by Pam Withers
Abuela, who’d finished treating the boy with the bloody nose, stood and leaned on her cane. Papá bent down to offer a hand to the boy. “Come with me,” he said sternly, then threw a dark look at Alberto. “You, too, Alberto.”
“Do you think Alberto will get in trouble?” Rosita asked Myriam in a strained whisper, her face serious. “Do you think Mamá is okay?”
“If Papá gives Alberto a talking to, it’s because he has too high an opinion of the guerillas,” she replied. “And Mamá? Of course she is okay. Maybe she’ll be home by the time you return from school.”
“Abuelita hasn’t changed her mind about you going to university?” Rosita asked.
“No,” Myriam said bitterly. “She found out I have enough credits to graduate without finishing the year, as long as I complete one more exam from home. But please ask my teacher if she has a message for me.” An acceptance to university – on condition I pass that exam – even if it rips me apart from my beloved family, she prayed silently.
An hour later, Rosita started herding up children for the long walk to school. Then, chewing her braid and giving her older sister a mournful side glance, she took Myriam’s former place at the head of the little procession.
Myriam’s heart swelled with sorrow. No more school. No more English. Trapped here forever, unless …
The men came back in from the field at lunchtime. Their body odor filled the courtyard as Myriam and the women stirred a pot of watery rice broth and pulled cheese bread from firewood burning in an ovenlike cavity between three large stones.
Mamá arrived on her bicycle from the opposite direction, sandwiched between the two men her husband had sent, baby Alejandro on her back. Beneath the shadow of her hat, her long braid was askew. She looked like she’d been crying.
Papá hurried over to embrace her. Myriam followed suit, the twins at their heels.
“Mamá! Mamá!” Flora and Freddy sang in unison, dancing a toddler dance until she lifted and hugged each in turn.
Over lunch, as everyone leaned close to hear, Mamá related what had happened. The paramilitaries had shot and killed two groups of five guards each, who’d challenged them before more guards could arrive.
“Then the soldiers set fire to some of the huts. That’s when a boy stepped forward and volunteered to join the troop.”
“Did his parents not try to stop him?” Papá demanded, face taut as he eyed Alberto, who was listening intently.
Tears leaked from Mamá’s eyes. “His parents were killed by guerilla land mines last month, and he’d threatened many times to join the paramilitaries. His grandmother let him go because she said there was not enough food to feed him.”
“The land mines could have been paramilitary land mines!” Alberto spoke up with vehemence. “He should have joined the guerillas, who protect the poor, not the paramilitaries, who protect the rich.”
“We cannot trust either,” Papá shot back. “There will be no peace for us until both are gone from this area.”
Alberto held his tongue. Papá looked from him to Myriam, with those penetrating green eyes. “Myriam, now that Mamá is back, you need to check the trout tanks. Alberto, go with her.”
“But I don’t need Alberto.…”
“I said, Alberto will go with you,” Papá insisted.
“Me, me, me, too!” Freddy sang, reaching his chubby arms up to Myriam.
Papá smiled distractedly as Alberto reached over to tickle Myriam’s little brother. “And Freddy,” Papá added in a warmer tone.
Although Myriam would have preferred to walk alone to the river, a part of her was relieved to have Alberto along after the morning’s tension. He circled around her to make faces at Freddy, who giggled and squirmed on Myriam’s back.
“Freddy, I’m a condor,” Alberto teased, flapping his arms like wings as Freddy squealed with delight.
“Freddy, I’m a puma,” he said, dropping on all fours and growling softly.
Condors and pumas, Myriam thought. Numerous in these mountains in Abuela’s time. Now both nearly extinct, thanks to land developers and soldiers.
When they reached the river, they located the eight trout holding tanks the community had built during a work party. Bit by bit, the indígenas were improving their lot in life through mingas, occasional work-party projects partially funded by the government.
