by James Gray
Copyright © 2015 James Gray
Published by Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5V 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Many thanks to Erica Pomerance, Shea Lowry, Eddy Malenfant, the Chief, Brian Hatlelid, Valérie Lavoie, Louise Allard, and Ronnie Epperson for their encouragement and collaboration during the writing of this book.
Publisher: Greg Ioannou
Editor: Rodney Boyd
Front cover image: James Gray
Front cover design: Fernande Forest, Graff-x Communication Inc.
Book layout design: Fernande Forest
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication.
Gray, James, 1950-
[Lost white city]
The curse of the lost white city / James Gray.
Previously published under title: The lost white city.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-113-3 (pbk.).–ISBN 978-1-77180-114-0 (epub).–
ISBN 978-1-77180-115-7 (kindle).–ISBN 978-1-77180-116-4 (pdf)
I. Title.
PS8613.R3878L67 2015 C813’.6 C2015-902165-0
C2015-902166-9
This is an original electronic edition of The Curse of the Lost White City.
FOR NÉMO AND FÉLIX
INTRODUCTION
It was in 1519 when the Spanish explorer Hernán Cortés first heard reports of a great and glorious city hidden in the remote mountainous rain forest of La Mosquitia, an obscure region found near the northeastern coast of Honduras. La Ciudad Blanca, otherwise known as the Lost White City, was rumored to contain immeasurable amounts of gold and riches ripe for the picking. But the thick jungle proved to be an impossible obstacle for Cortés, and after many attempts to find the mythical ruins, he was forced to give up. Since then, stories of these limitless treasures have fuelled the embers of countless expeditions, but to this day, real proof of the city’s existence has yet to be found. The following is a recipe of adventure, treachery and vengeance, proving that most of the time it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Sometimes, when I start to think about the way things happen, it drives me crazy. There are just too many possibilities, too many formulas and maybe too many timely coincidences.
It all makes me wonder who is really in charge.
PART ONE
Being out in the middle of nowhere may seem like a strange place to start a story, but it has to start somewhere. It’s all a question of choice.
Alone and sailing on the tail of an early December cold front that had come down hard and fast from the Gulf of Mexico a few days before, I was feeling tired and abused after being slammed around by a confused sea that refused to settle down. Like it or not, that strong northern breeze was essential to push my boat south, and as any serious sailor will tell you, the art of navigation is about being in the right place at the right time. Yeah, I guess that was part of it.
However, after being out there in the right place at the right time for that long, the legendary magic and raw beauty of a passage at sea was starting to wear thin. As those steep, dark mountains of water rushed by, I kept asking myself why anyone would even think about heading out into such a formidable place. Nevertheless, just because I was living a moment of doubt didn’t mean that things were not working out. On the contrary, ever since I had pulled the pin and headed out on a sailboat to re-discover myself, it was clear in my head that I would never turn back.
In the beginning, living the dream had seemed to be a pretty exciting plan. It was like getting a second chance. But after a few years of vagabonding around the Caribbean, the novelty of this personal renaissance of mine had started to erode. Worse than that, the stash of screw-you money that I had saved up was in a final phase of meltdown. However, I still had a few cards up my sleeve. I liked writing, and after digging up an old friend in France who had connections in the magazine business, I began to pen a series of articles for a glossy French monthly called Aventura. It was stimulating work, and I could write at my own speed on any subject I wanted, as long as it had a Caribbean theme running through the story. For a while I wrote about places and people; then as the work became regular, I became a little bolder. It was in my nature. My first mistake was to have chosen a topic that had turned out to be hotter than a Havana heat wave. It was a piece about the Russian mafia’s foothold on the Cuban drug trade, and I don’t mean pharmaceuticals. Trafficking narcotics in Cuba is a complex subject, and the deeper I dug, the smellier it became. It was perfect for the magazine but not too good for the writer. My other mistake was a classic result of inexperience; once the article was finished I should have left Cuba, but I didn’t. And it almost cost me.
One evening, I was leaning up against a crowded mahogany counter knocking back a few mojitos in my favorite bar at Rio Baracoa, just west of Havana. On stage, there was a local band dishing out that fine Cuban Cumbia beat that makes everybody want to get up and move. The place was grooving, the booze was cheap, and I was starting to feel more and more like part of that hot Latino scene. At that moment, the woman I was waiting for walked in through the front door, weaved her curves through the dancing throng, and made a beeline for my perch at the bar. Alicia was as light and lovely as a tropical breeze and always had a fresh smile on her face. What’s more, she had some excellent contacts with the Cuban underground, some of whom had supplied me valuable information for the magazine piece that I had just published for Aventura. My relationship with this woman had gone well, in fact, really well, and that evening we had made plans to celebrate.
