First Descent

by Pam Withers

  Now I’d lost my concentration. Oh, yeah, I was telling myself I would pass the Spanish test.

  Two hours later, she sidled up to me as I sat shivering on a bench outside the school’s front door, waiting for Gramps to pick me up.

  “Hey, how’d the Spanish test go?”

  “Excellent,” I lied, barely glancing at her in hopes she’d go away. But also half-hoping she wouldn’t.

  “Yeah, was pretty easy, huh?” She snapped her gum, grinned at me, and sat down.

  I glanced around, noticing a bunch of guys huddled over smokes in the parking lot. I was torn between finding an excuse to bolt and asking her name. Sure, there’s some mixing between the “rez” and town kids, but I’m not your progressive, cross-cultural, wade-in-and-to-hell-with-what-anyone-thinks type. Not yet, anyway.

  Then again, who besides Gramps would care if I hung out a little with a looker who appreciated my … my what? Physique? Mystery? I had no idea why she was pursuing me. But the native/aboriginal/First Nations/whatever-you-want-to-call-them jocks glaring at me from the parking lot could stuff it. If she wanted any of them, she’d have let them know already.

  “My name’s–” she started.

  Panicking as I sighted Gramps’ black pickup truck coming towards us, I leapt up and moved a few feet away.

  “Look, I gotta go. My grandpa’s here.” It was outrageously rude, and I instantly hated myself for it. “Talk to you later,” I added lamely as she rose and stamped off.

  “So,” Gramps said with a leer as I climbed in and slammed the door shut. “You like the dark ones, eh?”

  “Leave it, Gramps,” I snarled, hating how old and out of it he was. “A charming old racist,” my mom would purr. “He grew up in different times.”

  “Nah, good to see it in you, boy.” He chuckled too loud, like we’d shared a manly joke. I counted to three as we pulled away. Then his face grew stern. “But leave it at the looking, if you know what I mean. There’s plenty of white women in this town. We’re not meant to mix with Indians.”

  I clenched my teeth so tightly, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pry them apart. But I dared not say anything to the person paying half my way to Colombia.

  “Want to go hunting with me on Saturday?” he asked.

  “Maybe, if training doesn’t get in the way,” I answered vaguely. I hated hunting. He knew it.

  “Good. Black bear season’s open. Let’s get us one. I’ll make a man of you yet.”

  Silence stretched as the truck bounced across muddy ruts.

  “Gramps, why would I need a guide in Colombia?”

  “ ’Cause it’s impossible to get decent topographic maps – the local army doesn’t want them circulating.”

  “The Colombian Army doesn’t let maps out?”

  “Well, Colombia’s a bit of a mess. They’ve got guerilla soldiers trying to help the poor people and paramilitary soldiers trying to protect rich people from the guerillas. There aren’t enough Colombian Army soldiers to keep the guerillas and paramilitaries under control, so it’s been a free-for-all between the three armies for about fifty years. But the Colombian Army’s just about on top of it now. That means there’s a chance to get in and get that first descent.”

  “So it’s safe where I’m going?”

  “As far as I’ve been able to tell.” He took a hand off the wheel and dug in a pack for some wrinkled Internet printouts, which he shoved my way. I examined the map of Colombia, with areas marked in white, gray, and black.

  “White is ‘currently deemed safe,’ ” Gramps said. “Gray is ‘pockets of military resistance.’ Black is …”

  “… ‘closed: military zone.’ ” I recited, studying the key. I let my index finger trace the portion of the Furioso River I was heading for and smiled. White, in between light strips of gray. Then I read the fine print at the bottom of the page. “ ‘Reliability of military updates varies. Check back frequently for reclassifications.’ ”

  “Some of the colored zones change every week,” Gramps said with a frown. “But I’ve talked with the embassy, and where you’re going has been white for months. They said this map is the best one there is. I wouldn’t let you go if I thought there was danger.”

  “I know,” I said. It was the one thing I was sure about.

