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This section of the Apurimac has a dirty great road running beside it. “Dirty great” here being a relative term meaning one car-width dirt track. It means the pace has picked up from a handful of kilometres each day to thirty plus which is good. The river now runs through a gentle sided valley rather than a canyon, all of which is covered by agricultural fields or broadleaf rainforest.

On Monday whilst peacefully continuing our journey and chatting about usual blokey nonsense we were jolted into alertness by a large explosion from the river. Explosions make me jumpy and I genuinely had not got a clue what was going on. We moved to a position where we could look down at the river and saw three men standing in the water harvesting dead fish. Oz’s blood started to visibly boil – he has been working with a conservation organisation for the past four years and knows the destructiveness of such a crude method of fishing to the river habitat. Luis explained that this was quite normal here and the dynamite was most likely stolen from the local salt mine or road construction company by the workers so that they can fish more efficiently.

I had heard about this type of fishing but had never seen it in action and was also disturbed by the casualness of exploding dynamite to catch a few fish. “They are not bad men.” explained Luis, “They do not know the harm they are doing.”

The relative lawlessness has become apparent here over the last few days. We arrived in one town to be accosted by a drunk who wanted to see our papers. Oz stepped in and quite forcefully told the drunk that we would only show our papers to the village president. “I am the president”, said the drunken president.

The only negative reactions we have had have been from men who are drunk. This happens at all times of the day. On Monday morning I was buying an iced lolly (tough expedition at times this!) from an old lady by the road when a car screeched to a halt inches from my leg. As I turned round and scowled at the driver he held my stare for a good five seconds. “There is a lot of bad feeling towards gringos around here.” He said, “We are Peruvians and you are in our country.” Oz, gallant as always and incredibly defensive, stepped in, “I am a Peruvian – what bad feeling are you talking about?”

To avoid a situation we paid the lady and walked on, after a few revs of his engine the man drove away.

I need to point out that the vast majority of the people that we have met have been more friendly and hospitable than I could ever have imagined. Yesterday morning we stopped to buy some buscuits and evaporated milk for breakfast. The owner of the little shop, Juan Gomez, gave us gifts of huge bananas (a diameter of a good two inches!) and wanted to know everything about what we were doing. He said that the problem in the valley at the moment was that the education was poor, not enough teachers or resources and that the young men had no chance in getting decent jobs as a lot of them can’t read. “This leaves them disillusioned” he said, “and they often spend all of their money on alcohol or are tempted to turn their hands to illegal activities.”

“But do you like living here?” I asked, thinking that there must be easier places to bring up the family that he has. “The river is my brother and the forest my sister” he replied immediately, “here the air is clean and it is my home.”

Ed