First Descent

by Pam Withers

  “Thanks for helping me out with the shopping,” I addressed Henrique when my pack was so full it resembled something Mt. Everest-bound. We stood awkwardly at the edge of the marketplace.

  “Least we can do,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

  “Please don’t talk to Jock or any reporters or my family till I decide what to do, eh?” I wanted to make sure the two of them wouldn’t say anything that might get back to my mom or Gramps – who, after all, had allowed me to come only on condition it would be a team effort. If I carry on, it’s a new team, I thought. Myriam as my shore crew and me, myself, and I.

  The guys nodded, clearly relieved that I seemed to be backing down.

  “No hard feelings?” Tiago asked as we prepared to part near the bus station.

  “It was fun doing a few rapids together,” I allowed, trying not to grit my teeth. “It would’ve been good to do the whole thing, but you may be right.”

  “Take care, then,” Henrique said, and punched me lightly on the shoulder, his dark eyes trying to read mine. “See you at the next worlds or something.”

  “Or something,” I agreed and turned away, feeling empty and vastly alone, even as I held my head high. I forced my feet in the direction of Jock’s shop, easing my heavy pack off my back and setting it beside the counter, whose glass top displayed Expediciones del Río T-shirts.

  Jock entered when I rang the little bell on the counter. “Rex! I didn’t expect to see you back down here so fast, or in one piece. Does that mean it was a super-fast ride or that you got smart and gave it up?”

  “I came down on an errand for Myriam,” I said sheepishly, not wanting to explain about the plane poisoning. “We’ve done some of the rapids and will start again the day after tomorrow. Are you okay for joining us where the two rivers meet later than we agreed on?”

  “Absolutely. Are Henrique and Tiago with you?”

  “Doing their own thing at the moment. Myriam’s working out great, by the way.”

  “Super. You’re lucky. Pretty much nobody else up there speaks English, far as I know. And the rapids are okay?”

  “Just fun stuff so far,” I said.

  “Perfect. Tom’s still around, you know. Another guide and I took him on the Magdalena again yesterday.”

  “Bet that was fun.”

  “He made it down without coming out of his boat.”

  “That’s good.” I reddened as I flashed back to my own humiliating swim.

  “Tom’s outside now, jabbering with one of my guides. Then he’s going ziplining. You should go with him. It’s a blast.”

  “You mean, hanging off a T-bar thing on a pulley while you zip down a steel cable at high speed?”

  “Exactly. A friend of mine just started it up as a business catering to, you know, the English-speaking market.”

  “Sounds fun, but I have to get back up the mountain by dark.” Not to mention I was running out of money.

  “It only takes an hour, and the truck ride is partway up the mountain. It’ll save you nearly an hour of walking.” He named a price – less than what I’d pay for a CD at home. I drummed my fingers on the counter, tempted. I was feeling abandoned and downhearted, even a little unsure of my decision to head back up. Maybe this will be a nice pick-me-up?

  “It’s fun and totally safe, and you can see the countryside all around. It even goes across a mountain creek at one point.”

  Hmm, I thought. Good for scouting rapids and the terrain if I decide to knock off another river instead of the Furioso.

  “Better decide fast. That’s the truck pulling up now.”

  “Sure, sounds sweet. I’m in.”

  He was a good businessman, Jock. Probably got commission for sending customers over to his ziplining buddy. Oh, well. I’m here to have fun, aren’t I?

  “Hey, Tom,” I said as I lugged my backpack out Jock’s front door.

  “Rex! You’re the man! Back from bagging a mountain creek already? Buddies gone home to Brazil? And you’re going ziplining with me?”

  “Something like that.” We climbed into the rear of the dusty pickup truck. I used my pack as a backrest. The driver came around and collected money, his smile showing yellowed teeth.

  Tom and I coughed as the truck took off in a cloud of dust.

  ——

  “I can’t believe you walked up and paddled a river and walked down again without getting shot at or kidnapped,” Tom said. “You’re a crazy kid, you know that?”

  “I’m not a kid, and we didn’t even see any soldiers,” I said, offended.

  He laughed as the truck lurched around potholes. “It doesn’t mean they didn’t see you.”

  “I thought the Colombian Army pretty much had things under control.” Everything except some paranoia up in Myriam’s village that scared my buddies away, I thought.

  Tom laughed harder. “Yeah, sure. Totally under control. Only ‘pockets of resistance,’ the media likes to say. Any reporter who sniffs around for more info than that gets murdered.”

  I stared at him. “Well, we didn’t see any trouble.”

  “That’s good, Rex, ’cause that’s one helluva pocket of resistance up there. Guerillas and paras and coca fields and what have you. The Colombian Army won’t go near the place, except to fly over in planes.”

  And dump poisons on innocent indígenas’ gardens, I thought.

  “What’s the difference between guerillas and paramilitaries?” I asked. Gramps might have explained it, but I hadn’t much listened then.

  “Originally, the guerillas were fighting to make life better for poor people. The Colombian Army couldn’t beat the guerillas, especially in the countryside, so landowners and businessmen started hiring private soldiers – paramilitaries – to protect themselves from the guerillas.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said.

