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PUCALLPA, Peru – As Covid-19 quickly spread through the Peruvian Amazon, the Shipibo indigenous community decided to draw on the wisdom of their ancestors.
The hospitals were far away, without doctors and without beds. Even if they could enter, many of the sick were too scared to go, convinced that stepping foot in a hospital would only lead to death.
So Mery Fasabi collected herbs, soaked them in boiling water, and instructed her loved ones to breathe in the vapors. She also made onion and ginger syrups to help clear congested airways.
“We had knowledge about these plants, but we did not know if they would really help treat Covid,” said the teacher. “With the pandemic we are discovering new things.”
The ruthless march of the coronavirus pandemic through Peru, the country with the highest population-confirmed death rate from Covid-19 in the world, has forced many indigenous groups to find their own remedies. Decades of underinvestment in public health care, combined with the skepticism of modern medicine, mean that many are not receiving standard treatments such as oxygen therapy to treat severe cases of the virus.
In the Ucayali region, government rapid response teams deployed to a handful of indigenous communities have found infection rates of up to 80 percent using antibody tests. Food and medicine donations have reached only a fraction of the population. Many say the only state presence they have seen is of a group responsible for collecting the bodies of the dead.
In a place known as “Kilometer 20” near the city of Pucallpa, a new cemetery has come to life with the remains of some 400 people.
“They have always forgotten us,” said Roberto Wikleff, 49, a Shipibo man who turned to Fasabi treatments to help treat his Covid-19. “We don’t exist for them.”
Peru is home to one of the largest indigenous populations in Latin America, whose ancestors lived in the Andean country before the arrival of Spanish settlers. Entire tribes were wiped out by infectious diseases introduced by Europeans. Today, many live and work in urban areas, but others reside in remote parts of the Amazon that have few doctors, let alone the ability to perform complex molecular tests or treatments for the virus.
Wikleff said the 10 doctors, nurses and assistants who usually work at a nearby clinic left their posts when the coronavirus hit. The Shipibo had tried to prevent the entry of Covid-19 by blocking roads and isolating themselves. But in May, he and others nonetheless developed a fever, cough, shortness of breath, and headaches.
A month later, he was still feeling ill and headed to Fasabi, who along with 15 other volunteers had set up a makeshift treatment center.
“They took me there in agony,” he recalls.
The Shipibo emphasize the use of a plant known locally as “matico”. The buddleja globosa plant has green leaves and a tangerine-colored flower. Fasabi said that the remedies are by no means a cure, but their holistic approach is proving to be effective. Unlike hospitals, volunteers wearing masks approach patients, give them words of encouragement, and touch them through massages.
“We are giving our patients peace of mind,” he said.
Juan Carlos Salas, director of the Ucayali regional health agency, said that efforts to expand hospital capacity have been only marginally successful. The region of roughly half a million people located along a winding river had just 18 ICU beds at the start of the pandemic and today has about 28. The shortage of specialists means they have not been able to staff all the beds. .
At the peak of the outbreak in May and June, about 15 people died a day, he said. Overall, about 14,000 cases have been diagnosed, probably a very low count.
“We didn’t have a way to care for patients,” he said. “We couldn’t accept more.”
He said transportation is one of the biggest obstacles in dealing with indigenous groups, some of which can only be reached by helicopter or an eight-hour boat ride. The bustling port of Pucallpa, where timber, bananas and other fruits are loaded onto ships for export, is believed to be one of the main sources of contagion.
Of some 59,000 rapid antibody tests, about 2,500 were administered to indigenous groups.
“We were surprised,” Salas said. “Most had been infected.”
Lizardo Cauper, president of the Inter-Ethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Jungle, said that of about 500,000 indigenous people living in the Amazon, his group estimates that 147,000 have been infected by the virus and 3,000 have died.
While the fortunate recover with ancient remedies, the less fortunate often die at home. A government team travels from one Spartan thatched house to the next, pulling the dead from the beds and chairs where they breathed their last. The poor are taken to the Covid-19 cemetery and buried in the burnt orange earth.
Rider Sol Sol, 48, said he and a group of gravediggers buried up to 30 people a day at the height of the pandemic. The father of four had been out of work before landing this undertaker’s job.
“I thank God for having a job,” he said.
These days, with the lowest death count, he is the only man who works most days. Alone in the middle of rows of white crosses, he tries not to let his mind drift to what ifs. The bodies come with a name and a number and he does not reflect on their stories.
He keeps his mask on, digs in the dirt and drinks from a bottle with matico.
