First Trip to Santa Cruz - Day 2

The first village we visited was the largest in the Reserve and it was also called Santa Cruz. A few men met us at the water and carried up the large packets of mosquito nets up the steep bank. We set things up in the local communal, a barebones multi-purpose building--usually the only one in the village made of stucco or concrete. Inside it’s cool, dust on the floors, wood benches, maybe a blackboard, junk crammed in the corners.

People trickled in and out. Mostly women, half with babies at their breast. A few men, older, sitting along the back walls. I was introduced. I took some pictures but started to feel uncomfortable. So many stoic, inscrutable faces. Alex, a young man from the community who worked with us for most of the week, started calling names from the list he had of all the residents in the village. Head of a household. Usually it was the wife who would come to the desk and tell us, in a near whisper, the names and ages of everyone in her family. Sad, distrustful, timid? I tried to imagine the boredom of living in this village of less than 120 people. But I couldn’t imagine any of them leaving, wanting to leave. Just about every single adult got married and started having kids around 18-20 years of age. The average amount of kids was about four, less than I expected actually. People would randomly approach the table and say thank you.

The method of distribution. One net for a couple, who are expected to sleep with any baby under six, one per teenager or single person, and one for a “barón” - a kid between the ages of 6 and 12. However, if there are two barónes of the same gender, they probably will be sleeping in the same bed anyway, so one for the two of them.

We came across a surprising amount of people in their 80s. One older lady, white-haired, skinny but walking upright, ambled over to our table. She had been listening closely to the people before her. She got a little ahead of herself. After she gave us her name, Emerson asked her, “Cuántos años tienes?”

“20...” Before she could correct herself, the room burst into laughter. She was referring to her granddaughter.

Later on, a disheveled kid, still wiping the sleep from his eyes, was called to the table. He was 24 years old, his wife 20.

“Cuántos hijos tienes?”

“Uno. El tiene un mes.”

“Y su nombre?”

He looked blankly at the table.

“Joven...el nombre de tu hijo?” Emerson said.

“Dame un minuto...” Emerson and Alex started laughing. In a minute or two he remembered.

All in all the distribution took no more than 2 hours. Afterwards we went to the schoolhouse to talk with 5 schoolteachers. They all are from Iquitos, sent to pueblos like this by the government during the schoolweek. They told me a lot of stuff. For example, the secondario (high school) has about half as many students as primaria (elementary), because it’s not mandatory. So instead of going to school, the kids go, or their parents make them go, upriver to work for lumber companies, who pay them 10 soles ($3.50) a day to chop down the rainforest. Sometimes people get a permit for one area but chop in another. If they are ever stopped by the Ecological Police, they just show their one permit and they’re sent on their way. According to Emerson, the Ecological Police are corrupt and rarely leave Iquitos.

As I'm reflecting on my first visit to a village, I'm reexamining my impressions of the people. It's easy to walk away feeling grim; their lives are so difficult. You can see it on their faces. But I want to look deeper. Stoical cultures are a response to hardship, a necessity for managing pain. It does not mean that people are unhappy. I feel like I still have a ways to go before I understand campesinos, who are more enigmatic than I expected, and even farther away from my understanding than the people in Iquitos.