Iquitos Una Vez Mas

The Castilla made its way against the 6 naught Amazon flow for about 200km back to Iquitos and I spent the journey laying on the infirmary bed trying to piece together the day’s events. Some of my memories from the fight were incredibly clear, like the sensation of being under water, wrestling the pistol out of the pirate’s control. Other memories were as clear as the Edinburgh harr, the seconds between Yan striking the man with his paddle and me taking a round in the shoulder were vague at best.  I advanced, but did I grapple? I could only hope that the memory would return. The two medics, Ticona and Alexander made themselves busy cleaning my wounds again, now that we were in a sterile environment and Yan popped his head in regularly. For some reason the drip in my left arm failed, and they couldn’t find a vein to put it back into so attempted my right arm. My right arm was the injured one and had swollen up like a balloon and was numb. I shuddered within myself as I felt the needle probing through the turgid skin, passing through an open area of liquid before prickling against something deep within my arm. Between the rocking of the boat and my twitching, they did well to eventually find a vein so that the antibiotics and fluids were able to continue into my bloodstream.

Early the following morning, about 10km downstream from Iquitos, Yan and I were transferred to a fast boat so that Alvaro and his crew could return to their exercise. We covered the last distance into Iquitos at a speed well over 30 knots, weaving expertly around a throng of local vessels, and arrived at a jetty beneath the Capitania de Puerto by 0800 on the 31st of July. A small crowd of Naval officers welcomed us warmly and then I was promptly transferred to an ambulance and taken to Clinica Naval de Iquitos (Hospital). It wasn’t long before I sitting on another bed being stitched up by a surgeon and lectured on how lucky I was.

He confirmed the entry and exit wounds on my shoulder and leg. The entry would in my shoulder was burned due to the temperature of the round, whilst the one in my leg was not because it had happened under water. Due to the complicated wounds around the exit, he could confirm the direction of the bullet. My shoulder and back were stitched up quickly, but the leg took a bit more time.

The surgeon feared that dirty water may have been sucked into my leg behind the round as it entered my thigh muscle, just above my knee. It had travelled for about 35cm up the length of the muscle and exited just below my hip. So, he then spent time running his thumbs up the muscle, following the foot long tunnel that the round had created, from one end to the other, squeezing dirty water and blood out onto the white sheets. He’d then scoosh sterile water back into the entry wound and repeat the process, massaging it through the tunnel in my muscle and out of the exit hole.

Being in the hospital was also an opportunity to catch up on what had been happening on WhatsApp. Before starting the expedition, I had started a group that all family members could join to share concerns or information with each other. Because of the attack, the group had exploded with questions.

Reading through the messages sent a lump into my throat. There was a lot of concern and questions on the group and it was harrowing reading it, imagining how our families must have felt, hearing that there had been an emergency but not knowing anything else. I was gutted we could have reassured them sooner. It was however great to see that no-one overreacted and they worked together to contact the right people in Peru. Also, the information filtering back to the UK was not speculative which helped keep everyone's nerves intact. During those hours in the hospital, Yan was able to make calls and reassure everyone. We left around mid-day and checked back into Morona Flats and Pool because it was the most comfortable, affordable accommodation in town that we knew of, then went for a well-deserved pint with Fernando. The following morning, Yan and I sipped coffee at The Yellow Rose of Texas Restaurant and a waiter gleefully slapped a newspaper article down in front of us. There wasn't much factually correct information in it...

The next few days were spent in and out of police interviews. I had to see a police doctor, who confirmed the injuries for their records, then Ian and I gave separate accounts of the attack in front of a crowd of officers at Comisaría de la Policia Nacional del Peru Punchana, Division de Investigación Criminal Punchana. For the umpteenth time, we appreciated how lucky we’d been to have met Fernando and Joe. Fernando acted as a translator during the interviews, advised us and was there as a friend. Joe and his wife Gina provided us with support through the consulate, helped with flights and just acted as a warm family away from home.

The help with flights came about five days after we’d returned to Iquitos. For the first couple of days I still hadn’t contemplated that the expedition might be over. I can’t remember how the conversation started, but one morning Yan and I were sitting outside at Morona Flats, and I must have started suggesting ideas on how we would continue. I remember his answer clearly. “Johnny you’ve been shot, were going home.” With that, the decision was made. I was torn though. I had put more energy into planning this expedition than anything else in my life. Getting the team to the start line was my greatest achievement, a culmination of thousands of hours of work. I felt mentally burnt out before the expedition had even begun. Getting the team from Chimborazo to Iquitos was a life changing experience, but the stress must have shaved a few years off my lifespan. Although we were both resolute and voiced our desire to come back and finish the job, I feared that the required effort might mean the desire would wither away and we'd never make it back. So, at that point in time, simply booking a flight home was beyond me. I just didn’t want to leave South America yet. I made two or three attempts to book them and then something would go wrong and I’d give up, content to stay in Iquitos a little longer. Eventually, with the help of Gina (Joe’s wife) we booked flights to Lima, Ian found onward flights home, whilst I opted to stay a few days there.

With the flights booked there were a few more loose ends to tie up. Joe kindly offered space for us to store our equipment, so one job was a pussers kit muster to decide what to leave behind. This ensured that we could pack for our return in the future knowing exactly what we had left in Iquitos. He had also introduced us to another British expat named Jimmy. He was potentially the tallest man in Iquitos, a Middlesborough born lad, standing well above 6 foot and broad as an ox. We instantly warmed to him, enjoying his genuine conversation and interesting stories of how he had ended up settling in Iquitos. Jimmy had bought some properties along the river front and rented rooms in the beautiful, traditional Spanish buildings to holiday makers. After the first evening of conversation, we were all good friends. Our canoes were still on the BAP Castilla, the patrol boat that had returned down river to complete the exercise she had deviated from to rescue us. But she was due to return to Iquitos in a couple weeks and Jimmy offered to store our canoes at his accommodation. With that last generous gesture, we were ready to leave Iquitos.

On our final evening in Amazonia, Gina cooked up a superb lasagna that we enjoyed with the Plumb family and Fernando. On Sunday the 6th of August, after some emotional goodbyes and exactly 100 days since Yan and I had arrived in South America together, we boarded a plane to Lima.

On arrival Yan and I hugged it out in the airport before he made his way to transfers and I limped my way into Lima, keen to enjoy Latin vibes for another two days. It felt very odd being separated from Yan, who had been by my side through so many weird and wonderful encounters. We had developed a brotherhood but also a reliance on each other and ultimate respect for one another, a bond that can only be made when you face extreme hardship together.

Above: The boys retrieving our canoes.

Point of interest. When the Castilla finished the exercise and eventually returned to Iquitos, the water level had dropped so drastically low that it couldn’t dock in its normal place and had to wait down river. The river level in 2023 dropped to an all time low of 12.7 meters on October 26, 2023, at The Port of Manaus. This is the lowest level recorded in over 120 years and is largely considered to be a direst consequence of climate change. Amazonia spans an area roughly half the size of Europe and the locals depend on waterways for the transport of food, medicines and other amenities. The continuous drop in water levels is very concerning and will lead to human loss of life and wildlife depletion.