  “Yeah, but these days, both the guerillas and paras are bad news and out of control – like big-city street gangs always trying to get more territory and members. Unfortunately, the Colombian Army isn’t big enough to stop either.”

  “Oh.”

  “Jock wasn’t about to tell you directly, Rex, ’cause he’s all about business. But you made it back down the mountain, so it’s all good.”

  I thought about Alberto insisting I pull the hood around my face and wear his hat, and about Myriam warning me not to step into the fields across the river. I thought about Jock and Tom trying to tell me my grandfather’s information was out of date. I wondered if Henrique and Tiago had just done the right thing.

  “We have a guide,” I said, straightening my shoulders and deciding Tom just enjoyed exaggerating. “We stay in the guide’s village. They’re hosting us. Looking out for us.”

  “An indígena community,” Tom said, shaking his head incredulously. “Looking out for you? I don’t think so. They can’t even look out for themselves.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded. His superior attitude was starting to bug me.

  He shook his head again. “Rex, you’re a babe in the woods. You need to expand your knowledge, kid. The indígena communities are getting massacred left and right by people – including guerillas and paras – who want indígena land to grow coca fields for cocaine, to mine or drill for oil, or just to keep their soldiers’ camps on. The Colombian Army and most Colombian people couldn’t care less about indígenas, so they’re pretty much on their own up there.”

  “On their own.” I repeated the words numbly, not willing to believe him. “Massacred?”

  “Massacred, Rex. Some people use the word ‘genocide.’ ”

  “That’s when someone tries to wipe out a whole group of people? Like the Jews in World War II?”

  “Good, Rex. You’re not as dumb as I thought. Sorry to be the one to bring you into the real world, kid, but this is Colombia, not Disneyland.”

  “What’re you here for?” I asked, determined to change the subject.

  Tom scratched his ear where an earring decorated it. He grinned. “
Adventure. Money goes a long way here for us gringos, and I’m all about seeing the world.”

  I nodded. That was something we could agree on. I pulled a chocolate bar out of my backpack and offered him half.

  “Thanks,” he said, devouring it almost as quickly as Flora and Freddy had.

  He offered me some time on his iPod in return. The music helped me banish his comments from my mind, and I rocked my body a little to the tunes from home.

  “So, Rex,” he interrupted me after a while, “how does a first descent work, anyway? Does it count as a first descent if you have to portage around some rapids?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if you did, say, a couple of rapids and then portaged the other ninety percent of the river?”

  “There’s the odd kayaker who might try to claim that, but not an honest one.” Gramps’ group did the Furioso to the canyon, then left. They never tried to claim it, I reminded myself. I hadn’t even done as many rapids as they had yet.

  “And did you guys make it down this Furioso to where it joins the Magdalena?”

  “No, I just interrupted our run to come down for more food. I head back this afternoon.”

  Tom sat up straight. “You’re returning, alone, today?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Nutso, dude. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  I turned up the volume on the music and tried to focus my thoughts: Scruggs family legacy. Finish what Gramps started. Make Gramps proud.

  A larger thought formed, loomed, then crowded out everything else: Myriam’s people need the food I picked up, and they need the second half of the guiding fee more than ever. I’ll deliver the food and pay Myriam that, even if I decide to stop paddling.

  The truck pulled up beside a strong-looking steel cable that stretched across a narrow valley.

  “Cool,” Tom said.

  “Got that right,” I responded.

  We jumped out, and I asked permission to store my pack in the hut. Then someone emerged from the hut to hand us harnesses, gloves, and helmets. Oval metal clips called carabiners jangled off me as I ascended a platform with Tom and got a safety briefing. The heavy gloves had plastic grooves where my fingers would curl over the cable.

  “Use your gloves to keep yourselves in an upright position and to slow yourselves down when you get a signal from the guide on the platform at the other end,” our guide said. “If you slow down too fast, you’ll end up stopped in the middle of the cable, and we’ll have to rescue you.”

  “What if we forget to slow down?” Tom asked.

  “We have a safety mechanism at the end to keep you from crashing into the platform on the far side. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it after the first ride.”

  I had butterflies in my stomach as the guide clipped my harness to the overhead cable and said, “Ready?”

  Then I was flying through the air, my gloves barely touching the cable, my feet dangling two hundred feet over a thousand shades of green as orchids, ferns, trees, and grass waved up at me. Above the greenery rose a joyful array of mountains backdropped by a pure blue sky.

  “Yahoo!” I screamed, slowing myself just in time for a smooth landing on the far platform.

  Tom was next, and much rowdier in his screams of delight. After getting unhitched from the cable, we followed our guide up a well-worn path to the next platform and repeated our performance over a wider, deeper valley. This time, I was more relaxed – so relaxed that I accidentally lost my grip on the cable and tipped sideways as I flew along it. Someone at the far tower pulled on a safety cord that slowed me down before I reached the platform.

  “Hold that grip next time,” the guide scolded me lightly.

  Before embarking on a third ride, I stood on the platform squinting down into a deep canyon, with a stream running along the bottom. Its flowing water winked at me in the sunlight. I followed the stream as far as I could with my naked eye to where it disappeared. Then it reappeared around the next bend.

