Grassroots Effort
By Maryalice Yakutchik
Aguas Calientes, Peru — Our train is a handsome three-car affair of royal blue and gold. For the journey from Cusco to Machu Picchu, it hugs the Urubamba River, a roiling brown waterway of rapids and rocks that carves through the eastern slope of the Andes before feeding the Amazon.
The usual noises emanate from our train — clanging and whistling and chugging — and a couple unusual sounds, besides. Mauricio-the-camera man yelling "Action!" Peppi-the-bear moaning and groaning in a drug-induced stupor. (Earlier today, a vet injected him with ketamine to relax him for the journey.) And Jeff-the-star narrating bits of natural history while urging his co-star to "Go to sleep!"
When I refer to this as "our" train, I mean that quite literally. Ours and Peppi's, that is. For the express purpose of rescuing one Spectacled Bear, Peru Rail has donated the use of this locomotive, passenger car, and flatbed, as well as cleared the late morning schedule on this section of track (a $10,000-plus investment, I'm told).
Our train continues heading downstream, into a cloud-forest. Thick with wild avacado trees, this is prime habitat for Spectacled bears. A scant 60 miles from Cusco, the Corwin crew is light years away from stamp-happy bureaucrats who make careers out of thwarting well-intentioned conservational efforts. Out here, hard-working people survive by being resourceful. Just pull back the curtains from the train windows, and you'll see:
A woman meanders along the periphery of a cornfield, a bunch of eucalyptus lashed to her stout torso.
A stooped man makes bricks of mud.
A young mother sits cross-legged in the middle of a muddy field, gazing at the baby in her lap as a herd of cattle graze nearby.
A man gathers firewood, snapping branches with his knee.
A woman crouches by a small rivulet, using rocks to wash a white blouse. Her neighbor butchers a cow, flaying open its belly with the swipe of a knife.
Some of them stop what they're doing to look at the train. It is, no doubt, a spectacle unlike any other they've seen or are likely to see anytime again soon. Peppi's green transport-paddock is lashed down to the flatbed. Jeff keeps him company, sitting nearby but not too near. It seems that Peppi has a penchant for fingers, having bitten off 20 of those offered to him by unsuspecting zoo-goers in Cusco; people who were fooled into careless complacency by Peppi's undeniable charm and shaggy good looks.
Jeff and Peppi are not alone, of course. Mauricio's aiming a camera lens at them. Kim's directing the scenes. Gary's dangling a long, fuzzy microphone near their snouts. And Todd's checking on the status of batteries and holding Mauricio's belt so that he doesn't lurch off the flatbed.
The crew works in this way — exposed to the elements on a moving train — for much of the three-hour journey. However, it's when they arrive in Aguas Calientes, at the base of Machu Picchu, that the real work begins.
Here, an excited assortment of Peruvians are assembled to help carry the bear cage off the train, and then up a precarious slope — both steep and slippery — to where a new enclosure awaits Peppi's occupation.
It's a dangerous and exhausting operation. This morning's transfer of bear from zoo pen to transport paddock pales in comparison. This titanic effort, on behalf of a single bear, gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "grass roots." There's nothing so high-tech as a dolly or a winch available to facilitate the task. What the men have proves more important than what they may be lacking, however: good old-fashioned ingenuity. And muscle. Lots and lots of muscle.
Jeff's smile (or his furrowed brow, as the case may be) usually commands center-stage. But here, in this scene, he gets lost in the fray of bulging biceps and straining sinews. On a narrow trail, a dozen men heave and ho Peppi's cage across a gully and up a hillside. Mauricio is challenged by the ensuing chaos and utter lack of angles and mobility. His camera can't find Jeff.
When it finally does, Jeff's face is red with exertion; his expression, exuberant. He opens the door to Peppi's transport paddock, and Peppi quite unceremoniously walks out of it and into his new enclosure. The crew waits until the scene is all wrapped up to clap and pat each other on the back for a job well done.
"Peppi looks no worse for wear, despite our long journey," Jeff says. "It was a tremendous effort. Was it worth it for one bear? Yes!"
Peppi sniffs his surroundings, a space far larger and wildly more stimulating than the decrepit pen he left this morning. From here, he can see orchids and hummingbirds. He can hear the whistle of a train; the rush of the river; and the curious grunts of two potential friends. Peppi's next-door neighbors are Yogi and Paola, two 4-year-old Spectacled bears who were rescued from abysmal conditions (Yogi in June 2001, and Paola in January 2002) and who seem to be thriving here.
The hope is that when Paola reaches breeding age, in about a year, the two will mate and produce cubs. The cubs, after living for a year with their mother, will be released into the wild, thus adding to a decimated population which some say is as low as 850.
The immediate plan is to move Yogi and Paola from their current enclosure. Nice as it is, there's a bigger, better one under construction that'll really give them an opportunity to move about more freely. In fact, the final finishing touches to the place are going on now, as I write. So check back soon . . .
