Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  "You know, I am relieved that you will not be alone with just a guide … but I still worry about you going to San Agustin. You recall what I told the whole group, that the official from the DAS, the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad, warned me of renewed guerrilla incursions into the mountains east and south of San Agustin and advised strongly against taking my study tour into the area. On the strength of this advice, what could I do but cancel that part of my carefully devised itinerary? It would be irresponsible to expose my charges to that sort of potential danger, although, as I said, it is a great pity to miss out on San Agustin. That is why I left it open for anyone who wanted to go there at their own risk, insisting only that they fly rather than go by road."

  "Don’t worry, we’ll only be in San Agustin for a few hours, and the park should be safe."

  "I hope so, but I am really of two minds about you going." Deep worry lines appear on his forehead. "It would be regrettable if you missed out on this most important archaeological site in South America. I just wish you would not have to expose yourself to possible danger."

  He is really worried about my safety. It is his way of showing that he cares for me. "Franco, I’m touched by your concern. I’m sure everything will be fine."

  "Yes … though now it is important that you get ready for tomorrow. Remember, the plane is scheduled to take off at six thirty." He guides her by the elbow toward the stairs to the guest rooms.

  "Oh, you are sweet to worry so much about me. It will only take me a few minutes to pack."

  "Make sure you pack extra warm clothing and do not forget your rain gear, just in case the weather turns bad. One never knows in the Cordilleras. I put Paolo in charge, should weather conditions prevent you from returning by the evening. He has the name of a guesthouse in Pitalito, and the schedule of busses from Popayàn to Ipiales to catch up with the group."

  But Paolo is hopeless! Why didn’t he ask me? But again she refrains from voicing it.

  "I even advise you to take some essential toiletries along, just in case. And wear your sturdy hiking boots."

  "I will." It comes out rather more abruptly than she intended. She finds his concern both endearing and exasperating. Right now, it feels being treated like a small child who isn’t yet capable of thinking for herself. Again, she reminds herself of her resolution. She tries to make up for her shortness by putting an arm around his back and leaning her head against his shoulder. Maybe, if they made love, he would again become his old self. They have not been together since their arrival in Colombia. "Amore, will you come to my room later tonight?"

  He backs away from her. "Bianca, you know you should not ask for that. It is off-limits during the tour."

  "Please Franco, nobody will know, nor would they really care. They all know we’re going to be married soon."

  "No, there are certain principles that I must uphold as the leader of this tour. I made it quite clear at our briefing before we left that I do not want any consorting between the participants, and therefore it behooves me, and through me also you, to lead by example."

  She feels chastised. They reach the door to her room. "All right," she sighs, disappointed, but also at the same time annoyed by his pompous language. She wishes he would shed his lecturing style when talking to her. Reluctantly, she offers him her cheeks for a kiss. He quickly pecks both and then strides off. He doesn’t even properly kiss me anymore, she reflects, while watching him go, again confused and uncertain about their relationship, wistful for the rare moments of intimacy they stole prior to the trip.

  * * *

  In the soft dawn light the church across the street from the hotel still seems asleep when André comes out of the hotel. Within a few minutes it will be fully day, the transition from night to day short near the equator. Two young men are stowing their backpacks into the trunk of a taxi. He recognizes one of them as Paolo, the student who talked with Visconti, or rather, who was talked to by the latter. Paolo introduces him to Giuglio, his fellow student. André has no pack. His tiny digital camera, all his belongings, including an airline-issue toothbrush kit, are in his rain jacket that he is wearing against the cold of the flight.

  "You’re late, Bianca," Paolo shouts.

  André turns and watches her scamper out of the hotel. He notices the brief frown and the short hesitation in her step, when she spots him.

  Relieving her of the backpack, he greets her with a smile: "Good morning, Bianca. What a pleasant surprise! I hope it’s with you that I’ll share the Jeep, so that you can be my guide."

