by James Gray
“Yeah, George, things have changed. It’s not at all what we thought it would be. But perhaps, our film will end up even better.”
Then Eddy joined in.
“Maybe we’ll have to call it Whatever Happened … Happened. The real subject of this film will be the trip itself: the storm, losing Valeska, and all the rest. It’s become a human adventure. And it’s not over. Believe me. We’re lucky to have escaped alive. From what I see, Ciudad Blanca is living up to its reputation. Sure, we saw ruins and places where looters had stripped the place, but that seems anti-climactic in comparison to what we’re experiencing now. Our original story was the basic premise that triggered this project. Naturally, we’ll see what comes to light in the editing room.”
Cowboy George lit his last cigarette and took a long drag. “I’ll tell you what I think. The most important thing since the beginning of this adventure has been the people. It’s got nothing to do with trafficking stolen artifacts or visiting lost ruins.”
María leaned her back against the boards and sighed.
“Yes, and once again, the people are the ones to suffer,” she said. “Nevertheless, we are used to hardships. There are always tree cutters, squatters, prospectors and thieves emptying our sacred sites. We’ll recover, we always do.”
Cowboy George looked at María and smiled.
“That’s why people of the Mosquito Coast are unique. You’ve never had anything but yourselves to rely on. I know a man up my way who sings folk songs in the Cree language.”
“In Cree?”
“Yes, the people of the Cree nation speak a similar language to the Innu nation. We are neighbors. In one of his songs, he says, ‘Namawîy cika cî wanihtân cekwân ekâ ayâyan cekwân ce wanihtâyan.’”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“Something like, if you don’t have anything, you don’t have to worry about losing it.”
Marie slowly repeated the Cree sentence out loud.
“Namawîy cika cî wanihtân cekwân ekâ ayâyan cekwân ce wanihtâyan.”
Cowboy’s face lit up. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”
“I won’t forget it. You’ll see,” said María.
Chili-Chili thought for a second, then laughed. “I’ve heard that line before but I can’t remember from who. It’s pretty good though.”
At that moment, a strong ray of sun cut through the dark clouds, lighting up a patch of flooded plain to the north.
María repeated the phrase a few more times as she opened the food box and scrounged around. There wasn’t much left, only some banana bread, a few coconuts, rice, tortillas and beans.
“Ok, it’s time for another miracle,” she said as she stood up, stretched and started to put a meal together.
That night we finished all the leftovers, leaving nothing but a few mangoes. I just hoped that Numada was intact, because on board there were still lots of dried food and an industrial supply of canned fish and vegetables we had stocked up on just before we left Puerto Cortes.
It poured rain until dawn. Chili-Chili was sure we could reach the village, or what was left of it, sometime that afternoon. All we had to do now was cross a murky sea. Our two boats left the shelter of the trees for the wide floodplain, the last obstacle between us and the village of Bara Patuca. Even the strong winds in our faces couldn’t slow us down. We took turns bailing while the boats weaved in and out of various obstacles — including pines that had been stripped of their needles. It seemed close to the end of the world. No one spoke much, even when our boats began to pass farmhouses with only their roofs above water. There were no signs of life anywhere. I got a quick glimpse of Chili looking over at his brother in the other boat with sad eyes.
Late in the afternoon, our two pipantes approached the south side of the village. We wove our way through drifting sections of wooden frames, furniture and garbage. Boatloads of families polled by, loaded down with kids, elders, and objects they’d managed to salvage from the wreckage of their homes. Others waded waist-deep toward higher ground or perched on the roofs of their cinder block houses beside small piles of possessions. Some people looked shell-shocked. We felt helpless at the sight of so many homeless villagers. We advanced through more protruding structures, passing a drowned horse, a bloated pig, a drifting rooftop.
Peter-Pedro pointed to the flooded empty space to our right. “That used to be the airstrip.”
“Yeah, we played soccer there the other day,” I commented.