“Hordes of fish,” Myriam enthused, peering down to watch tiny trout darting about, glistening in the afternoon sun. The villagers had built the tanks – each a little larger than Myriam’s family’s entire hut – along the riverbank so that the community could use diverted current to sustain the fish.
“They’ll fetch good money in the market,” Alberto said. “And taste good, the few we’ll keep to eat.”
Myriam flashed back to the long day in which the men had mixed and poured cement to build the tanks. She, like all the women and girls, had stayed in the village and cooked massive amounts of food for the after-work-party feed.
It was at the feed that Alberto had drawn her aside and asked her to marry him. He was still waiting for her answer.
“Tonight we’ll celebrate Mamá being home,” Myriam told Freddy.
Alberto shrugged. “Except for those of us on guard duty. The paramilitaries have been harassing us more and more. We have to step up patrols. But that means fewer people to do the work that needs doing.”
He dipped into his woven shoulder bag and produced handfuls of fish-food pellets to pour into Myriam’s and Freddy’s outstretched palms. He guided Freddy’s hands to a position over the wire-fence-topped tank. Freddy opened his palms and watched the food drift down to the tiny fish, which went into a feeding frenzy. Freddy smiled and clapped his hands, and Alberto hugged him and gave him more. Birds sang to them from the nearby treetops. Myriam felt she should be happy, but all she could think about was whether the university would accept her – and what she should do if it did.
When he’d emptied his sack, Myriam walked a few steps upriver and strode into the water, letting the mud squelch between her toes. “I love this river,” she murmured.
“Me, too,” Alberto said, tentatively circling her waist with his arms.
She whirled around and stepped sideways. “Abuelita and Papá have made me quit school.”
Alberto smiled. “I know. It’s good. School’s boring, and it means you and I can–”
“It’s not boring to me. I like school, especially English.”
“But why?” he asked, clearly perplexed.
“School is the only place I can use the Internet. Sometimes I write reports in English about what the soldiers do to us and send them to places.”
“What places? Who cares?” Alberto said in a raised voice.
Freddy shifted on his sister’s back.
“Foreigners, especially indígenas in other countries, care. Sometimes they answer me and say they are sending my information to reporters and politicians there. Those people will pressure the Colombian Army to protect us.”
Alberto shook his head. “Myriam, I know you want to help, but letting the guerillas protect us is the only way.”
“It’s not! The guerillas tell lies to get children to join them. And they torture or kill anyone who tries to quit after they’ve joined!”
“Myriam, those are just rumors. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You got those crazy ideas from school. It’s just as well you’re done going there now.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, watching his face turn even more serious.
“Myriam, I think it’s time I join the guerillas. The pay could support us, you know.”
She felt her jaw stiffen. She wanted to pound his chest. “No, no, no! You know how I feel about that! You know how Papá feels. Why do you keep bringing it up?”
He lowered his head, but his shoulders remained erect. “Okay, let’s not fight now. Myriam, my untamed sweetheart, follow me.”
He lifted Freddy from Myriam’s back and tucked him under one arm,
then grabbed her hand and pulled her to shore. They headed upstream. Trying to swallow her anger, Myriam struggled to keep up with his long strides as they wound their way through brush and trees to a small cliff face overlooking the river. There, still holding tightly to Freddy, Alberto started to scramble up small indentations in the rock that someone had made with a pickax many decades before. Myriam, concerned for Freddy’s safety, sprang up the footholds after Alberto. Hunger made her grab some figs off a wild fig tree on the way.
“Why are we going to the cave?”
“Shhh,” Alberto said, turning with a grin. He ducked into an opening in the rock. Freddy was still under his arm. Myriam wriggled in after them, mindless of the dirt on the jeans she wore. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noticed a blanket and water bottle in one corner. She frowned at Alberto.
He grabbed the blanket and spread it out, then coaxed Freddy to lie on it. He offered him a sip of water from a plastic pop container, which Freddy guzzled greedily. Myriam produced the figs, and all three munched on them while lying stomach-down on the blanket and peering out the cave’s opening.
