Latitude Adjustment

II

Adventureland. What better name for a wilderness outfitter headquartered in Anaheim, California, located on Katella Avenue, just down the street from Disneyland. The name was also indicative of the way Skip Hutchins' life had come full circle. He'd grown up a rich-kid brat from "the O.C.", Orange County, and had spent the better part of his youth thumbing his nose at authority. His first brush with the law had come at the age of eleven, when he was caught stealing plastic shrunken heads from the souvenir shop at the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland. A few years later, a summer at an Outward Bound-style wilderness camp set him on the right track. When he was eighteen, he hired on as a counselor for a few summers at the same camp. As fate would have it, a couple of years later he was working at Disneyland as a "guide" on that same Jungle Cruise. Even now, on his Adventureland rafting trips, he could usually find a waterfall where he couldn't resist slipping into the "backside of water" spiel.

It was during the Disney years that he'd met Dave McRae, a fellow Disney employee. Most summer days Dave could be spotted dressed as a Swiss mountaineer, climbing the "Matterhorn." Their shared love of adventure eventually led to the formation of Adventureland, where Skip and Dave could trade their ersatz Disney mountains and jungles for the genuine articles. It was not just by chance that Skip's favorite excursion was to the land of the Jivaro headhunters. Even before he'd met Nusiri.

Into Adventureland's office they gathered, the half-dozen adventure seekers attending Skip and Dave's orientation meeting for the Jivaro Tour, as it was called. Again, a typical bunch. There was the retired couple, Frank and Bess Callahan, from the town of Santa Paula, one county north of, and a world away, from Los Angeles. There was Saul Jaffee, a psychiatrist from Century City. It seemed fellow "headshrinkers" couldn't resist this trip. Twenty-year-old Karen Kashiwahara was an anthropology major at UCLA. Also representing academia was Lillian Barrett, a high school social sciences teacher on sabbatical. And to round things out, there was Josh Miles, thirty, a Colorado ski instructor by winter, a Florida scuba instructor out of Tarpon Springs the rest of the year, and West Coast surf bum when he could squeeze it in between. What he'd really like to do with his life, he told Skip and Dave, was to join up with a tour outfitter like theirs, and travel the exotic corners of the world as a wilderness guide.

It seemed like there was one like him on every expedition, Skip thought. The trouble with guys like those is that they reminded Skip too much of himself, ten or fifteen years ago, before he knew the realities of such a life.

As the group settled down, coffee and bagels in hand, Skip began his informal orientation speech. "Let me tell you a little bit about what you're getting yourselves into," he said. "About what this trip is all about, and just as important, what it isn't."

"Despite the name, Adventureland tours are anything but a Disney jungle cruise. We're not camping out under the stars with the scorpions and anacondas. But neither are we a deluxe rainforest lodge. We've got a thatched shelter, the same kind of hut the Jivaro themselves use, built by them, for us. No electricity. Kerosene lanterns are our concession to technology. No running water besides the river. Bottled water for drinking. His and hers outdoor latrines. Behind the bananas on the right for the men, ladies to the left by the mangoes." After the few scattered chuckles, Skip continued. "There's no neat rainforest canopy observation tower or five-star chef or hot tub waiting at day's end. Adventureland is back to basics. But it's also a more realistic experience. We live in a native-style house, we eat what they eat. Dave and I both cook, but just so you'll get a more authentic appreciation of Jivaro cuisine, there's a friend of ours, a native girl by the name of Nusiri, our tribal liaison," Skip hoped he was the only one who caught Dave's sly smirk, "who will come by and whip us up some manioc and squash and roasted plantains and peccary.

"Our transportation will range from commercial airliner to bush plane to outboard canoe to foot travel. Bring comfortable clothing and good hiking boots. Also, a good idea to pack insect repellent, sunscreen and a rain jacket of poncho. There's no real dry season, right now is getting into the less wet season, but you can expect rain anytime, especially in the afternoons. You also might want to carry a personal water bottle and pack a roll of T.P. When we're in town, you'll find that public restrooms are few and far between and usually aren't stocked. We'll likely see wildlife, so bring a camera and binoculars.

"The first leg is to Houston, where we catch a connecting flight to Quito. We'll spend the next day in Quito, then we've got another plane waiting to take us into the backcountry of the Oriente. From there it's a nice trip by river to our base camp on a tributary of the Rio Upano. From our base camp, we run rafting trips on the Upano, for those that are interested. Lots of scenery, lots of waterfalls, class III and IV rapids.

"But the highlight, of course, why you're all here, is the visits we'll pay to the Jivaro, the famous, or infamous, I should say, headshrinkers. Here I should tell you that the headhunters of legend belong to history. The people we'll meet don't call themselves Jivaro; they're the Shuar, one of a half-dozen indigenous peoples of the Jivaro dialect. The Shuar call themselves Untsuri Suara, Many People. You may see men wearing their itipi, but just as likely they'll be wearing jeans and t-shirts. Don't forget the effect more than a half century of contact has had on their culture. They use steel machetes, hunt with rifles and shotguns, paddle fiberglass canoes. But they remember the old ways, and they love to tell us about them. That is what this trip is all about. There are those who can serve as translators and tell long, involved stories about hunting and crafts and spirituality and visions and enemies and headshinking. You will see shrunken heads, if you want to. The real thing. But they are old and well-preserved, relics from the old days that are kept around for the benefit of tourists like us. I can promise you, our trip is an experience you won't forget.

"Before you leave tonight, we'll check to make sure you've got your passports in order. Dave's already seen to your embarkation cards and onward tickets, which are proof of return flight home. Don't lose your paperwork once we've passed it out. You might not be able to get out of Ecuador without an embarkation card or onward ticket. We can get replacements if you lose your cards, from the Immigration Office in Quito, but you don't want to have to deal with any more bureaucracy than we have to, do you?

"One more thing before you leave. It's a good idea to meet Lucille." Skip pointed to two twelve-by-sixteen photos on the wall, of a couple of Indiana Jones-types, dressed in baggy khakis with suspenders, wearing thirties-style fedoras, each in a jungle setting, standing in front of an ancient, ungainly-looking aircraft. It took a close look to tell that the photos were of two different men. And in their raised hands each held an ungodly-looking shrunken head.

"This is Lucille, Skip said, indicating the airplane. "She's our bush plane. Sometimes folks are expecting a more modern looking Cessna or Otter. It's good to know what you're getting into before you see her there on the tarmac at the Quito airport. Let me tell you, she's sturdy, very airworthy and very trustworthy. She was my grandfather's. He's the one on the left. Awhile back, I had the chance to restage a photo taken of him almost seventy years ago, in the Ecuadorian Oriente. Lucille's a 1933 Ford Tri-motor, fully restored, expertly maintained. I find this type of plane, rather than something more recent, adds to the authenticity of the experience. After all, my grandfather, in his younger days, spent most of the nineteen thirties in her, exploring the far-flung corners of the world, from Madagascar to Malaysia. They used to call the Tri-motor the Tin Goose, but we think Lucille fits her better. Grandpa named her after his second wife. She's got three four-hundred-fifty horsepower Pratt and Whitney motors, an eleven hundred feet per minute climb rate, seventeen-thousand-foot ceiling and seating for twelve passengers, every one a window seat.

"Oh, and the shrunken heads? Grandpa's is real. But don't worry. Mine's plastic. From down the street at Disneyland, but that's another story."