“You could play water polo now.”
Chili headed up to the row of houses, searching for signs of life. We followed close behind. Eddy filmed. He seemed uneasy, like an intruder. I looked everywhere for Valeska. Where there had once been a lazy creek that ran through the village, a rushing current now ran over the top of a washed-out bridge. On higher ground, there was a garage made out of cement blocks and nearby were a few houses that had survived the storm. Dozens of people were grouped there, waiting. They had nothing left but their lives.
It began to rain, again, but it didn’t matter anymore. As we beached, people rushed over and began talking to the Lopez brothers and María. Communications were down, and of course, there was no electricity. The generator had suffered water damage and wouldn’t start. No one had been ready for hurricane Mitch’s wrath. Now there was nothing to do but wait for help. And in Honduras, one of the poorest countries in the Americas, that meant a long wait.
Beside the municipal garage, a clinic had been set up in someone’s home. The line outside was long. Scores of people had wounds from flying objects; others had sprains or broken limbs. I could see older people stretched out on pieces of cardboard under plastic tarpaulins. Somewhere a baby was crying. Gone was the peaceful village that had welcomed us with open arms; it had been replaced with a disaster area, misery and despair. Surviving and taking care of the sick and wounded would be a full-time job. While there was still no sign of Valeska De Sela, her disappearance was temporarily overshadowed by this immense tragedy.
Once we’d unloaded our gear, the Lopez brother’s two pipantes became public property in the service of desperate villagers trying to save whoever and whatever they could.
With dusk approaching and continual rainfall, there was nothing more to do but load up our gear and trudge through the mud and debris to Anton’s house, which miraculously still stood on its cement stilts near the river. Before long, we spotted the old man and his grandson up on the roof, hammering nails into pieces of corrugated tin that had flown off during the storm. The only other damage to the house was a few hurricane shutters that had been torn away, and the outhouse had blown over on its side.
Anton pounded one last nail and climbed down the ladder. The boy passed him his tools and followed his grandfather.
“I was wondering when you would show up.” The patriarch’s bright eyes were the first positive light we’d seen in days. He embraced Chili, Pedro, María and the boy all at once. Their little family had made it through one more tragedy.
Noiselessly, Valeska appeared in the doorway, a wide grin on her face. After a joyful, speechless moment, she broke the silence.
“I knew you would make it back!”
In retrospect, it was a shame nobody thought to grab the camera and record the reunion.
A little later Valeska told us what happened. “And Esmeralda, Dog and the rest, they were swept out to sea. I feel so sorry for Shirley.”
“Valeska, you’ve been blessed,” was Anton’s sole comment. Then the old man took us around to the front of the house. There was no dock and no Numada. My heart sank, but after a second or two, I could see that Anton was hiding something. With a proud smile, Anton pointed toward the mangroves where Numada’s two masts appeared through the cluster of gnarled, leafless branches.
“Mira, the boys and I brought it over there a day before the hurricane hit. It hasn’t moved an inch since then.”
Even if Numada had sunk, my problems would have been nothing compared to what the people of Barra
Patuca were experiencing. Anton described what had happened when the big wind came. Numada had been lucky, but Esmeralda had anchored in the wrong place. It had been swept away simply because of the current and poor marinaros (sailors).
María made coffee while Anton continued his story. He had seen Esmeralda several times over the last few months. He described the transfer of crates from the big lancha to the yacht he’d observed as the storm set in.
“That’s the same lancha that was hidden in the trees near the creek that cuts off to Diego’s camp,” said Peter-Pedro.
The old man wasn’t surprised. “It was the gang of looters from Ciudad Blanca.” Anton pointed out to sea. “Gone.”
“But what happened to you?” he asked.
“We took shelter in Tio’s casita. At one point, the river rose so high we had to move up to the ruins,” said Pedro.
“And you came down through the flooded plains?”
“Exactly.”
