He picked and chewed, and for awhile he felt almost safe and almost happy. He’d spend the night under a coca bush, and Pachamama’s gift would protect him.
‘Those are our leaves,’ a female voice behind him said.
Diego jumped and spun around, a mouthful of green spit spurting out and running down his face and shirt. As he turned, his ribs hit the barrel of a very old rifle that was pointed at his belly. The other end of the gun was held by a girl, a little younger and a little smaller, with dark plaits hanging down almost to the top of her jeans. On her face was a frown.
Diego was so relieved that he ignored the frown and started to brush past the gun until she stuck him hard in the chest with it.
‘Those are our leaves,’ she said again. ‘Spit them out.’
Diego did as he was told, making even more of a mess of himself in the process.
‘My name is Diego,’ he said.
‘Thief,’ the girl replied.
‘Thief?’ Diego looked down at himself, shook his head and laughed. ‘If I’m a thief, I’m not very good at it.’
Not letting up one bit on her frown, the girl motioned with her head that he should start walking. The rifle moved from his chest to his back. Whenever he started to take a wrong turn, she hit him on the shoulder and set him right.
Diego didn’t care. He could have run and escaped, but he knew the girl wouldn’t kill him. He had seen that her clothes were clean, which meant there was water nearby, and very likely there would be food, too.
Before long, he caught the scent of wood fire and farm animals, and a sound of something that he hadn’t heard in a long, long time—children laughing.
The bushes gave way to a clearing with a small stone and wood hut, just like the one he had shared with his parents. Smoke was rising from the chimney. Diego saw other wisps of smoke coming up behind the trees. There were neighbours.
A woman and man were playing a gentle game of kick ball with two small children. They looked up when a little dog barked and ran toward Diego and the girl, its tail wagging in welcome.
The woman was the first to reach them. She spoke in rapid Quechua. The girl reluctantly lowered the gun, and Diego’s chilled arms were wrapped in the woman’s shawl.
Almost before he knew it, he was sitting inside by the fire, with a mug of coca leaf tea in his hands.
It was as if he had stepped back in time. This house was a little bigger than his old one, but it had the same low ceilings, the same comfortable fire, the same smells from the potato and bean stew simmering on the grill. This could be his old house, his parents, his little sister on the floor making funny faces at him.
‘We are the Ricardo family,’ the father said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Diego Juárez.’
‘He’s a thief,’ the older daughter said, standing with her arms folded across her chest. ‘I think we should shoot him.’
‘How can we shoot him, Bonita, when we have no bullets? You should throw that old gun back into the forest where you found it,’ the woman said. ‘Besides, look at his legs and hands. What do you see?’
‘Dirt,’ Bonita said.
Diego tried to cover up his grimy legs with his grimy hands. Even through the dirt, they could see the bleached white skin and the blisters from the chemicals.
‘He’s been in the pits,’ Mrs Ricardo said. ‘And if he’s up here, lost and on his own, then something bad must have happened. Am I right?’
Diego felt his face tighten. He didn’t want to cry in front of the girl with the gun, but stopping the tears made his face hurt. He replied with a simple nod.
‘A mean business attracts mean people,’ the father said. ‘Where are you from, son?’
‘Cochabamba,’ Diego managed to say.
‘So you left the city with the promise of riches beyond belief, and now here you are.’
‘It’s time to eat, not time to lecture,’ Mrs Ricardo said, putting a bowl of stew in Diego’s hands. ‘Where are your parents?’
‘San Sebastián.’
The man and woman nodded. ‘Many from this area are guests of the good saint,’ the woman said, dishing up food for the rest of the family. ‘If he were alive today, I wonder how he would feel about his holy name hanging over a prison.’
Diego ate. There wasn’t much food in his bowl, but it was hot, and it felt warm and good in the great hole that was his stomach.
Truly safe for the first time in a long while, exhaustion was hitting him hard.
He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids were too heavy. Mrs Ricardo took his empty bowl from him.
‘Talk is for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Sleep is for tonight.’
He felt Mr Ricardo’s strong arms lift him gently to a soft bed. A blanket covered him, and he sank into a deep, safe place.
He would sleep tonight, rise with the sun, and be ready in the morning for whatever came next.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Bolivia is the poorest country in South America and the second-poorest in the Western hemisphere, after Haiti. It is a land-locked nation of breathtaking geographic diversity, including the Andes Mountains, high rocky plains and the dense lowland rainforests of the Amazon basin.
For thousands of years, communities of peoples have made their home there, including the great civilizations of the Tiahuanaco and the Inca. In the 1500s, the Spanish conquistadors left their mark on Bolivia as they had in much of the rest of South America.
In 1544, a rich vein of silver was discovered in the city of Potosí—enough to enrich two hundred years of Spanish monarchs and nobles. Untold numbers of African slaves and indigenous workers suffered in horrific conditions to extract the silver. Many died. The mountain is still mined today, and many of the miners are children.
The Spanish found that workers who chewed the little green coca leaf worked longer, since coca takes away pain and hunger. They encouraged its widespread use, even paying their workers with coca leaves. At the same time, European missionaries condemned the use of coca as part of their cultural war against indigenous traditions.
