Part 3 of 3 Mobile Clinic: New Beginnings

Last in a 3 Part Series:

For hours, the animals come in wave after wave, with whatever lull in owner drop-offs being neatly filled with Harris' contributions: freshly netted street dogs. In the early afternoon, the motos stop dropping off owners with animals in tow, and the strays that normally crowd the street have thinned, some because they're already been captured, and many more because they've seen one of their brethren carted away. The air is sultry and close; the mood becomes almost dozy. The veterinary workers stand up straight and stretch for the first time on hours, feeling the blue scrub shirt adhere wetly with perspiration to their backs. Now is the time to have a drink of the ubiquitous orange Bimbo, sit down and relax and even joke and laugh a little bit.



The most tense part of the winding down of the mobile clinic day is the final disposition of the patients. There always seems to be one or two whose owners left them for 4-5+ hours, and we have no way of contacting him or her. Even more upsetting is the stray dogs: after laboring over an animal for some time, it feels very wrong that there is nothing to do but return them to the street. One captured stray, a barrel-chested male with massive, horny paws, whose broad, square muzzle and black and tan coloring hinted at a Rottweiler ancestry, caught the eye of one of the regional police officers. He took a shine to the benign monster, and after the dog was neutered, brought him home to his new life as a house and guard dog.

Most are not that lucky, however. After the anesthesia has mostly worn off, they are returned to the busy streets. Hot tears stung my eyes as I saw them gingerly walk away, my heart in my throat when they encounter the busy street. Successfully navigating the crossing, they are lost in the traffic and the crowd. I send a silent prayer after them, hoping that they too will find the satisfaction of a meal, the warmth of a kind touch, the comfort of a home.


Photos courtesy of veterinarians Judith Bechtum and Catherine Davidson

Part 2 of 3 Mobile Clinic: Operating Theater

Part 2 in a 3 Part Series:

Now is when the fun really starts: motos start arriving with mom, dad, 2-3 kids and a dog or three crammed inside. These dogs are "owned," but not as one typically considers pet ownership: for example, these dogs have never worn a collar or leash. They have never been taken for a walk. They likely don't sleep indoors or have a water dish. Many do not even have names. They live on their own terms, eating what they like, from where they can get it; sleeping where they feel the urge (often in the middle of the street!); walking where they like, and coming "home" when the mood strikes. Canine laws unto themselves, they have never had to do anything other than shoo if someone is tired of their company. While these dogs are not wild, they are also not exactly tame.

An admitted animal needs to get weighed, using an ragtag system of harness and a luggage scale. As you're doubled over, with your face half an inch from the yellow teeth which are partially bared in what the uninitiated might take as a sheepish dog grin, the question, "No muerde?" is asked hopefully. Whatever the owner says, you are still very careful. His or her dog may never have bitten before, but then again, the dog has never been restrained, seeing terrified caged dogs trying to bite through the bars, with the smell of blood from surgeries hot in their nostrils. I can tell you from experience that many, many are more than happy to muerde us rude strangers. If the dog makes a serious attempt, we call over Harris or Lisa to muzzle the animal, who then struggles futilely, foaming and enraged. After that, it's a pre-surgery shot that makes them very sleepy, but only after 15 minutes or so. In that 15 minutes, they sit in the cage, some digging, clawing and howling, but most just waiting patiently as if this is just another part of their busy day, in between nosing through mounds of garbage in the meat market and a good shag in the park.


Once the animal is groggy, it is then thoroughly examined by the veterinarian. Most are crawling with fleas and ticks; many have mange, wrinkling the flesh into tough, scar-like folds. They have sores and scabs, cuts and scars. We check the ears for a square dark tattoo: the mark CARES has already sterilized the animal. However, the ears seem to be the most vulnerable for mange, cutting, scarring and outright removal - request for second opinions as to whether or not an animal has a tattoo are common. Once the dog or cat has been examined and given the green light, it is lightly restrained while the anesthetic is administered intravenously for surgery. Then out cold, the animal may be shaved and lubrication is applied to the gaping eyeballs to prevent injury. The surgery site is cleaned and sterilized, and the veterinarian scrubbed and gloved, ready to do the procedure.



