Just eight kilometers out of Pucallpa, along the sloping shores of a beautiful lake, is the principal base of operations of the Summer Institute of Linguistics, one of the most unusual and respected American organizations in all of South America. This modern community, a classical example of American ingenuity and faith, consisted of approximately sixty one- and two-story homes constructed along American architectural design, a well-equipped hospital, a refectory, a primary school and an airport.

The principal function of the Summer Institute of Linguistics is to reduce the unwritten languages of all Indian tribes to writing for the express purpose of teaching the Indians to read and write their own language. While this may sound like a simple and unexciting project, the direct opposite is true. At the present time there are over two hundred "Linguistics" at Yarinacocha, their jungle headquarters.

Usually the Linguistics are sent in pairs by seaplane into the innermost recesses of the jungle where they spend a minimum of six months living and working with the Indians. Their main purpose, of course, is to learn the Indian language, a feat that often requires years of patient research. In many instances, young married couples are sent on these missions, or as is very often the case, two young men or two girls undertake the assignments. Considering the fact that the Indian tribes visited include the most savage and primitive to be found in the jungle, the efforts of the "Linguistics" are little less than heroic.

Radio engineers of the Institute have developed a small compact two-way radio by which these language experts keep in daily contact with their base. Cases of serious illnesses among the Indians and accidents involving broken bones are referred by radio to Dr Kenneth Altig, formerly of Long Beach, California, and permanent staff physician at Yarmacocha, who instructs the field workers as to proper methods of treatment in each individual case.

Once an Indian language has been thoroughly mastered, textbooks are printed after which the most intelligent Indians of the various tribes are brought back to Yarmacocha where they spend several months in learning to read and write their own language. They are then returned to the jungle to become the instructors for the other members of the tribe. In this way the ‘Linguistics" eventually hope to educate even the most primitive tribes. How long it will be before all of the Indians can be classified as literate is uncertain, but the Linguistics" are the first to admit that it will take many years. In any event it is a step in the right direction and one which will do a great deal of good among the Indians.

The Summer Institute of Linguistics was founded in 1934 by Dr. William Cameron Townsend, who is at present the general director of the organization. At the age of 21, Dr. Townsend left Occidental College, his alma mater, to live with the Cakchiquel Indians in Guatemala. He learned their language, reduced it to writing, analyzed its remarkable verb system, translated the New Testament and founded five schools, a small hospital and a printing plant. Dr. Townsend has taught courses in linguistics in the two oldest universities in the Western Hemisphere - those of Mexico and Peru. Realizing that one day the work of the Institute would encompass all of South America, he wisely chose Peru as its permanent headquarters.

Americans interested in languages and in exciting work of this nature can contact the University of Oklahoma with which the Summer Institute of Linguistics is affiliated. Accepted students attend a summer school session at the university where they are taught basic languages. After qualifying, they are sent to one of the many Central or South American countries where the Institute operates.

Officials of the Point Four Program, a U.S. governmental agency, plan in the near future to erect a model farm on the spacious grounds of the Summer Institute of Linguistics and hope to teach Peruvian Indians the fundamentals of agriculture.

Ken and I spent a half-day at Yarinacocha and I marveled at the efficiency of this brave group of pioneering men and women who have voluntarily left the comforts of modern civilization to spend their lives for such a worthy cause. Dr. Townsend was kind enough to invite us to lunch and we had the pleasure of meeting the many Americans who now live there permanently. It was the first American-cooked meal I had had for weeks and one that I will never forget. After lunch we were driven back to Pucallpa in one of their jeeps.

The Ucayali is one of the major rivers in Peru. It originates in the southeastern part of the country and flows in a northerly direction past Pucallpa, ending at Iquitos, third largest city in Peru, where it joins the Amazon River. Because of the Ucayali’s commercial importance, one of Pucallpa’s leading industries is that of boat building. But when we went down to the river to look for a suitable boat for our trip we encountered many difficulties. Most of them were either small Indian canoas or double-decked diesel powered riverboats which held thirty or forty people.

After walking through the primitive port which extended over a mile and a half along the banks of the river, Ken finally spotted a boat which he thought would suit our purposes. The hull was made from a huge tree but the boat had been built up on either side with strong timbers. It was about twenty feet in length and five feet across the center but unfortunately leaked like a sieve. After a few moments’ discussion with the owner, we rented the boat for five soles a day, about twenty-five cents. The owner agreed to have it thoroughly calked and we hired a local carpenter to build a small platform in the center which could be covered with palm fronds. This was important both as a shelter against rain and as protection against the hot tropical sun.