When Alicia finally reached my side of the room, she stopped and kissed me on the lips. For the last few months, that had become her way of saying hello. She was a pure Cubana, and could be so very sensuous when she wanted to be. But there was something missing that night; it was the smile. I saw it right away. There was something wrong. Then, to my surprise, she whispered into my ear very clearly that I was about to have a visit from some heavyweights with Russian accents who didn’t like my writing, and if I stuck around any longer, my life wouldn’t be worth much more than the plastic-tipped butt of that cheap Muriel Cigar wasting away in the ashtray next to my glass. Sure, the news shook me up and down like the maracas player going at it on stage. But when I think about it now, I really had it coming. From then on, my only choice was to get the hell out of that homey bar, and fast. I looked my precious Alicia in the eyes, hugged her dearly, then headed to the men’s baño, and slipped through the open window into the night.
I was out of breath from the run and the music had long gone by the time I reached the dinghy dock. As I shortcut my way through a ragged patch of sea oats that grew near the water, I saw a dark pickup splash through a muddy puddle of rain water and skid to a stop beside the thatched roof shelter where the fishermen kept their equipment. Diving onto the sand, I held my breath as three oversized gorillas jumped out and grabbed the poor old watchman who only seconds before had been calmly sitting under a small awning minding his own business. I could clearly see the old fellow shake his head and point a finger to the place out in the lagoon where my sailboat was moored. Then he shrugged and made a rapid gesture toward a small rubber dinghy tied to a post at the end of the wharf. The thugs went over and
looked down at the little inflatable. Then the big guy with the baseball bat jumped down into the boat and started to whack at the small outboard engine that hung off the stern. It wasn’t long before the plastic cover went flying, and shortly after, it was the carburetor’s turn. They all laughed and rambled on in Russian about something I couldn’t understand, except that it was obvious that they were going to wait for the dinghy’s owner to show up and the owner was me. But I had other plans.
The water was cold, and it was a long swim out to Numada. That’s the name of my schooner. With some difficulty, I finally reached the boat, climbed the stern ladder, flopped down on the deck, and lay there shaking. Was it hypothermia, or was I just plain scared? Whatever it was, this wasn’t the time to lie around because sooner or later the guys on the dock would put two and two together, and find a way to come out and pound my head in with that Major League Louisville Slugger that they had brought along. So after taking a minute to analyze my situation, I snuck up to the bow, undid the mooring lines and slipped away. Looking across the water toward the dock, I could just barely see the Russians waiting for me under that faint pool of light. Well, they would have to hang around a long time. Pity, I did like Alicia; she was really my kind of woman. I guess I still owe her one.
With no more reason to stay put, I let the steady offshore breeze silently push the twenty-ton schooner across the bay and out into the Straits of Florida. Once clear, I hoisted the sails and headed southwest into that murky night, thanking my lucky stars for the clean getaway. I had already decided that the Central American country of Honduras would eventually be my next stop. To be more precise, it was La Mosquitia that I had my eye on. It is an isolated and sparsely populated region of Honduras, way off the beaten trail and about five hundred miles to the south of my position at that moment. Spanish-speaking settlers, Garifuna people, and small pockets of indigenous tribes have been living there for centuries. But as is the case for similar outposts around the planet, this area was on the verge of some big changes. Vast deposits of oil and natural gas had been discovered offshore, and there was supposedly lots of gold in the mountains inland to the south just waiting for takers. A month earlier, while working on the famous piece about the Cuban drug trade, I had proposed to the editor at Aventura Magazine to write something about La Mosquitia and this upcoming industrial invasion. And bingo, he had jumped at the idea and even sent me a pretty good starting advance. It was a lucky thing too, because before sailing out to the perimeter, I planned to haul my boat out at the Puerto Cortés Naval Base shipyard on the northern coast of Honduras and make some overdue improvements. The poor old girl was beginning to look a little neglected. Spending time in a boatyard would be a radical change from my upbeat Cuban lifestyle. But all I had to do was get the job done and continue on my way to La Mosquitia and make sure not to get sidetracked by another romantic liaison or get mixed up in some other kind of unpredictable sticky situation. However, in Latin America, that was easier said than done.
As I sailed my boat into the pitch-black night, it didn’t take long before I began to relax and let my adventurous life at Puerto Baracoa fade away. Besides, finding myself suddenly out at sea once again, I had other things to think about. For long dark hours, I sat at the helm and made sure that I wouldn’t run into a Cuban fishing boat. They often trawled at night without navigation lights. But the lightning flashes coming out of the northern sky were my real concern. From the looks of things, it seemed as if that strong cold front from the north that people had been talking about, was about to move in, and that meant lots of wind. I tried to raise a marine forecast on the Single-Sideband (SSB) radio that I used for weather reports, but all I could pick up was a raving evangelist preacher with a Bible-Belt drawl, squawking about how to get a ticket straight to heaven. But at that moment, it wasn’t really my problem. I kind of knew where I was headed; it was in the other direction.