From this commanding perch, Myriam could see a long way across the field on the other side of the river. She could see the daisies soaking up the sun and the high grasses waving in the wind. She could smell the pine and eucalyptus trees and hear the roar of rapids that stretched endlessly upstream and downstream. She hadn’t been in the cave for years. Lying here reminded her that nowhere else offered such a sweeping view of her river.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she acknowledged.
“Like you,” Alberto said, studying her face. “Will you say yes, then? We have your parents’ blessing, you know.”
Myriam’s insides churned. “No! I’m sorry, Alberto, but no.”
“You need more time,” Alberto asserted with a confidence that made her want to push him off the cave ledge.
Just then Freddy pointed. “Puma,” he whispered.
Relieved for the distraction, Myriam looked across the river. At first, she didn’t see it. Then she heard Alberto’s excited whisper, “It is a puma!”
The blond cat moved stealthily through the long grasses, stopping to sniff every few yards. Myriam had seen one only once before, as a child. Mostly she’d seen pictures in books and heard the elders’ stories. Her senses were on fire; she felt extraordinarily privileged to witness its primal grace. When it reached the river, it sipped cautiously, ears twitching and head lifting. Clearly it had no scent of them in the cave far overhead.
Myriam hardly dared breathe. Alberto looked entranced.
Then Freddy shouted, “Puma!”
It turned and leapt away so fast that Myriam barely had time to register its flight. She saw only the tips of its ears and its tail as it ran through the grass. One leap, two, and then came the deafening explosion.
Myriam’s entire body convulsed with horror. Alberto placed a hand over Freddy’s eyes as the boy began to scream. His other hand sought Myriam’s.
“Land mine,” they uttered in fractured voices.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ve finally arrived in southwest Colombia. It feels safe and peaceful here. Nearby is a snow-covered, inactive volcano with wild-looking streamlets running down its sides. It doesn’t look too steep for hiking – a walk in the park for me! My host here is a light-skinned Mestizo – which means of mixed breeding, Spanish and Indian. A pleasant sort of fellow with good manners. Far preferable to the poor, dirty Indians in town who wander about barefoot, begging for work. Many of the males wear hideous skirts and are drunk from bottles of homemade sugarcane brandy they hide on them. Their womenfolk wear ridiculous black felt hats, heavy skirts, and ponchos. They are not what anyone would call beautiful. – Malcolm Scruggs
I smiled as I closed Gramps’ journal and returned it to my backpack. Gramps, you’d never dare write like that these days, I thought. I stifled the notion that maybe no one should have in the mid-twentieth century, either.
As I looked at the mountains and rivers beneath the plane’s wing, the seatbelt light came on and the flight attendants asked everyone to prepare for landing. At least, I thought that’s what they requested as I shrugged off a humiliating sense of being back in Spanish class on exam day.
So I was just about there, finally, in southwest Colombia – land of Gramps’ attempt on the Furioso River sixty years before. I sat up straight and proud. Show me what you’ve got, Colombia!
The plane taxied to a halt. I glimpsed tropical vegetation and smog. Somehow, I’d made it through customs on my marginal Spanish when I’d changed planes in Bogotá. No one had questioned the paddling and camping gear or the antique necklace in my backpack. As I walked into the greeting area here in Neiva, I spotted a fit-looking dude in his midtwenties, waving a sign saying WELCOME, REX SCRUGGS.
“Jock? I’m Rex.” I pumped Jock’s hand. “Thanks for meeting me. And for donating the kayak rental.”
“No problem! Good to meet you, Rex. Welcome to Colombia. Henrique and Tiago fly in tomorrow morning and are getting to my place by bus. I’m excited to show you guys the Magdalena River.”
“Perfect.”
We chatted on the way to Jock’s nearly new red Toyota Hilux pickup truck, me relieved at the guy’s fluency in English. The air was hot and humid, the sky clear. The high elevation made me noticeably breathless. I needed to get used to that fast.
“I hear your rivers are some of the best in the world,” I said.