I've heard of "operating theater," but always pictured it solely in med school. However, never is the term more appropriate than at the mobile spay and neuter clinics: dozens of people circle around the veterinarians, gravely watching, whispering to each other. When school lets out in the early afternoon, the area takes an almost party atmosphere - fresh in their crisp white shirted school uniforms, the children giggle and point, gawking at the sweating veterinary workers. In more remote areas, the children don’t attend school; they stand and watch, fascinated, as the vets do their often bloody work.
by Linda Schwefel



Photos by veterinarians Judith Bechtum and Catherine Davidson as well as from author

A Day in the Spay & Neuter Clinic . . . Part I

The day starts with a large breakfast provided by the radiant Marlena: eggs, fried potatoes, and lots of fresh fruit, all of which get jostled uncomfortably in the crazy bumpy moto ride to the clinic. At the clinic all is bedlam - rushing about to get all the necessary supplies,

with the usual comedy of errors, loading up the truck to get out the door. By the time we are finally ready to leave, the regional police truck (which transports the larger items, including boxes of supplies, broken down cages and tables) has been waiting

a good 20-30 minutes, with the driver scowling and looking grimly at his watch. However, finally everyone is accounted for and hops in the front seats or the back, holding onto sun hats and tensing their legs to cushion against the bumps of the potholed streets. A 10 minute ride later and we are at the site of the clinic.

At arrival, it is not an inspiring venue for veterinary care. The area is littered with paper and garbage. There are concrete blocks with short fences housing some sick looking grass and

bushes. The bandstand where the surgeries are to be performed is dark and grimy, and spray painted with graffiti. Yet, for the next 5-7 hours, it is here where the veterinarians will bring life and hope to both street dogs and pets owned by the poor denizens of this Iquitos suburb.

We scramble to get everything set up; mostly it is Esther, Harris and Behtjane who seem to know where everything is and are quick to set-up the tables, get the plastic bags

taped to each table for garbage, and designate the areas for examinations and pre-op. Harris and Bruno set up the metal cages - sad, raggedy things that are rickety and cantankerous; we will struggle to get them to open and closed throughout the day. We set up a water jug for hand washing, a large pail below with a 10mm syringe stopper as the plug in the side for a slop bucket.

Everything is in place for this makeshift operating theater - this dirty bandstand, vandalized and dim, with no light, running water or electricity, and hot, blazingly, stupefyingly hot - is now open for business.

Photos courtesy of veterinarians Judith Bechtum and Catherine Davidson

Adventures in Belen Market

by Linda Schwefel

The first day I arrived in Iquitos, I was dazzled by the city, the speeding motos, the makeup-melting heat. I met up with two volunteer vets, Barbara and Judith, who graciously invited me to accompany them to the Belen open-air market. It was a a full-immersion introduction to Iquitos!

Belen Market is one of the largest open-air market in the world, covering 20+ square blocks. In the rainy season, many of the stalls are floating; in late October, the very tail end of the dry season, we were able to reach the vendors on foot.

As you approach the area, you are struck by the smell: the intoxicating aroma of overripe tropical fruits and pungent exotic spices at war with more earthy odors - namely, rotten meat, blood, and animal waste. The smell settles like a live thing in your throat; it can be tasted and swallowed, a discrete sensory experience from that of your nose. Apart from the odor, the market's vendors and wares added to the otherworldliness of the experience: everywhere there are shocks of color and noise, with sellers hawking their merchandise, the laughter and general chaos.

There were different sections of the market, with areas selling beautiful hand-woven fabrics mixed among the trashiest of lingerie and tackiest of t-shirts. There was a toy section which looked as though a dollar store from Ohio had been mysteriously transported to this tropical port. There were incredible, unfamiliar fruits and vegetables, and vendors selling food ready to eat, including skewers of what I thought was chicken (but apparently was not), roasted brown and crackling hot.

The shaman area of the market was fascinating. For a city which is bursting to the seams with children, and where many families seem to be struggling to get by, it is ironic how its denizens appear obsessed with fertility. Everywhere there were tributes to male anatomy, including one candle that was a giant phallus with crouching male and female figures worshiping on either side - a decent summation of what appeared to be a devotional attitude towards all things macho. There were potions and unguents and spices and oils devoted to curing any physical ailment (back pain, cancer, heart problems) to addressing more prosaic problems: attracting a mate, procuring money, and, of course, ensuring that one's equipment (ahem) is always in the locked and upright position. This area of the market also had some more breathtakingly horrible wares for sale, including monkey skulls, sloth heads, necklaces made of python vertebrae, and, truly disturbing, dried and stretched jaguar skins.
The part of the market I had most problems navigating was the meat area. The smell here was rich and primal, with warring aromas - one moment you would smell something delicious, like the roasting unnamed meat, then you'd catch a whiff of pure fly-blown rancidity. There were chicken innards in small piles with their sad, primitive feet crossed on the top as a grim garnish; there were tortoises, front and back ends, with their cracked and blood-crusted shells abandoned in a careless heap; there were giant rolls of pig fat, and pig faces inside-out like dreadful rubber Halloween masks. As a carnivore apologist, I prefer not to know where my food comes from; in this market, such hypocrisy is impossible. I kept my hands over my face, gratefully inhaling Jergens hand lotion, Gain fabric softener, even my own acrid sweat, to avoid the offal stink.