  “But any change once you arrive, I expect you to get yourself to the Canadian or U.S. embassy right away.

  “Of course.”

  He swung the truck up to the house, braked, and idled the motor. “Your mom wants to talk to you. So I’m going to go get our hunting licenses. See you.”

  “Okay, Gramps. Thanks for the ride.”

  I jumped down, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the front door.

  “Hey, Mom.” She’d kicked off her running shoes and had her hand curled around a glass of fizzy water. I gave her a peck on the cheek. She was sitting on the new floral sofa she’d just talked Gramps into buying.

  “Hi, Rex. Can we talk a minute?” Turning a concerned face to me, she patted the sofa beside her.

  I shrugged and headed toward the fridge. “Sure.”

  “Why do you want to go to Colombia so much, Rex?”

  I laughed, reached for a Coke, and plunked down on the sofa. “The river Gramps tried kayaking sixty years ago is one of the last ones left.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “One of the last wild rivers in the world that hasn’t been kayaked, but probably could be.”

  “That’s because it’s been a war zone all these years, Rex. You do know that, don’t you?” She set her water glass down. Her hands twisted in her lap.

  “Of course. And now it’s not. Did Gramps show you the maps he downloaded?”

  She nodded distractedly, running a finger along the rim of her glass. “And we spoke with embassy people together. They say it’s safe at the moment, but to keep an eye on things.”

  “So there you go. That zone has been white for months now. The Colombian Army’s chasing out the rebels.” I popped the top of the can, then cupped a hand under it and gulped some down as Coke fizzed all over.

  “I know I probably shouldn’t worry, but …” She grabbed a tissue and dabbed the spray on my T-shirt.

  I set the can down. “Mom, I know I can kayak that river. Gramps thinks I can too or he wouldn’t send me. Right?”

  “Right,” Mom said like I wasn’t there. She shook her head. “He’s acting very strange, Rex. Muttering and ranting more than usual. I think it has to do with your grandma dying.”

  “Don’t work yourself up, Mom,” I said gently. “He’s fine. It’s all good.”

  “You’re not like him, you know,” she said, taking my hands in hers. I wanted to yank them away, but I didn’t. She’d pulled up roots in Montana to help when Grandma fell ill, and now she’d lost her mom and was worrying too much about my trip and Gramps. And I was still in awe she’d persuaded Gramps to be my final sponsor.

  “I mean, I know you want to be like him, or you used to anyway. And you are like him in some ways.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re strong, a natural athlete. Fearless, determined. But you’re better than him in other ways.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure. You care more about people. You have a stronger sense of right and wrong. You proved that when the ice broke up the other day.”

  I frowned. “That’s not what Gramps said.”

  “Because he’s jealous of you, Rex. I love him dearly, but he’s a lone wolf – a stubborn, grumpy, old man. And you’re young and full of promise, while he’s getting old and frail.”

  I gulped down the last of my Coke. “What’s your point, Mom?”

  “I know how much you want that first descent, and your other sponsors think you can pull it off, and the embassy says it’s okay, and you’ve got your two expedition mates on board, so I’m choosing to believe you are up to it.” She turned to me with a fierce love in her eyes. My shoulders relaxed, and my heart felt warm. I gave her a big hug. />
  “Thanks, Mom!” I rose to head to my room.

  “He was never really there for Mom and me, you know, Rex.” I sat back down. “Always off kayaking, traveling the world. But your grandma’s death has done something to him. You know what he said to me the other night?”

  I said nothing.

  “He said, ‘Your mother was a good woman. And I was a lousy husband and father sometimes, Anne. I’m sorry. Guilt is a terrible thing to live with.’ ”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Gramps said that?”

  “He did. So you see? He’s not himself at all.” She sighed and reached for a pile of mail on the coffee table. Fishing out two envelopes, she handed them to me. One was registered mail.

  My heart skipped a beat. “It came!” I tore the passport envelope open. Then I examined the other envelope. “From the Colombia Tourism Board. Hey, maybe they’ve decided to sponsor me.”