While the men were busy working we went over to Casa Sisley, the leading mercantile establishment of the city, where we purchased a Johnson ten-horsepower Seahorse and quantities of canned foods for the trip. Senor Guilliermo Sisley, a handsome, cultured and reserved gentleman, went out of his way to be nice to us, and in addition to sending our purchases to the hotel he had one of his employees deliver two fifty-gallon drums of gasoline, a supply of oil, and some spare parts for the motor.

In spite of the fact that the carpenter had faithfully promised to finish the superstructure on our boat before six o’clock, it was nowhere near completion when we returned just before dark. As a result, Ken and I had to hold our flashlights so that the carpenter could see where to pound the last few nails. All in all, it had been a hectic but exciting day and I eagerly looked forward to the next morning when our expedition would begin.

The city still slept as the roar of our motor shattered the stillness of a new day. We threaded our way through the many small boats which cluttered the port of Pucallpa and reaching the open river Ken switched over to high speed and followed a course that took us into the current and the deep channel.

I sat on top of one of the gasoline drums which were securely anchored in the center of the boat. There I was able to command an unobstructed view of the river. Whenever I saw floating logs, trees or other debris in our path, I gave Ken a hand signal so that we could avoid running into these hazards, any of which might have spelt disaster to our expedition. In some instances, logs were completely sunken beneath the surface of the water, in which case we had to take the risk of shearing a pin in our motor. There were other hazards, too. The current was swift, and the wide river was one great mass of muddy whirlpools with the main channel zigzagging from one side of the river to the other.

Progress was very slow, even with our Johnson Sea horse, and on many occasions our forward motion was practically reduced to a slow walk. Our boat was heavily loaded and because of its round bottom extreme caution had to be used in order to keep it on an even keel.

Less than a half-mile out of Pucallpa, we came to a bend in the river and as I looked back, the city slowly faded from view and all that remained was the dim outline of two or three palm thatched huts. We were now on our own, arid a sharp pang of loneliness surged through me. Ahead I could see nothing but the winding endless river. On either side, the shores were a snarled mass of towering trees and bushes, from which tangled vines hung downward in great profusion giving the whole jungle an eerie atmosphere. The strange cloying odor of death, caused by rotting vegetation, permeated the air around us. We had suddenly been swallowed up in a green world of unreality, a world that had neither beginning nor end.

Occasionally, we passed the pono-wood hut of an Indian farmer, around which could be seen the inevitable cluster of banana trees and a patch of yucca bushes. Invariably, at the river’s edge, a half-dozen or more naked children jumped and frolicked in the swift water. At the sound of our approaching motor, they stood wide-eyed and smiling, waving as we passed.

Every four hours Ken had to refill our 5-gallon gasoline tank. This necessitated our stopping at the riverbank, a very difficult maneuver because of the swiftness of the water. An anchor was impractical, so I generally kept our position secure by grasping the branch of an overhanging tree, keeping the nose of the boat headed into the current so that we would not be swept away and carried downstream. The refueling operation usually took only about fifteen minutes, but was an exhausting procedure for both of us.

Knowing that our trip up the Ucayali would last for at least several weeks, we spent a minimum of ten hours a day in travel. Around two o’clock each afternoon I opened a can of meat and that, together with crackers, constituted our lunch. We drank nothing but river water, to which we added Halazone tablets as a precaution against disease.

Running a motor day after day proved to be a very tiring experience for Ken, and as a result, he soon taught me the fundamentals of river travel. After a few days I took my place at the helm where we each operated the motor in two-hour shifts. Steering, however, was not as simple as it looked. Once, when I lost the main channel we ended up on a sandbar and had to get out and push the front end of the boat back into the deeper water.

On another occasion, I failed to follow Ken’s hand signal and ran into a half-submerged log which hit the propeller, sheared a pin, and caused the boat to flounder about helplessly in the middle of the river. Our motor was useless and the boat, caught in the tremendous current, turned sideways and for the next few moments we were in danger of capsizing. We grabbed our paddles and after a strenuous effort brought the nose of the craft back into the current. Once our immediate danger had passed, we were able to reach shore where we tied the boat to a tree. Because of our lack of mechanical ability, it took over an hour to tear the motor apart and change the pin.