  Her ‘buon giorno’ is curt, offered without a smile. "Yes, we will share the Jeep, and there will be a local guide." She hardly glances at him.

  Her body language and pointed reply feel like a rebuff. Maybe she’s one of those people who are in a bad mood early in the morning, he muses and opens the rear door of the cab for her. Her two fellow students cram in beside her, leaving him no choice but to take the front seat. It takes barely five minutes to reach the small airport that serves only a handful of commercial flights and handles mainly small private aircraft. The three students in the back murmur a few remarks that are drowned out by the noisy motor of the old-vintage American taxi.

  The pilot of the Cessna is already waiting for them in front of the terminal. He leads them through a side gate to the six-seater Cessna. André has the distinct impression that Bianca is consciously avoiding him. Tant pis, he reckons to himself, falling naturally into his mother tongue. If that’s the way she wants to play it, I won’t let my day be spoiled. After stowing their packs onto the far seat of the third row, the pilot invites Bianca to take the seat next to his. André slips into the empty place by the luggage. A few minutes later they are in the air. The craft turns southeast, flying over the western suburbs of Popayàn, laboring to gain height rapidly. The harsh drone of the engine renders conversation impossible. One or the other of the student occasionally draws the attention of the passengers to some landmark or feature in the landscape. Paolo is busy clicking away on his big Canon camera. Some thirty kilometers to the South, the snow on the 4,500-meter-high peak of Volcan Sotará glitters in the low sun, while Volcan Puracé is shrouded by a long bank of clouds. The patchily forested land rises sharply before leveling into the gently sloping yellowish grasslands stuck like a half bowl between these two volcanoes. André figures that the bowl is at least twenty kilometers across. The young River Cauca has carved a bed through its entire length. He takes two shots of Volcan Sotará, lit up by the morning sun, with the expanse of the grasslands in the foreground.

  Within half an hour they fly over the pass that forms the watershed between the Cauca and the Magdalena river catchments. The plane skims over an expanse of low clouds that hides the pass, and then loses altitude steadily, the high-pitched rumble of its engine becoming more bearable. Soon they catch glimpses into narrow river valleys, their depth hidden in dark shade. André is intrigued that the clouds leave the valleys free and tend to hug the upper slopes of the ridges between them. For a few minutes the pilot follows the course of a sizable river, calling out ‘Rio Magdalena’. Near the confluence of the Madgalena with another river, he circles once over a small town and the rolling green hills to its west, shouting ‘San Agustin’, before banking away to the east. Twenty minutes later he sets the plane smoothly down on a short grass airfield outside Pitalito.

  After disembarking, the pilot informs them that he will return at three thirty, that they must be back at the airfield at the latest by four, just in case the direct route they came over is completely clouded in and he might be forced to detour via the low pass east near La Plata, about twice the distance. He does not want to risk flying after dark, he emphasizes. A few minutes later, he turns the craft around and takes off alone.

  They have to wait more than a quarter of an hour before a minivan taxi drives up. The air is still nippy, with a sharp westerly wind. André is glad for the protection of his rain jacket. The three students are huddled together, turning their backs on him. It s
eems fairly obvious that even the two guys are following Bianca’s lead to cut him out.

  "Did you get a single room, so that Visconti can visit you at night?" he overhears Giuglio ask. The question is accompanied by a snigger.

  "None of your business —" she replies, laughing, only to be interrupted by Paolo: "You should hear Gioglio snore. It’s sounds like a Vespa misfiring."

  "You can talk," Giuglio fires back. "At least, I don’t stink up the room."

  André decides to move a few steps to the side so that he does no longer have to hear their inane banter and passes the time studying the chain of mountains and hills that enclose the expanse of the Magdalena valley.

  In San Agustin, a guide from the horse stables meets Paolo and Giuglio. The two young men arranged for visiting the sites in the archaeological park on horseback. Bianca and André are now alone, waiting for their Jeep.