  I opened the envelope and read the letter aloud.

  Dear Rex,

  The Colombia Tourism Board is pleased to hear of your upcoming visit to Colombia. Regretfully, we are unable to sponsor your trip with funding as requested, but we are pleased to inform you that two of our business members have generously donated gift certificates. Enclosed please find

  • a voucher for two nights’ complimentary stay at the Magdalena Hotel

  • a gift certificate for a week’s kayak rental from Expediciones del Río (River Expeditions).

  As explained in the accompanying document, Javier “Jock” Gómez, outfitter of Expediciones del Río, has also agreed to provide transportation between the airport, hotel, and river for you and your Brazilian companions if the three of you allow local media to feature you kayaking with him.

  Congratulations. We hope you have a safe and pleasant journey.

  Sincerely,

  The Colombia Tourism Board

  “This Jock guy wants a photo of Malcolm Scruggs’ grandson,” I said, grinning.

  “Not of your Brazilian teammates?” Mom was quick to tease.

  “I beat both of them last world championships,” I reminded her. “Anyway, free kayak rental is worth something. So you’re letting Gramps book my flight?”

  “I am if you get permission to take your school exams early,” she said, pursing her lips. “You need to qualify for graduation before you go.”

  “Consider it done.” I smiled and rose to look out the living-room window at my river, now ripping down its course without a flake of ice to hinder it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The guerillas swarmed the community before breakfast. Myriam was up, lighting the fire in the woodstove outside the community center. The women around her were peeling potatoes and husking corn. The guerillas dragged a young boy into the courtyard and dropped him at Myriam’s feet. His shirt was ripped, and his nose dripped blood on the dirt. Myriam guessed he’d been on guard duty and had fallen asleep.

  Then a dozen soldiers – some of them not yet teenagers – ran about, shouting into the doorways of all the community-center buildings, ordering people outside at gunpoint. Abuela shuffled out in front of one gun, her head held high.

  Their guns were Russian rifles, AK-47s. They wore berets and black rubber boots, not leather lace-up ones like the paramilitaries. When Capitán came flying out of the community center to bark at them, one of the guerillas’ boots connected with his jaw, sending him yelping over to Myriam. Her heart beating wildly, she placed a comforting hand on his head and held him near.

  When she next looked up, she saw the soldiers applying their machetes to the community’s garden, specifically to their coca plants. The government allowed indígena communities, but no one else, to grow coca in limited quantities for traditional medicinal and ceremonial use. This, of course, made non-indígenas – who grew it illegally to process into cocaine – jealous.

  Alberto came running from the fields, well ahead of Papá and the men. He planted himself beside her. “Are you okay, Myriam?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He stood tall in the center of the courtyard and dared to nod at some of the guerillas as if in welcome. Good thing Papá didn’t see that, Myriam thought.

  “You’ve been talking with the paramilitaries,” the commander shouted at Papá, who arrived breathless and without the hoe he’d been wielding in the cornfield. “You gave them a radio and told them where we’re camped.”

  Papá looked at the roughed-up boy at Myriam’s feet and ran his clear green eyes around his people in the courtyard. He shook his head. “We have no information. We gave them no information. They seized the radio.”

  “You lie!” shouted the young guerilla commander. He gave the boy at Myriam’s feet a hard kick in the stomach that sent him sprawling dangerously close to the hot stove. Myriam watched the boy’s hands rise to protect his head, but otherwise he didn’t move from there or look up to meet anyone’s eyes. He’d failed to sound the alarm. The community had worked out a system with whistles, and his signal should have prompted runners to the fields and huts. Myriam’s community was good at responding quickly, at gathering almost instantaneously into a group too large for most soldiers to dare push around. But, this morning, the guerillas had found a weakness. Myriam knew that the boy, although only eight, was lucky to be alive.

  “You gave them a radio,” the commander accused again.

  “They took my radio,” Alberto declared.

  “Quiet, Alberto,” Papá ordered.