When I finally realized that our lives depended upon my becoming a good navigator, I was far more cautious and eventually qualified as an expert.

To proceed up the river after four o’clock in the afternoon is to invite disaster, for between the hours of five-thirty and six o’clock, hordes of mosquitoes leave their jungle vegetation and come searching for food. Nor do they cease until the next morning when the hot sun drives them back into the shady marshes of the interior. By four o ‘clock, then, one must find a place to sleep, set up mosquito nets, and make preparations for the evening meal.

Our first night we located the pono-wood house of an Indian farmer, in a small jungle clearing near the river’s edge. After securing our boat to a tree trunk, we climbed up the steep bank and walked towards the hut. Three dirty, naked little Indian children came running out to stare at us. As we approached, a barefooted man wearing patched overalls and a tattered blue shirt, gave us a toothy grin and bade us welcome. His wife was squatting over a wood fire on which a battered aluminum pot of yucca was boiling. She wore a soiled red calico dress and her long black hair fell down over her shoulders in disarray. As is the custom of most Indian women in the jungle, she did not look at us, but kept on with her chores.

Francisco, the farmer, spoke Spanish and gave us permission to stay the night. We climbed up a primitive ladder consisting of a notched tree trunk and entered the house. All jungle homes were constructed more or less alike. Elevated off the ground anywhere from three to five feet, they consisted of only one large room where the entire family lived, ate and slept.

The elevation served a double purpose, both as a protection against night marauding animals and deadly snakes and as a shelter for livestock and chickens. The floors were made of split pono-wood which was resilient and swayed under foot. Indian houses were easy to keep clean. Food particles and dirt were swept to the ground through the wide cracks in the floor. These crude structures had no walls, only high roofs made from woven palm fronds and supported by wooden posts cut from tree trunks and lashed together with strong jungle vines.

Francisco sold us a chicken for seven soles, the equivalent of .35 cents in American money, and for an additional three soles (.15 cents) his wife killed, cleaned and boiled the fowl and also cooked beans, rice and fried bananas.

While waiting for the meal to be prepared, I decided to take a "stroll" through the jungle. Armed with only my machete and a roll of toilet paper, I slipped quietly away from the house. Hoping that my intentions would not be discovered I followed a jungle path which led through a dense banana grove. On either side of the trail were tall bushes, any one of which would have served my purpose, but I continued to walk further in order to avoid the possibility of being seen.

Finding a suitable camouflage, I stopped and laid down my machete. As I started back to the house I heard a slight rustle in the bushes to the side of the path. I stopped walking and carefully looked around. At that moment, a beautiful red, yellow and black striped snake, not over a foot in length, eased out from under a leaf and slowly crossed the trail just in front of where I was standing. It was so pretty that I was sure it could not be harmful. Utterly ignoring my presence, it entered a clump of bushes and disappeared. Later, when I told Ken about the incident, he became very perturbed and warned me that thereafter, no matter what the occasion, I was to stay in close proximity to the house. The snake, he said, was a Naca-Naca, a member of the coral family and one of the three deadliest serpents in the South American jungles. Because we carried no snake serum, its bite would have been fatal.

I soon became bold and immodest after my first encounter with a Naca-Naca and from that time on my "strolls" were never more than a few yards away from the house.

After eating what I thought was a most unpalatable meal, Ken showed me how to string my mosquito net. First of all, he placed a double blanket over the pono-wood floor, making certain that it followed the lengths of the rough wooden strips. He then brought out our mosquito nets, which we carried, rolled up in an ordinary gunnysack.

A mosquito net is a very complex jungle mechanism, but absolutely essential as a protection not only against mosquitoes but also vampire bats, snakes, tarantulas and a thousand other night-crawling insects. The net is approximately six feet in length and three feet wide and consists of a flat top and four sides. When erected, it is rectangular in shape and accommodates only one person comfortably. It is generally made of sheer muslin and great caution is taken to protect the net from tearing as mosquitoes and other insects have a way of finding the tiniest of holes.

Loops are sewed into the muslin on the two top ends of the net, through which are inserted narrow sticks of bamboo that serve a double purpose. They not only maintain the shape of the net but offer a means by which strings can be led from the net to two thin wooden sticks which are set one at the head and one at the foot of the net and inserted partly through the cracks of the pono-wood floor. These sticks are important because they hold the net in place. On more than one occasion my net collapsed during the night because, due to my carelessness, I had failed to secure the sticks through the cracks in the floor, and whenever this occurred, I had to crawl out from underneath and readjust them.