Here was life with a capitol L: produce ripens and is awash with fruit flies right next to a sleeping baby. A dog digs through the all-pervasive trash, while the clouds of buzzards circle high overhead, with dozens more watching from their perches in the stalls. A smartly dressed young woman barters for a glistening mess of chicken entrails, while holding the hand of her toddler son. He pees onto the stall's table legs while his mother waits for her purchase to be wrapped up; she touches the bag and her fingers are at once shiny with grease and drippings. Her red lacquered fingernails gleam in the dim light as she helps her young son pull up his pants, then she touches his pretty plump cheek, leaving a viscous pink smear on his dusky brown skin. It was at once vibrant, tantalizing and appalling.
Throughout the market, I was warned by the vendors and shoppers "Cuidado," pantomiming holding my camera tightly. I didn't take their warnings seriously until it was too late: I felt a violent tug at my throat. A middle aged man had hold of my camera and dragged me for several yards by the strap wrapped around my neck. Canon quality won the day, however, and he abandoned the target and ran. When he got about 20 feet away, he turned, shrugged and grinned at me. You win some, you lose some.

I left the market shaken, not only from the theft attempt, but also from the market itself. While a visit to Belen Market helps to give one the true flavor of Iquitos and its people, it is not a destination that is without its perils. I offer the following advice for any would-be tourists: 1) Watch out for pickpockets and grab-and-dash thieves; 2) bring lots of S./ 1, 2 and 5 coins, as vendors are not keen to make change from fresh-from-the-ATM S./100 bills; and 3) don't eat before you go.

Photographs by veterinarians Catherine Davidson and Judith Bechtum

Dog Catching at Punchana Meat Market

Backtracking a  bit, I am writing about our last day at the outdoor clinic in Punchana which took place on Thursday, October 21, 2010. As our agenda had changed, few people brought their animals for treatment. However, the proximity of the meat market ensured that the volunteers would not be idle: it was time to let loose CARES' own dog whisperer, Harris, with his wicked long pole net.
He and Bruno, CARES' director in Peru, who serves as Harris' wing man in such ventures, walked into the market, the net resting casually on his shoulder. Their studied nonchalance did not fool either the two- or four-legged occupants of the market. The people excitedly pointed and called to friends so they don't miss the show; the dogs began barking anxiously, and if approached, would stand their ground defiantly for a moment or two, then allowing discretion to overcome valor, would turn tail and run.

Bruno and Harris were more than equal to the task, however. Using hand signals and abrupt, machine-gun swift Spanish to coordinate their approach, Harris advanced on a small ginger colored female who bared her teeth in warning. When she finally thought to escape, there was Bruno, blocking her way. She turned back to Harris, looking for a way to elude him, but then it was over: with a masterful scoop, she was netted. Then the struggle began in earnest: the little dog weighed all of 25 pounds, fought like a crazed thing, twisting and turning in the net, at one point very nearly biting the assisting Bruno. Seeing the dog's herculean struggle, Barbara, a vet volunteer, whispered the near-endearment Diabolita (little she-devil) admiringly. However, finally the dog was subdued and carried out to the clinic for an impromptu, al fresco spay.

Diabolita was a pistol to the end - she nosed open her cage after the spay then stopped to chew through her bandage of gauze and masking tape. When Bruno went to help her remove the tape, she was wise enough to let bygones be bygones, and allowed his assistance. Once free, she daintily trotted away, pausing to sniff and briefly lick at a crust of unnamed filth on the concrete, then disappearing into the market.