  “Anyone have binoculars?” I asked.

  The guide shook his head. “At the speed we go, binoculars are useless anyway.”

  True enough. But I love scouting creeks.

  Tom went first this time, whisking fast and furiously away from me, high over the stream. I let the guide clip me to the cable next and adjusted my helmet.

  “This is a long cable without the same decline as the last one, so make sure you keep your speed up,” he advised.

  “Gotcha.” I hung my full weight from the wire and off I slid, my eyes locked on the stream. The cable moved me faster and faster towards it, until I was approaching the place where the river disappeared from view. I pressed hard on the cable to slow myself down and stared. A pudú was wading into the stream below me. Wow! Love those miniature deer, I thought. Too bad I’m moving too fast to take a photo.

  Then the deer stumbled. I craned my neck to watch the little creature fall into the stream and get caught by the current, desperately hoof-paddling to get out of it. As I approached the midpoint of the cable, I slowed myself to a near stop, so focused was I on the drama below me. Hey! If my eyes were not playing tricks on me, the stream completely disappeared into the ground directly below and reappeared a ways on! And the deer was going to get washed into that underground tunnel and drown, poor thing.

  I hung there, wishing I could eject and parachute down to rescue the unfortunate pudú. My mouth fell open as the deer struggled harder, then got sucked into the subterranean passage.

  Oops! I was nearly at a standstill on the cable. The tension of watching had made me grip it too hard. I eased off and slid further, high over the dry land under which that stream was hurtling, towards where it burst out of the ground and carried on. Curious to see the deer wash out, I gripped again, ignoring the far side guide’s frantic waving.

  Okay, I was at a dead stop now, hanging hundreds of feet above the underground river. I tried to jiggle myself forward, but there wasn’t enough slope on the steel cable. The guide shouted at me from the platform, but I glanced up only long enough to see him clip his harness to the wire and use a device to jimmy himself along the cable towards me.

  I was going to be rescued, pulled to the far end, and told off. Oh, well. Meanwhile, I could stare at this fascinating phenomenon: a stream that dove underground. I’d heard of such rivers, but had never seen one. I’d even heard of kayakers who set up strobe lights to paddle an underground whitewater river. There had to be porous rock to allow such a feature, but I was no geologist. I’d better knock this stream off my list, anyway.

  I glanced up again. The guide was making his way towards me, his face beaded in sweat as he used raw muscle to slide his device in jerks along the cable. When he was two feet away, I looked down and shouted, “The pudú! It washed through! It’s still alive!”

  The guide narrowed his eyes. “Concentrate,” he ordered, reaching forward to pull my harness towards him.

  He smelled of sweat, and his grizzly face was making a poor effort to disguise his annoyance. I was a paying customer, but I was a pain in the neck. I cooperated, doing a hand-over-hand maneuver to help slide us along. He nodded like he approved of my muscle power. If you have to have a customer who gets stuck, preferably have one who’s strong enough to help with his own rescue.

  It took ten minutes of hot sweaty work to get ourselves to the far platform.

  “Way to go, Rex,” Tom teased, high-fiving my grooved glove as the guide unclipped me and signaled for the guide on the far side to join us. That guide whizzed down to us so fast that I was startled when he dropped lightly onto the platform.

  “That’s how fast you should’ve been going,” Tom whispered. “It’s more fun seeing how much speed you can get up.”

  “Okay,” I said, and made sure that for the last half hour of ziplining, I was a perfect customer.

  By climbing up steep hills between each zipline segment, we managed to do a full circle and still land back at our first platform beside the hut. I checked m
y watch and panicked.

  “I’ve gotta get back up before dark!” I said, grabbing my heavy pack from the hut and pumping one of the guides for directions. “Nice to see you again, Tom. Good luck. Thanks for the ziplining, everyone. It was awesome.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Myriam’s tears dripped into the corn she was grinding, but she kept her head low so no one could tell. The men were gathered around the fire pit, discussing Alberto’s defection. The women, as always, were tending to the children and chores.

  “He has been wanting to join the guerillas for a long time,” Papá was saying, shaking his head sadly. “The spraying that caused this food shortage was the last straw for him. He thinks the money he can send us will help.”

  No! Myriam wanted to scream. It’s my fault because I refused to marry him. The two of them had argued about his desire to join up numerous times. She’d always stopped him by promising to break up if he did. Then she’d refused his proposal. That had angered and humiliated him – and left him no reason not to join. What will be his fate now? He’ll be killed in some battle. I’ll never see him again. Even if I don’t want to marry him, I care about him. We’ve grown up together. This is all my fault, and no one even knows it.

  “His joining will keep the guerillas from returning to ask us for a vacuna,” she overheard one elder say.

  “But it will anger the paramilitaries if they hear about it,” another replied. “They might use it as an excuse to take our land for a coca field.”

  “But that’s illegal,” a young boy piped up. The others looked at him. Their silence was his answer.

  The fire crackled as dark closed in. “We need to double the number on guard duty,” Papá ruled in a deep voice.

  “We’ll never get our crops cleaned, fertilized, and watered if we do that,” an equally deep voice protested.