Once inside the net, the bottom ends were carefully tucked under the blanket, making it practically impossible for scorpions, spiders and any other unwanted pests to crawl inside. My mosquito net gave me a feeling of privacy even though it was almost transparent, and I felt happy and secure within its four sheer walls.

There is a standard procedure one must follow before undressing inside the net. Using a flashlight I carefully searched the interior for any mosquitoes which might have entered the net at the same time I had. There is nothing more aggravating than having one mosquito loose inside the net when you are trying to sleep.

It was usually pitch-dark before seven o’clock and, unless there was an emergency, I was generally in bed before that time. As I lay on my thin blanket on the hard floor, shifting from one side to the other trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position, I heard thousands of bloodthirsty mosquitoes buzzing on the outside. But mosquitoes were nothing compared to the huge squeaking bats which hovered nightly just over my net, seeking a way of entering. I learned that the jungles were filled with vampire bats which lived on the blood of animals, including human beings. These huge flying mammals, according to the Indian farmers, could draw blood from the nostrils of a sleeping child without so much as waking its victim.

The first few nights I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. My body became black and blue with bruises, my bones ached and I suffered intensely. As the nights passed, however, I gradually became hardened to this primitive way of life, but of all the discomforts I was to experience, I honestly believe that sleeping on pono-wood floors during the months that passed was by far the greatest, and the one to which I never became fully adjusted.

We usually arose between five and six in the morning and after a cup of Nescafe, crackers and marmalade, solemnly shook hands with our host and proceeded on our journey.

As the days passed in rapid succession, the jungle presented an ever-changing picture fraught with new and unexpected dangers which had to be met as they arose. Blinding rainstorms, which seemed to come out of nowhere, obliterated our view and caused us to seek the nearest shore where we hovered under our small palm frond roof and waited for the storm to pass.

My clothes were always wet, either from the rain or from perspiration due to the intense tropical heat. Our jungle boots, hardly two weeks old, had turned green and practically rotted on our feet.

As we progressed, the river became narrower and the current swifter. Houses became farther and farther apart and as a result we had to stay on the river often as late as 6 o’clock when millions of mosquitoes attacked us incessantly. Although we had brought along alcohol and camphor for just such an emergency, the mosquitoes were too great in number and before long, my legs, arms, neck and face were covered with ugly red bites. The farther we traveled away from civilization the more pronounced wild life became. I was fascinated to see flocks of statuesque white egrets feeding in the shallow waters near the river’s edge, hundreds of sandpipers, kingfishers, blue grackles and giant long-legged white storks. One of the most beautiful sights was a group of pink flamingoes that rose majestically from the riverbank forming a delicate pink cloud against the azure blue sky as we approached. Huge crocodiles sunned themselves on the mud banks and the sound of our motor sent them slithering into the water. Half submerged, their cruel cold yellow eyes followed the movement of our boat until it was out of sight.

At times the stillness of the jungle was broken by the shrill cries of hundreds of gay chattering monkeys as they jumped from one treetop to another. Occasionally I saw splashes of red flowers along the riverbanks, which relieved the monotony of the never-ending green, a color which I had come to loathe.

Growing in wild profusion were thousands of sacha camotes, a light lavender-colored flower, resembling the morning glory and belonging to the sweet potato family. Early one morning I saw a beautiful brown and yellow anaconda, or water boa, swimming gracefully on the surface of the water, its head proudly erect. It was at least twenty-five feet in length and so powerful was its movement that the current seemed to have no effect upon it.

Our main worry was our rapidly diminishing supply of gasoline. We had been told that we could replenish our stock at a river town called Bolognesi and we tried desperately to reach this community with our remaining few gallons. Fortunately, our luck held out and we docked at the riverbank at Bolognesi with less than a quart of gasoline left in our tank.

Bolognesi was a typical jungle community, consisting of two or three dirt streets, on either side of which were a series of dilapidated palm-thatched huts. There were three or four small general stores which sold such items as yucca flour, rusted canned goods, smoked fish and brightly colored calico cloth. The people, mostly civilized Indians, eyed us curiously as we walked to the office of the Guardia Civil where it was compulsory to check in with the local police before proceeding further. Inside the bare wooden shack, we found an Indian dressed in a faded blue uniform and black boots. He took our passports and made a pretense of looking them over.