When daylight finally came, the western point of the Cuban coast was just barely visible underneath a dark and heavy squall line to the south. I attached the tiller with a bungee cord and ducked inside and slapped together a gooey peanut butter and jelly sandwich and washed it down with a mug of lukewarm tea. That was breakfast, nothing extravagant, but it did the job. Once back outside in the cockpit, I noticed right away that the wind had changed its tune. There was a new deeper growling sound coming from the rigging so I reduced sail. Soon afterwards, it began to blow harder until it became obvious that my little jaunt south wasn’t going to be exactly a pleasure cruise. The rest of the day was spent bucking against the turbulent crossed currents found in the Strait of Yucatán. Time and again, Numada would rise up a steep, foaming wave and fall over the top with a loud bang, causing the whole damn boat to shake and shudder like a voodoo child. Often, the bow would bury itself in a wave, sending salty brine exploding up and over the cabin roof and a shower of water raining down over me. I could only duck my head, curse and then maybe laugh at my own dismal situation. Above me, the sails were dripping wet and stretched to their limit, but there was no other solution. To make any headway at all, I had to push the boat and push myself as well. Out there on the edge, that was the way it worked.
Just before dark, I spotted a freighter not too far off to starboard so I decided to give it a call on the VHF marine radio. That’s the one that I use for short-distance communication with other boats.
“Cargo ship, cargo ship, northbound cargo ship, this is the sailboat Numada.”
I hadn’t spoken to anyone for the last two days, and my own voice seemed like someone else’s.
“Cargo ship, cargo ship, northbound cargo ship, this is the sailboat Numada.”
No answer. I watched as the big ship’s bow dipped and punched into the sea sending white water flying up into the air. Maybe they were busy, or seasick. Then, after a long silence, another voice crackled through the speaker.
“Sailing boat Numada, this is the Bay Island Trader. Come in.”
“Yes, hello. How are you this evening, sir?”
“Not too bad, and you?”
“It’s a little rough, but everything is holding up. Would you happen to have a weather update? I can’t seem to pick up anything off my Single-Sideband radio.”
“Standby, please,” said the voice. He had a sense of humour.
There was a short pause.
“Yes, sir, for some reason the marine weather station in Miami is not broadcasting tonight. But according to today’s noon weather fax, the northeast breeze will slacken off this evening and back around to the east, then build to twenty-five knots from the southeast late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Copy that,” I said.
It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t all bad news either. The cold front was about to blow itself out, but the wind went too far to the southeast the next day. That meant fairly stable weather, but I’d be hard over and beating into a typical stiff trade wind. The voice on the radio came back again.
“Numada is the name of your boat?”
“Right, it is.”
“That is a Garifuna word. It means ‘friend.’”
“Yes, it does. Are you Garifuna?”
“I am, and captain of this ship. Do you speak Garifuna?”
“I just know that one word, numada.”
“That’s a good one to know.”
There was another silence, so I picked up the conversation. “Bay Island Trader, where are you bound for?”
“Tampa, Florida. Yourself?” he said.
“Puerto Cortés, Honduras.”
“Ah, we were there two days ago. I’m curious, is your boat a ketch?”
“No, it’s a modern schooner, sir. The two masts are of equal height.”
“And what’s the length?”
“Fifty feet over all.”
“Fiberglass?”
“No, steel.”
“Nice. How many crew do you have?”
“Just me, myself, and I.” Silence again. It was as if the Garifuna captain was trying to figure
out if I was brave, stupid or both.
“A single hander. It must be tough sometimes.”
“Yes and no. The boat is well set up, and the sails are small to handle. It’s actually not too difficult, but I prefer a crew.”
The voice crackled out over the failing signal, but I just caught the end.
“… and good luck to you too, friend Numada.”
“Safe passage to you, Bay Island Trader.”
As predicted, a few hours later the wind began to shift and die down, the sky cleared, then the stars appeared one by one. It was as immense and mysterious as always, and so completely impossible to comprehend. As I watched the show above, my mind wandered. I thought about my escape, about sweet Alicia, the girl I had to leave behind in Cuba. What a pitiful way to say goodbye. Then that little hamster running around in my head started to go at it, and I began to wonder about myself. Would I ever be able to stop being a nomad? Maybe never. I was born forever curious to find out what was around the next bend in the road. Then I thought about the crew on the freighter I crossed paths with earlier. What a life it must be, looking after that ship day in and day out, week after week, year after year. I had always admired those who spent their lives on cargo ships. They were real globetrotters, and their ships were their homes, their countries. I had also spent most of my life globetrotting. After studying communication arts at university, I began to make documentary films in Northern Canada. Later on, I became a full-time war correspondent for Radio Canada and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. I loved the action and was well-appreciated because I could work in both French and English on the same project. As the years went by, I began to travel to different war-torn countries. It was intense, exciting, and at times important because my work gave those back home a chance to see and understand what was going on in far-off places. But one day, while covering the first days of the bloody conflict in Kosovo, the car in which I was passenger ran over a land mine and boom – my world fell in on top of me. I was the only one of my film crew who survived. Six months later, I was an emotional wreck with too much spare time on my hands and not much going for me. So I pulled the plug, bought a secondhand sailboat, and headed south with one idea in my head: to discover the Caribbean.
