Quarantined in Baltimori
text and photographs by Ella Cicekciler, researcher and intern at Camino Verde Baltimori in 2020 (bio below)
It had not been a week since my arrival at the farm when Peru's president announced the immediate enforcement of a national state of emergency, starting with a fourteen-day quarantine and a ban on all intra- and inter- national travels. From days to weeks to finally months, the measures kept extending. From being in the Amazon to being stuck in the Amazon, words can have a powerful incidence on mindset. Or perhaps it goes the other way around. Nevertheless, every presidential speech was followed by thorough internal debates: to stay or to go back home. While I chose to leave prematurely, I am beyond grateful for my short-lived experience with Camino Verde in the Peruvian Amazon.
The following post is a recollection of my time spent in Baltimori, illustrated by pictures taken on site.
I remember my two months spent quarantined in Baltimori as some of the richest in my life. And although over a year has passed since, I often find my mind wandering in the density of its forest, my body bathing in its river, my thoughts lingering there. Fueled both by the mystical tales of place and the very tangible experience I've had of that place, my memories oscillate between incorporeal reveries and physical reminders that the Amazon cannot be reduced to "either-or" interpretations of it. The mystical imbues the physical, and inversely.
A typical day would start anywhere between 4:30 and 6:00am, alongside the hens, roosters, and the spooky sounds of a mysterious animal the sunrise would silence. The dissociation of sounds and the hidden creatures emitting them was an aspect of the jungle experience I've had to make peace with. So much so, that I must admit I could not tell you whether the calls came from a bird, a monkey, or something completely different. Regardless, its howls skillfully complemented the misty atmosphere of rainy dawns, making those early rises surprisingly thrilling.
Days were spent working on plots on either side of the Tambopata, a tributary of the Madre de Dios River that runs alongside the farm. Depending on the rains upstream, crossing it was either an effortless ride, or had to be orchestrated carefully with a know how and tact reserved to the regulars. The same expertise had to be put into practice when walking up the muddy shores of said river, to get to and off of the boat. (Let’s just say I spent a lot of time knee-deep, lifting my leg, losing my boot, picking my boot up, tumbling over. A morning circus to much of my colleagues’ amusement.) Our work consisted mostly of clearing an abandoned slash-and-burn parcel of secondary growth and inaugurating a new agroforestry system by planting trees. Rows of Shimbillo, Copoazú, Cacao, Bobinsana, Moquete de Tigre and other seedlings were put into the ground, in an operation that required a delicate blend of strength and gentle care for these budding trees.
Working in nature often implies working with nature. Working with the music of the forest, working with the different animals, insects, energies and rhythms of the forest. Working with the weather, hot or cold, dry or wet. Days of intense monsoon-like rains often meant working outdoors was not possible, so we would do sheltered work or simply accept nature’s invitation to rest (I speak of volunteers and interns here, as our colleagues would often keep going).
Evenings were usually calm, even for self-proclaimed night owls, as bodies adjust to the rhythms of a life with little to no electricity. Bedtime was usually around 8:30-9pm, by which time the sun had long set and the last candle-lit card game ferociously won.
I would be lying if I told you my time in the forest was a tranquil ride of smooth discoveries. The truth is, there were confrontational moments. Living off-grid in an area that is as remote as it gets came with its challenges. Far away from my usual distractions and consolations, I had to meet discomfort and learn to sit with it. Meet stillness in boredom, meet solitude amidst all these other forms of life. Whatever you feel in the Amazon, you will feel wholeheartedly, without escapes or excuses. There were days where I felt lonely, angry or sore, there were days where I felt blessed, joyful and inspired. Days where I felt all of these things at once. But most of all I felt alive, I felt moved by life, surrounded by a place that was moved by these very same processes. Thorns and needles, petals and silk, trees falling, others rising, eating fruits, being eaten by insects.
I wish I could hold onto every moment I spent in Baltimori. It was special like that. Yet I know that what the tides wash ashore they often call back, albeit gradually. Memories are already fading, nuances tarnishing. But certain things, images and sounds, remain. And most of all, my understanding of forests and their healing powers has forever been transformed. My understanding of the medicine of plants and my relationship to them too.
It’s not just the insects that crawl under one’s skin in the rainforest, Her spirit does too. To cite but a few moments that are engraved in my mind, let me finish with these images. Perhaps they will water your own memories of the jungle – or the seed of your curiosity.
The moonlit banks of the Tampobata River with the forest limitlessly stretching in the background. The majestic Kapok tree, giant of the giants, and its curved trunk’s solid embrace. The weight of the canopy over head and how it grounds one down into the “here and now”. A moment where full attention is given to the place and space one is in, fully alert and senses awake. The dancing colors of the butterflies. The bewitching caterpillars. The orphaned cries of the Ayemama bird (Nyctibius griseus) in the dead of winter night. So many sounds, so many colors, so much life oozing from every corner, trunk, crack, hole.
I am beyond grateful to have had the opportunity to work with Camino Verde and its amazing team of dedicated, spirited workers. For how they’ve welcomed me and made me feel part of their team. For everything that is done for the forest and its communities through their projects and hard work. For the seeds they plant, not just in the Amazon’s soil, but also in the hearts of people like me.
text and photographs by Ella Cicekciler
Born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey, Ella’s “feet can’t stay in one place.” After obtaining a BA in social sciences from the Université Libre de Bruxelles in Belgium, she went on to receive her MSc in sustainable territorial development from a consortium of three European universities (Padova, Leuven, Paris 1). Her interest in and reverence for indigenous cultures, medicinal plants and food sovereignty led her to chose Camino Verde as a host organization for her internship and thesis research. In the future, she aspires to bridge her interest in both research and arts, in service of the ecology of both human cultures and plants.
After the quarantine, Ella has continued to collaborate with Camino Verde on Amazonian plant research from Belgium, South Africa, Turkey, and wherever she will roam next.