“Got that right! And you said your grandfather kayaked in Colombia a long time ago.”
“That’s true,” I replied, smiling. “People still know who he is around these parts?”
“Um, actually I hadn’t heard of him before you and I exchanged e-mails.” Jock looked a little sheepish.
“Oh.” I was dumbfounded. “But he did quite a few first descents in South America, even tried for one here in Colombia.”
“That’s what you said.”
“He’d have finished it, but he claims he got run off by the locals.”
“I see.”
He isn’t even going to ask which river? Fine. “How far from here to where you run your operation?”
“More than a four-hour drive, unfortunately. Our roads are pretty potholed.” He lifted my pack into the back of the truck. “We’ll get there well before dark.”
I shed my jacket and hopped into the front. “Sounds good. I read it’s not all that safe to drive after dark here. Is that true?”
“No way!” Jock answered so fast that I felt a little suspicious. “Colombia’s all cleaned up from the bad old days. It’s totally safe now, an awesome place for tourists to come. Almost all my clients are from Britain, the United States, or Canada.”
“Guess that’s why your English is so good. My Spanish is lousy.”
“No problem. You can practice it with me if you want to.”
“Nah, I’m good with English. So, is this a new business for you?” I sniffed the orange scent of the air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. The inside of his cab looked freshly vacuumed.
“Absolutely. I started as a kayaker, then guided for a raft outfitter, then started this business last year. You three will be just about the first to paddle the new kayaks I just bought.” We were winding our way through Neiva traffic. Half-choking on the vehicle fumes, I rolled up my window.
“What kind of kayaking do you do?” I asked.
“Whitewater. Mostly on the Magdalena.”
“Mmm, ever done a first descent?” I ventured.
“I’m not into that. Sounds like you are, judging from your letter to the Colombia Tourism Board.”
“I kayak the heaviest whitewater I can find. Colombia has the same international scale, Class I to VI, right?”
Jock grinned. “Yes, same scale. Well, the Magdalena section we do downstream from my shop is Class II to III. Good fun and safe for my clients. Safe is good for a new business.”
I sighed. Safe meant boring, but never mind. He
nrique, Tiago, and I hadn’t specified where we hoped to paddle after the Magdalena, for fear Jock might try to scoop us. He just knew we were going to “check out the possibility” of a first descent.
He certainly wasn’t kidding about the potholes. As we headed out of Neiva, we bumped and wound along the two-lane highway, sometimes sharing it with donkeys carrying heavy loads. We passed girls in tight dresses with spaghetti straps, dusty guys peeing in the grass by the roadside, and scooters overloaded with helmetless riders. Every few yards, stands with corrugated tin roofs featured vendors selling juice, fruit, cheese, and pastry in plastic bags. Plus baskets, pots, and cell phone minutes.
Must’ve been the long flight or the humidity, but I nodded off till Jock’s pickup truck lurched and came to a halt. I lifted my head, saw a sign identifying some kind of battalion, and soldiers with machine guns. The soldiers were scattering large pieces of truck tires all over the road.
“Now there’s a different way to make speed bumps,” I said. “Is this a police roadblock or something?” I shivered in the cooler mountain air.
“It’s the Colombian Army looking for paramilitaries or guerillas. Don’t speak unless you have to,” Jock warned in a low voice.
A soldier poked his head through Jock’s rolled-down window and demanded photo identification. When I handed over my passport, he glared at me, then wandered off to hold a roadside conference with other soldiers. Just as I was worrying whether I was going to get my passport back, he dropped it through the truck window and waved us on with his gun.
“Are we going to get stopped very often?” I asked. Privately, I was thinking it was a good thing the national army was around and so thorough. Made me feel safer.
Jock’s smile seemed forced. “No, the Colombian Army doesn’t go much farther up this mountain.”
For a moment, I felt unsettled. But what do I know about how things work around here? The embassies hadn’t warned me off, and Jock himself had been pretty keen for me to come. So I didn’t ask more questions and slept for most of the ride.