I nudged Ken as the policeman examined my passport, holding it upside down. He attempted to look very important but obviously did not recognize a United States passport when he saw one. We pointed out the page on which our names appeared, together with our occupations and the official laboriously copied the information into a large worn-out black book which must have been fifty years old. After Ken gave him two or three American cigarettes, the official became very friendly, stood up, shook hands with us and smiled broadly, exposing two large gold teeth. Ken asked him about the possibility of purchasing gasoline but the officer shook his head and kept repeating "no puedo" which simply meant, "no can do."

Leaving his office, we made several other inquiries around the small community and learned definitely, much to our dismay, that there was not a single drop of gasoline available.

Ken unloaded the boat and we moved our possessions into the crude pono-wood school house where we slept that night. I tossed and turned more than usual, wondering what possible solution we could find to this new problem which threatened to end our journey. Ken appeared unperturbed over the matter and I came to the conclusion that he had been up against such difficulties many times before and had learned long ago that patience was an undeniable virtue, especially in the jungle.

Early the next morning, while I hurried through the village trying to find someone who would sell us fresh eggs, Ken went down to the river to see what he could do about buying a small Indian canoa which could be used for the balance of our trip. I finally located a dirty toothless old woman who cooked our breakfast of four eggs and fried yucca.

When Ken returned from the river, he was smiling and I felt that he had evidently solved the problem, which I had thought insurmountable. For the price of three American dollars he had bought a small, exceedingly narrow Indian canoe which was really nothing more than a hollowed out log. He explained that we would leave our other boat together with the motor and most of our supplies with the Guardia Civil and that we would continue our trip in the new boat.

"It’s going to be tough," he said, "but I think with both of us paddling we can make it."

"But what about the current?" I asked. "If our ten-horsepower motor had trouble, how could you possibly expect to get anywhere by paddling?"

Ken scratched his head thoughtfully. "The Indians do it everyday," he answered, "so why can’t we? The trick is to keep the canoe out of the swift channel. These Indian canoas can travel in shallow water, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do.

"And what about our food?" I asked. "If we leave our supplies here what are we going to eat?"

"We’ll buy what we can from the Indians," Ken replied. "I don’t know what we’ll be able to get, but we can count on fish."

I was not very happy at the thought of going on a fish diet, but there was nothing either of us could do about it and to return to Pucallpa defeated seemed unthinkable.

After breakfast we walked down to the river to inspect the new boat. It was even smaller than I had imagined, about ten feet in length and not over two feet wide. Indians, as a rule, do not have seats in their canoas, but paddle from a squatting position. Ken, however, had inserted two narrow boards in the front and back, which would at least afford us the opportunity of sitting while paddling. With the help of a half-dozen Indian children Ken carried the motor and most of the supplies to the office of the Guardia Civil where the officer promised faithfully that they would be well taken care of during our absence.

By the time we had loaded our few remaining possessions, including our mosquito nets, blankets, personal bags and a few articles of food - which consisted of a tin of crackers, three jars of marmalade, and a dozen small cans of Nescafe - there was hardly enough room for us to take our positions.

Ken sat in the front while I took the seat in back and after waving to the dozen or more natives who lined the shore we headed out into the open river.

The first ten minutes out of Bolognesi proved to be the hardest. I was unable to paddle correctly and Ken had to shout instructions each time he wanted me to change the position of my paddle from one side of the boat to the other. When we reached shallow water, our canoe had been carried downstream almost a half-mile. When we again arrived at Bolognesi my arms were so tired that I was ready to call it quits.

Our daily progress was, of course, considerably reduced. We had to stop frequently to rest. During these periods we generally walked around on the muddy banks to restore our circulation and exercise our cramped bodies. It took two or three days to learn the proper method of paddling but once having acquired the knack of it, we were able to travel hour after hour without suffering serious fatigue.

On our fifth night out of Bolognesi we stayed at the house of an Indian farmer who advised us that from then on we would find no more signs of civilization and that we were about to enter the territory of the Chama Indians, whose villages could be found on either side of the river for a distance of over sixty miles.

Having lived on short rations for the past few days, I wondered what we could possibly find to eat in Indian territory. It was strange the way a gnawing hunger within me completely eliminated my fear of the dangers that lay ahead.