  "Bianca, I don’t know what I did that turned you against me, but let’s make a truce at least for the next few hours. We’ll both enjoy the sights more if we step beyond this patch of discord that seems to separate us. I promise to be on my best behavior."

  She hesitates for a moment and then produces a weak smile. "Oké," she replies, the ‘k’ pronounced without aspiration, in the Italian way. He loves it.

  "Since you hired the Jeep and guide, I will simply tag along. So tell me a bit how you see the day. What will we be looking for?"

  She seems willing to consider his proposal and asks: "What do you know about San Agustin?"

  "Only that it contains several hundred statues and monuments that originate from a culture that disappeared before Columbus, probably even before the Incas."

  "Yes, that is correct. Over five hundred statues, in fact. Some are anthropomorphic figures—"

  "—which means?"

  "Resembling human form or having human attributes, like a lion’s head attached to a human body—"

  "—or the other way round?"

  "Yes. Some are realistic, most are stylistic, their heads always out of proportion large. Many have large feline fangs, probably depicting deities. Still others depict animals: eagles, jaguars, even frogs. They are scattered over a wide area, and the theory is that they were erected as guardians of burial sites. The archaeological park just beyond San Agustin contains the largest number, but there are more on the other side of the river we saw from the van …"

  He notices that she has adopted a lecturing stance. She looks so endearingly serious. He loves it and smiles.

  She pauses, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why are you grinning? … You already knew all that and were just pulling my leg."

  "No, Bianca, I do not. I was smiling because when you told all this you spoke with the lecturing voice of a professor."

  "You see, you’re mocking me, like you did last evening." Her face becomes angry, distorting her lovely features. She brusquely turns, moving away.

  He berates himself for having been so tongue-in-cheek last night and quickly steps in front of her. "No, Bianca. I am not mocking you. I loved it. I love your enthusiasm. Honestly. Please, go on."

  She blushes and looks at him uncertainly.

  "Please, relent," he begs again. "Do we stay the whole time here or are we also going across the river?"

  "We’ll spend about three hours here. I want to see the Fuente de Lavapatas with its famous carvings and then visit the clusters of statues at the Alto de Lavapatas, just above the fountains. From there one gets a panoramic view over the whole area. After lunch, we will cross the river to the second most important site, the Alto de los Ídolos, to view the largest of all statues. It measures seven meters high. There is a third site beyond the town of San José de Isnos, which has two very intriguing statues. One, depending on the angle viewed, reveals four figures, the other is a highly pregnant woman. I hope we’ll make it there."

  André has stopped listening. The name San José ‘of something’ strikes a familiar chord, but he cannot place it. Where had he heard it?

  "There you go again. You said you were interested, but you aren’t really listening."

  He knows that he risks losing the bit of goodwill she has offered him, but something drives him on. "Sorry, what’s this town called again?"

  "San José de Isnos. Why?"

  Suddenly, he knows where he heard it — in the Alcazar Bar. Yes, the three or four syllables he missed could be ‘de Isnos’, but he cannot be certain. "Because I think that I heard it recently mentioned in connection with another matter."

  "What matter? Are you looking for drugs?"

  He laughs. "Do I look like a drug dealer? No, I’m a simple-minded investigative journalist. Occasionally I also write for travel magazines. But for a change I’m traveling as an ordinary tourist. Mind you, I may still spin a tale about a day at San Agustin with a gorgeous and vivacious Italian tour guide."

  "You can’t leave it, can you? That’s why I’m cross with you. Professor Visconti said that you were undressing me."

  "Did he? Oh, what heavenly bliss that would be, even the mere thought of it, opening the buttons of that blouse one at a time, peeling back the cloth, kissing every centimeter of new skin revealed," he raises his gaze to the sky, "but, alas, somebody else will have that pleasure. Didn’t you say that you’ll soon get married to your professor of archaeology?"