  “They took it,” Alberto repeated to the commander, hands on his hips.

  The commander shouldered his gun and turned to smile at Alberto. “Did they threaten you?” he asked more gently, removing his beret to rub his head.

  Alberto opened his mouth to respond, but caught Papá’s eye.

  “You need protection from them,” the commander continued in a friendly tone. “They killed ten indígenas in the village just north of here last night.”

  Myriam’s heart seized up. That’s where Mamá was visiting Myriam’s other grandmother. She looked at Papá and saw a flash of panic on his face, before he set his jaw. Alberto’s eyes signaled that he also feared for Myriam’s relatives.

  “We don’t need your protection,” Papá addressed the guerilla commander in the same even tone he’d used with the paramilitaries. “We have our own system.”

  “What, unarmed boys who fall asleep?” the commander jeered in a raised voice, lowering his rifle and poking it at the boy still cowering beside the stove. “You need real protection, from those of us who are fighting for your cause.”

  “You know we don’t get involved with either side,” Papá recited. “We are neu – Alberto!”

  The commander surveyed Alberto directly, sending a shudder up Myriam’s spine. Papá should never have used Alberto’s name in front of them. “Alberto, you know we protect indígena villages from the paramilitaries.”

  You used to a long time ago, before you turned corrupt, Myriam thought.

  “And when boys or girls from those villages join us, we give them guns, uniforms, food, money. And send money back to their villages.”

  Myriam knew the last bit was a lie.

  The commander shot a glance at some of the guerilla kids standing around, three of whom were indígenas. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, comrade,” they replied, smiling mechanically at Alberto.

  Myriam watched Alberto’s feet shift uneasily.

  “Those who do not support us sometimes suffer,” the commander added. “It is not necessary to suffer. If you don’t give us soldiers, you need to pay us a vacuna.”

  Myriam drew in her breath. It was the first time the guerillas had demanded a “vaccine,” or protection money from further attacks.

  “I’m asking you to leave,” Papá said, pulling himself up to his full height. The other men in the village stepped forward and formed a line across the courtyard, Papá in the middle. Myriam noticed Alberto moving into place slower than the rest. He alone would not raise his eyes to the gueri
llas now. The men and boys in the line carried no weapons, yet their faces revealed no fear. They were willing to die, if necessary, to retain their neutrality. Anything but neutrality was death in any case, Myriam reminded herself, and indígenas had been dying at the hands of outsiders for hundreds of years.

  “For now, we’ll leave,” the commander said in his overly friendly voice. But he approached Alberto, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and smiled. Then he turned and pointed at a pig snuffling in a corner of the courtyard.

  “Use your machetes,” he ordered the boy soldiers who’d spoken earlier. “That will be our supper.”

  The boy soldiers chased the squealing pig until they had it secured between them. Myriam looked away as their machetes fell and blood sprayed.

  Within minutes, the guerillas exited the mutilated garden with their commander, the pig’s carcass hanging from a pole between them. They headed toward the bridge that crossed the river not far from Myriam’s community. Myriam noticed that one of the boy soldiers had a hole in the bottom of his left boot. But he had boots. And soon, he’d have pork in his belly, while her family would go hungry.

  Myriam waited until the guerillas were gone. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” she announced in a quivering voice as the line of men broke up. “Abuelita, I’ll help you back indoors.”

  “Not until I’ve tended to this boy’s injuries,” she replied.

  “They say the Colombian Army is starting to win the war,” her father said to no one in particular. “That’s why both the guerillas and paramilitaries are getting more aggressive where they still have strongholds, like here.”

  “The Colombian Army will never come up here,” Alberto retorted. “They don’t care about indígenas. Do we have enough money for a vacuna?”

  “We’ll never pay a vacuna!” Papá said. “If a village pays a vacuna, the soldiers only come back for more money, and more again, until there is nothing left.

  “You,” Papá ordered two men in the community, “hurry to the next village and find out what happened.” They nodded and jumped on their rickety one-speeds, pedaling hard up the dusty trail.