Amazon CARES' Animal Care Workers

Last week when I was in Peru, I was able to observe the Iquitos CARES' animal care workers in action, and have been much impressed with their skills and dedication. While Molly is the visionary, it is they who labor to bring her vision to fruition, and they deserve a little recognition. So without further ado, I bring you the CARES' Iquitos animal care staff:

Bruno is the Director of CARES, and is the general overseer of day-to-day operations. He arranges for trips, makes sure the vets are equipped with what they need, gets things fixed, does the accounting, and, on occasion, plays back-up dog catcher/wrangler.

Just about every aspect of CARES and its work shows his fine, Gallic fingerprints upon it. He is Molly's right hand, and if there is anything about Iquitos or CARES that he does not know, it is not worth knowing. While very busy, he is quick to answer a question or offer a hand.

Esther is the senior vet of the organization. Successfully wooed by Molly to join the practice, she moved her entire family from a suburb of Lima to join the CARES team. She is a dedicated professional, and her affect is one of no-nonsense expertise with the pet owners. Back at the clinic, however, she is quick to smile and joke, her frank, intelligent face alight with friendliness.


Luis is the newest member of the CARES team, having only been in Iquitos for six weeks. With his soulful brown eyes and hipster goatee, Luis seems Hollywood-cast for the role of sensitive, idealistic young veterinario. Luis only was able to leave the practice clinic one time during my stay there to do spays at the Punchana mobile clinic, instead spending his days at the Pevas Ave. office, treating animals and performing surgeries for paying clients. Ambitious and keenly bright, Luis goes to school at night to learn English and Portugeuse, and has dreams of traveling the world like the CARES volunteer veterinarians or perhaps working in a wildlife preserve.



Behtjane (pronounced "Bet-hany" for us Spanish-impaired) is a veterinary nurse. Blessed with a "make-do" attitude necessary for the mobile clinics, she helped us all to use the materials on hand, even if they weren't the best for the job - "making do" with less, something else, or nothing at all. For example, we ran out of the small butterfly catheters for administering drugs. The vets quailed at using the larger catheters we had available, especially considering the scrawny, small animals upon which they would be used. However, Behtjane, with characteristic aplomb, skillfully used the catheters, with a minimum of bleeding and always on the first try, with no twisting or digging about. Minnesota vet Judith summed it up best: "She is amazing." No argument there.


Harris is CARES' resident dog whisperer. Despite only being 19 years old, his skill at catching and restraining dogs is by far the best of the group, so much that all the others defer to his skill when encountering a less-than-friendly animal. His skill at netting half-wild, snarling and biting street dogs is amazing; his gentleness, even more so.

It was wonderful meeting and working with all of these people; their skill and dedication are truly inspirational!

Motos, Motos Everywhere

This, my sixth day in Iquitos, saw me spending an inordinate amount of time riding in mototaxis. For the uninitiated, I will explain: imagine a souped-up tricycle with a seat in back and a driver in front whizzing by on busy city streets, weaving in and out of other "motos," motorcycles, buses, pedestrians, dogs and other obstacles.
Then imagine this same moto getting so close to other motos you could scoot over with ease and join your neighbor, whisper a secret in an adjacent driver's ear, or push their fender with your flip-flop. It's not for the faint of heart! Adding to the chaos is the noise: the moto engines are sputtering angrily, with their drivers honking interminably, at what appears to be random stimuli, or no stimuli at all. I am sure there is a reason for the constant, polite double-tap "beep-beep," but I have yet to discern a pattern. It reminds me of a kid with a whistle: he blows on it because he can.

There are traffic lights in places, but for the most part they appear discretionary: when the light changes, those with the green light are hesitant to be the first one to venture into the intersection. It would be rude, I suppose, to interrupt someone who is already going through in the other direction, so one must be patient and wait for him to finish. By that time the light is changing, and now you're the one going through on red, but no one seems to particularly mind.

An interesting paradox I've noticed in Iquitos is that while time seems primarily to be a very slow, languid thing (i.e., somnambulistic pace of service in restaurants, prolonged back-and-forth haggling with the motos and the street vendors, waiting more than a minute on occasion with a green light at an intersection, etc.), if you ask a moto driver to wait, you'd best not dawdle. Two times today I asked a moto driver to wait. Both times they agreed, and both times they left me stranded, without even getting paid for getting me to the initial stop. I suppose stranded is a bit too strong of a word, as you simply have to look like you might have an inkling of going somewhere to have half a dozen motos queue up offering their services. However, it did seem a bit unseemly that they left, and even more so that I inadvertently stiffed them.