  "See … Your promises are worthless." She feigns anger and turns away from him, but he can see that she is trying to suppress a giggle. Even her tanned cheeks cannot hide her deepening color.

  "I think my dear mother would agree with you." He sees her briefly glance back and pretends to be dejected, sighing deeply. "She always said I let my mouth run away from me."

  Bianca turns back to him, her whole face laughing. "Can’t you be serious for even five minutes?"

  "Am I forgiven? … Just once more?" he begs.

  "Yes, but just this one time."

  At that point the Jeep drives up. The vehicle is still rolling when the driver jumps out, apologizing profusely for letting them wait. His large pointed nose and the lack of chin makes him look like a mouse and without thinking André names him ‘la souris’. He introduces himself as Hernando and claims that he was told his passengers would only arrive at eight thirty. Bianca quickly checks her watch and shrugs her shoulders, amused. André unobtrusively checks his. It is a quarter to nine. He winks to her.

  Before they get into the Jeep, he takes a picture of Bianca and the driver next to the ancient vehicle. Bianca sits in front, and ‘la souris’ roars off. Ten minutes later they overtake Paolo and Giuglio with their guide.

  At the ceremonial fountains of Lavapatas she takes lots of shots with her camera and bombards the guide with numerous questions. Occasionally, André comes to her rescue when her Spanish fails, but mostly he simply watches her, her face — not the slightest blemish on its peach like skin — the intelligent eyes under delicately arched eyebrows, the high forehead, her straight nose, maybe a shade large, her perfect white teeth, the firm chin with its small dimple, the animated hand gestures, the way her whole face lights up when she smiles and one cannot help but to return the smile. He cannot remember ever having been so completely captured by a woman within a few hours of meeting her for the first time. He takes a few shots, making sure to catch her in the frame.

  Walking up the steep steps from the fountains back to their vehicle, he cannot keep his eyes from her sexy bottom. The very thought of touching its silky skin quickens his pulse.

  At one point, she becomes aware of him watching her. "André, you aren’t paying attention to the sculptures," she chides him.

  "Not true. I give all my attention to the only sculpture that counts, one carved by nature itself."

  "You’re hopeless." But her eyes are laughing. She wags her index finger and says: "I warned you."

  I think I got her on the same wavelength as me, he muses, as he responds with a smile.

  He expected more visitors. They only meet two middle-aged American couples on the neatly trimmed fenced-o
ff grass areas around a circle of monuments on the Alto de Lavapatas.

  As they are viewing two statues, one depicting a male, the other a female, Bianca asks: "Did you notice that all female faces are always triangular, while those of males are almost square?"

  "Yes. Is there a significance to it?"

  "Definitely. Professor Visconti says that the triangle imitates the shape of corn kernels. It symbolizes both sustenance and fertility, while the square shape of the males emphasizes strength and power."

  "I get the sustenance part. Women ground the corn and thus provided sustenance. But how does fertility enter into this equation?"

  "It’s simple. The prolific nature of one single kernel of corn capable of producing hundreds of new ones, isn’t that proof of great fertility?"

  "But why should that shape be associated with a woman’s face?"

  "That’s obvious. Women equals fertility?"

  "Did you make that up just now?"

  "No, that’s Professor Visconti’s interpretation."

  "And you believe it? … Don’t you think this could simply be the product of imagination in the mind of a sex-starved archaeologist?"

  "André, watch it! You’re going too far."

  "But seriously, this exact same thing has been done before. When archaeologists unearthed the first so-called Venus-figurines in various parts of Europe, they interpreted these voluptuous sculptures as expression of male eroticism. Any other interpretation would have been in direct conflict with the strictly patriarchal view of society so fundamentally anchored in all Judaic-Christian religions. But a more plausible interpretation would be that these figurines of voluptuous and pregnant women were symbolic depictions of goddesses, of mother earth as the life-giving power. No erotic connotation. And besides, other ancient cultures where corn was unknown also depicted women’s faces in this shape."