His father smiled and went over to look through the open door at the yellow-brown water of the receding river. “I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve never ever seen such destruction. It was as if that pesky Monkey God had finally come.”
The grandson came in from outside. Anton had just finished taking off the storm shutters, and for the first time in days, the interior was bathed in diffuse light. The house was finally returning to normal.
We slept on the floor of Anton’s small house that night. Around midnight, I woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep, so I slipped outside and sat on the small veranda of the house, and, for the first time in days, looked up at a night sky filled with stars.
I lay on my back and watched, and thought about my next move. Sure, things had really changed. My whole project was upside down. Did we have enough material to make a film? Only Eddy could answer that. As for my articles for Aventura, my notebook was full, that was certain. Now all I needed was to make sense of it all and begin writing up some kind of crazy story about what we had lived through. Still, there was something unsettled. Was it the Dog’s disappearance? Maybe. Our relationship had no closure. I almost felt sorry for the son of a bitch. It was as if the roadrunner had killed the coyote. Then I heard soft footsteps. Valeska’s dark form was outlined by the moonlight.
“There are too many thoughts flashing around in my head,” she whispered, then sat down beside me. “I’m so confused. Where will we go from here? I’m talking about you and me, Jack.”
“We are just lucky to be alive. As far as I am concerned, I want you as much as I ever did, maybe more so. The rest will follow.”
“But I feel empty, Jack. I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure about me, or about you.”
“You just have to trust your instincts. There’s no magic formula to follow and the guidebook got lost in the flood. Valeska, I have an idea. Come on.”
We snuck away under the cover of darkness and climbed on board an abandoned fishing boat that had been hauled up to high ground not too far away from the house. Once on deck, I kissed the soft curves of her neck, then slowly unbuttoned her blouse and slipped a hand over her breasts, massaging her nipples ever so lightly with my fingers. She moaned softly.
“I think that we have been missing a little of this. It’s been a long time, don’t you think?”
“Hmm, so you think that you’ll get me this way.” She sighed. “Well, it seems to be working, keep trying. I had almost forgotten how good you can make me feel. Ever since this crazy trip started, we have been neglecting each other, don’t you think?”
“I’m not thinking any more, just reacting.”
I unbuttoned her jeans, kneeled down and slipped them off. She stood naked and stroked my hair while I caressed the interior of her thighs. As the rain fell, we made love on the deck of that old boat. For that moment, it was just the two of us entwined in our own little world, living in the present with what we had: each other.
A SURPRISE
The next morning, we turned Anton’s other boat right side up, put the motor back on the stern and made our way carefully upriver, through the debris, to where Numada waited in the mangroves. The schooner’s hull had a few scratches and the deck was covered with mud, sand and broken branches, but it had survived the storm. Before we began the big cleanup, Valeska went inside and took out the first aid kit from underneath the narrow pilot bunk beside the chart table.
“First things first. Chili, please take me back to the village. I’m going to the clinic to help the doctor. He’s alone with one nurse and probably both of them are exhausted.”
“Hey, hang on a minute.” We took out three cases of canned food from our emergency stash: Irish stew, instant soups, condensed milk, flour, four bags of rice, pasta, and a few dozen cans of sardines. Once that was on the way to the village, the rest of us got down to work. By the end of the day, Numada was ready to sail.
A day later, we moved the schooner over to the village and dropped the biggest anchor I had in front of Anton’s house. Then I left out all the chain I could and Numada seemed to hold on just fine even though the current was still running strong. That afternoon, as we put the sails back on, a small military ship forced its way upstream against the current, and stopped. The guys on board must have recognized my schooner. They shouted, “Numada, Numada! Amigo.” The captain blew a long blast on the horn. The ship pulled up close by and prepared to put down the hook not far from my boat. At that very moment, I saw someone step from the wheelhouse onto the bridge. I almost fell overboard when I realized who it was.
“Chief! What the hell are you doing here?”