Coca is still used on a daily basis by many Bolivians. The leaves are chewed and are also made into a tea. It eases living and working at high altitudes. Coca tea is even served at the U.S. embassy in La Paz. For many Bolivian indigenous people, coca is a sacred plant used in religious rituals.
Cocaine was first created from coca in 1860 by a German scientist named Albert Nieman. It quickly gained popularity in the industrialised world as a legal stimulant and painkiller, and it was an ingredient in the original formula of Coca-Cola.
The U.S. Congress passed the first restrictions on cocaine in l914, but the drug rose in popularity in the l960s and 70s, initially among wealthy people looking for amusement. Later, in its cheaper form as crack cocaine, it flooded communities of disadvantaged people who were looking for a way to escape daily poverty and pain.
A ‘War on Drugs’ was declared by U.S. President Richard Nixon in l968. Over the following decades, this led to military incursions targeting indigenous growers and the propping up of corrupt regimes with appalling human rights records. It did not lead to a reduction of cocaine entering the United States.
The coca farmers in Bolivia organised themselves into a union after their crops were destroyed by the government, leaving them without an income. In 2005, after many short-lived governments, the Bolivian people elected Evo Morales, the first-ever indigenous president of the country, and leader of the coca growers (cocaleros). The cocalero movement is based on retaining the growing of coca, finding further uses for the coca leaf, and on respect for the sacred and cultural importance of coca.
Australia complies with international drug treaties that make it illegal to use or sell cocaine in any form. Most of the cocaine available in Australia makes its way from South America via the United States.
GLOSSARY
Aguayo—A large, colourful cloth.
Altiplano—High plain that stretches across Bolivia.
&n
bsp; Anticuchos—Chunks of meat and potato roasted on skewers.
Aymara—Group of indigenous people who live in the Andean region of South America, mainly in Bolivia. Also the traditional language of the Aymara.
Boliviano—Bolivian money.
Bombo—Bolivian drum.
Campesino—Farmer; peasant.
Capybara—Giant brown rodent related to the guinea pig.
Centavo—Bolivian money; there are one hundred centavos in a Boliviano.
Chicha—Alcoholic drink made from corn or other local plants.
Chichería—Place that makes and sells chicha.
Chupe—Soup containing meat, grains and vegetables.
Coca—Small shrub grown in the Andes. Its leaves have been used by the indigenous people of the Andes for centuries for food, medicine and religious rituals.
Cocaine—Illegal drug made from coca leaves that have been processed into paste.
Cocalero—Coca farmer.
Gringo—Slang for a citizen of the United States.
Inca—Citizens of the Inca Empire, which was centred in Peru.
K’guaka—Aymara for ‘How much?’
Legia—Clump of potato or quínoa ash chewed with coca leaves.
Loco—Crazy.
Milanesa—Thin piece of breaded meat.
Narco—Drug dealer.
Pachamama—Aymara term for Mother Earth.
Paya—Aymara for the number two.
Quechua—Language spoken by people who live in certain parts of the Andean region, including Bolivia. People who speak Quechua are often called Quechua.
Quimsa—Aymara for the number three.
Quínoa—Very nutritious food plant grown in the Andes, ground and used as cereal.
Saltenas—Pastry stuffed with meat and vegetables.
Sanka—Musical instrument made of long bamboo pipes of various lengths lashed together.
Tienda—Small shop selling groceries and basic household goods.
Trufti—Minibus.
Yatiri—Aymara word for a wise learned person.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEBORAH ELLIS has achieved international acclaim with her courageous, sensitive and dramatic books that give western readers a glimpse into the plight of children in developing countries. Her Parvana trilogy has sold hundreds of thousands of copies in seventeen languages. She has won the Governor General’s Award and the Ruth Schwartz Award in Canada, Sweden’s Peter Pan Prize, the University of California’s Middle East Book Award and the Jane Addams’ Peace Award. She lives in Simcoe, Ontario.
An excerpt from
Diego’s Pride
By Deborah Ellis
the sequel to
Diego, run!
A terrible sound reached Diego’s ears as he straightened himself up from the patch of sweet potatoes he was weeding.
Only one thing could make such a noise.
And then it was upon them, giant and green, propellers thumping as it hovered over the small farm.
The little ones screamed and started to run. Mrs Ricardo snatched them up in her arms, went down on her knees and turned their wailing faces to her chest to shield them from the flying debris stirred up by the propellers. Diego watched as drying coca leaves took to the air like butterflies and scattered to the four winds.
The helicopter landed in the family’s yard. At the same time, a pick-up truck sped up the dirt road. Soldiers spilled out, pointing their weapons and trampling the vegetable gardens under their heavy boots. The propellers slowed to a halt, and for a moment there was silence in the clearing as the soldiers and the family stared at each other.
Then there was a horrible yell, and Diego saw Bonita run out of the hut, her old, useless rifle pointed at the soldiers around the helicopter. Diego heard the solders step forward, heard them raise their rifles to firing position . . .
Diego, Run! Page 11
