendly and gave us no hassle about not having an exit stamp from Ecuador, welcoming us to Peru and giving us both 90 days to enjoy it. We then had a long, relaxed day ahead of us in Pantoja. We soon confirmed with some locals that another fast boat to Iquitos would be leaving the following morning. This would take a day and a half to reach the big city of the rainforest. If we preferred there would be a slow cargo boat leaving the day after that would take five days. No, we did not prefer that, especially when said boat arrived in Pantoja later that day. It looked crowded with people, hot, smelly, and loud music was pumping out from it. We knew it would be much less pleasant than the fast boat. Juliet and Alfredo were not thinking the same way, and would wait for the slow boat. This was because it was cheaper, obviously, and led to me and Dea discussing how once upon a time we too would have opted for the more economical, less comfortable option. Nothing wrong with that. The rest of the day in Pantoja was a very relaxed affair, mostly spent lounging around in a covered pagoda thing. We were doing like the locals, who were in a similar state of heat-induced stupor. It was a nice place again, with some kids playing a game of throwing a plastic bottle upstream and diving in the river to catch it as it came past, and everyone else doing very little. No one paid too much attention to us at all. Travelling along these waterways has become an increasingly popular activity for backpackers and nobody was at all surprised to see our European faces, though everyone was very friendly. Once again we chose to make camp under a covered area so that there would be no need to put on the flysheet of the tent. It was an even earlier start the following morning, and we were forced to pack up in the dark and make our way down to the boat at four a. The good news was that the bikes would be safely on board the boat again, and it was a similarly comfortable boat with leather seats and a breeze coming in as we zipped off into the sunrise. This boat made even more stops than the last one, with people hopping on and off, sometimes transporting big bunches of bananas or live chickens with them. Occasionally a smaller boat would call us to a stop to deliver people or things on board. At one point a woman with a small child crashed into us with her dugout canoe just to pass a piece of mail to the captain, presumably with a request for it to be posted in Iquitos. The little settlements along the river seemed nice, with big grassy areas where the forest was removed to place buildings of wood with thatched roofs. It was simple living, of course, but there was clearly great pride taken in making things presentable and nice. The river itself was wide, with a colour that was difficult to define. It was a muddy brown to look directly down at it, but in places it looked green from the reflection of the band of continuous trees on each bank, in places a grey-blue from the sky. We had hoped to see river dolphins, and indeed we spotted many along the way, although they were all actually trees half submerged in the water that looked like dolphin fins. We reached a bigger town an hour before sunset and everyone walked up to a basic hotel that was included in the price of this boat ticket. Once again we would have to be up very early, so we settled in for an early night. Our alarm woke us at a. We hurried down to the boat but it was closed up and dark. It was raining and the canvas sides of the boat remained down all of the way to Mazan, which we arrived at around eleven. Here everyone had to get off the boat and take moto-taxis a few kilometres overland to the Amazon River, to avoid following the much-more circuitous route of the winding Napo River, which would take many hours by boat before flowing into the Amazon. Dea and I had been told that we could cycle over, but now, as we hurried to get our stuff off the boat, the captain informed Dea that they would not be able to wait for us after all, and so we would have to find our own boat the rest of the way to Iquitos. This naturally put us out a bit, especially as we knew it was only three and a half kilometres over to the Amazon, and we set off cycling fast in order to try and get there before the boat could leave without us. It was kind of a cool place to cycle, a surprisingly populated place, with lots of simple homes and smiling kids. The road was really just a concrete path through the forest, the only other vehicles were moto-taxis. The water was very low though, and there was very little trace of anything, so we asked a man standing nearby. We had to backtrack all of the way to Mazan and then ride southeast on a path that was uncomfortably busy with those moto-taxis. We eventually made it to Indiana, a bustling little town where a lot of passenger boats were lined up waiting to take people to Iquitos. Our bikes and most of our bags were stowed on the roof, and then we had to wait until the boat was full. We had barely had a chance to realise it, but we were now travelling on the actual proper Amazon River. Super cool stuff. Iquitos did not make a great first impression. We stepped off the boat onto a wooden platform and had to somehow get our bikes and bags across a long series of wooden planks and up a lot of steps. Around us were very basic wooden homes that were basically floating on the water, which was completely full of trash. There seemed to be quite a few people struggling with alcohol and drug addiction, and when we did eventually get all our stuff up to street level we were confronted with an unbelievably noisy street filled entirely with moto-taxis. Iquitos is the largest city in the world that is inaccessible by road, and it was to be our home for the next thirteen nights. The first part of our river journey was complete. We went there a couple of years ago and it was the highlight of our trip to the Amazonas, next to night walks in the jungle. Keep safe. Like Like. Skip to content Different Parts of Everywhere Around the world by bicycle and boats. Not sure she really thought this through. Our vessel. Glad we werent on this one. The Amazon! Just heading to Iquitos with a chicken and a tortoise. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Different Parts of Everywhere. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website. Design a site like this with WordPress.

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