He waved and shouted, “I’m on vacation. This is the only cruise ship I could find.” Once he’d reached the naval base at Puerto Cortés, he had managed to hitch a ride on a patrol ship that was carrying supplies for the hurricane victims of La Mosquitia. He was certain he would find us somewhere in the vicinity. When he stepped aboard Numada, he looked up and down the deck. His hair was standing up straight in the wind and his eyes were wide and alive. “I can’t believe this. Numada survived — almost without a scratch!”
I thought for a second that he would shed a few joyful tears, but the Chief would never go that far.
“Sure, Chief, and everything works, even the engine.”
The Chief seemed almost disappointed. Valeska saw her chance and stepped in. “Señor Chief, my name is Valeska De Sela. If you’re looking for work, I know where there is another engine to fix, and it’s actually quite urgent.”
“What engine? Where?”
“Follow me.”
Our whole crew joined them, camera and all. It didn’t take much time to reach the generator. Like everything else, it was in pitiful shape. The interior was even worse. Mud everywhere. Valeska led the parade.
“Señor Chief, the village of Barra Patuca has been without power for days now and nobody here can fix this thing. There’s no refrigeration or lights. The clinic is in darkness after the sun goes down. They can’t do much in candlelight.”
Chief thought for a second. “Hmm, well, I can change the fuel filters, put in a new battery, and probably rebuild the alternator. There must be water in the cylinders, though. Looks like I’ll have to make a few other adjustments here and there. It’s not going to be easy to get this thing back in business, no, monsieur.”
He wiped the sweat off his brow, then turned to me and winked. “Capitan sir, I’ll need some tools from Numada. This is going to be a big job.”
We went back to the schooner and assigned Cowboy George as the Chief’s assistant. Together, they loaded up tools, rags, grease and some WD-40, then hiked back over to the generator building. Immediately, they stripped to the waist. In an hour, they were covered with grease, mud and more sweat. The operation resembled open-heart surgery. Cowboy held a flashlight while the Chief swore, cursed, grunted and cursed again, his tone mellowing only after dozens of village children came to visit, studying his every move. Of course, we filmed. It was priceless.
“Future mechanics, every
one of them.” He chuckled. “All this engine needs is a little love and attention. Pass me some water, somebody; I’m dying of thirst.”
The job continued well into the night, since once the diesel had been taken apart and cleaned, it had to be put back together. It was tough, seemingly endless work. Everything had to fit. It was almost daylight by the time they were ready to fire it up. Cowboy George hit the starter. The old GM Diesel sprung to life.
“Perfect,” said the Chief. “George, give me the tester. It’s the moment of truth.” He went over to the electric box fixed to the wall and began to probe inside with the boat’s voltmeter.
“Good, we’ve got juice here and lots of it. Cowboy George, the honor’s all yours. Hit that big breaker switch, will ya?”
The Innu put one big hand on the black switch and SHLACK! The lights came back on. Cheers could be heard throughout the village. If there had been elections, the Chief would have been unanimously voted as mayor. Or better still, they could have made him Saint Chief.
Numada weighed anchor a few days later and went to sea. We were escorted by a dozen pipantes and small fishing boats filled with villagers and friends — including Anton, his grandson, María and the Lopez brothers. They wished us fair weather and good luck. But they would need more than fair weather and good luck to be able to resume their lives.
When we were in the channel, the Lopez family’s boat motored alongside. It was as if they didn’t want us to leave. Just before they veered off, María shouted out, “Hey, Cowboy George, namawîy cika cî wanihtân cekwân ekâ ayâyan cekwân ce wanihtâyan. If you meet up with that Cree singer friend of yours, tell him that he’s right. Adios, Numada!”
The big Indian’s usually stern-looking face broke into a wide smile. He took off his famous Stetson hat with the eagle feather still stuck in the band and dropped it into the other boat, which was only a few feet from Numada. It landed on María’s lap.
“María, it’s just a humble gift. I’ll never forget you, ever.”
