Diego's Pride

by Deborah Ellis

  Now Diego had no way to return to his family with money in his pockets, and no way to make up for the fear and worry he’d caused his parents.

  Helplessness was bitter in his mouth. It soured his stomach and pushed out all caution.

  Bonita’s rifle was on the ground. The soldiers had looked at its rust and broken parts, laughed and tossed it away.

  Diego picked it up now, holding it by the snout. He lunged at the nearest truck. The soldiers were smoking and laughing, their work done. Diego ran and swung, smashing headlights and bumpers, hammering the barrel of the rifle into the hood of the truck, trying to hit clear through to the engine. If the truck couldn’t go, it couldn’t carry away their coca.

  Diego banged at the truck, denting metal. He kept swinging even as the soldiers dropped their cigarettes and came after him, not caring who or what he hit.

  There were shouts and curses as the soldiers tried to grab him and were hit in the face, legs or chest. Finally they attacked him as a group, and took him down.

  Diego hit dirt, face first. It got up his nose and into his eyes. He could hear the Ricardos yelling. Even Bonita was cursing the soldiers for hurting him. But the soldiers didn’t care. They held him down and yanked back his arms, winding twine so tightly around his wrists that his hands began to burn and then lost sensation. He tasted dirt and blood and felt the weight of men kneeling on his back.

  ‘Your son is under arrest,’ the sergeant said. ‘He assaulted my men.’

  Diego waited for the Ricardos to say, ‘He’s not our son,’ but they didn’t. Instead they said, ‘He is small and you are big. You are arresting him? What type of people are you?’

  The soldiers didn’t respond. They lifted Diego up by his arms. It hurt a lot to be lifted like that, with sharp pain stretching all across his back. He was ashamed to find that he was crying. His face was wet with dirt and tears, and his shirt was red with blood from his nose.

  Diego’s head was ringing from too much going on. The Ricardos were pleading, the little ones were crying, and Bonita was yelling. The sergeant was barking orders. Diego kicked and squirmed, but the soldiers were bigger and they lifted him into the back of the truck. He was dumped among the sacks of leaves and murdered coca bushes. A branch from a bush poked him in the eye.

  He was too angry to keep still. He worked his way to his feet and tried to jump off the back of the truck, but the soldiers blocked his way.

  ‘Whoa! Slow down!’ one of them said. ‘We won’t hurt you. Just settle down.’

  Diego couldn’t push through them, so he got as far away as possible. He wiggled his way through the uprooted coca bushes until he was wedged between the cab of the truck and the mound of coca sacks. He looked back at the Ricardo family standing together, the parents’ arms around their children. They were all crying now.

  Diego knew they were crying because of the lost crop and the lost dreams that were going away with it. He also knew they were crying for him. He’d only been with them for a week, but he knew that they liked him as much as he liked them.

  The helicopter started up again, the noise and propellers creating a powerful storm of wind.

  ‘Thank you!’ Diego shouted out to the Ricardos as the soldiers climbed into the trucks and they started to drive away.

  He couldn’t even raise his hands to wave goodbye.

  FOUR

  The pick-up truck moved down the road. It wasn’t a road made for trucks. It was a path better suited to llamas and donkeys, full of ruts and rocks and places where the bush had taken over.

  Diego’s eyes stung from the dirt and tears he was unable to wipe away. He was wedged in among the coca sacks. They cushioned him as the truck rolled over the uneven road. Low branches brushed his face.

  As the shock of his arrest wore off, his panic rose. He couldn’t go to jail! He couldn’t be locked up like his parents, only ever being able to see the sky from the prison courtyard.

  The truck stopped and started, eventually turning onto a smoother road and picking up speed. It wasn’t long before it turned again, and Diego was bumped around the truck bed as before.

  Eventually the truck came to a stop and the motor was turned off. Diego heard more voices and the sound of music coming from a radio. He smelled wood smoke and cooking. He got ready to bolt.

  The soldiers got out of the truck, lowered the flap on the back, and hands reached in for Diego.

  He was ready, but there were too many against him. They held him up off the ground and laughed as his legs tried to run in the air.

  ‘What’s going on?’ A tall man in a clean uniform strode up to the soldiers holding Diego. ‘What’s this kid doing here?’

  ‘Assault, Captain,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘He went after us with a rifle.’

  ‘He shot at you?’

  ‘Well, no, the rifle was old and no good. He hit us with it.’

  Diego stopped struggling. They put him on his feet but kept a strong grip on his shoulders and arms.

  Diego’s taxi skills were finally starting to kick in. Be watchful and ready. Keep your eyes open for the best advantage.

  ‘He hit you with an old, useless rifle.’ The captain sounded unimpressed.

  ‘He hit our truck, too,’ a soldier added. ‘Broke a headlight.’

  ‘And so you brought him here. Does this look like a playground?’

  Diego looked beyond them to the small group of nylon tents, the tarps stretched between the trees to provide rain shelter over the cooking and eating area. Trucks and jeeps were parked along the edge of the camp. He saw lines of laundry, stores of food and bottles of drinking water.

  He also saw, off to the side, the sacks of coca leaves and the ripped-out coca bushes taken from raids on farms just like the Ricardos’.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the captain asked, bending down so he could talk straight to Diego.

  ‘Diego.’

  ‘Your parents shouldn’t be growing coca, Diego. Don’t they know that?’

  ‘They don’t just grow coca,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘Look at his legs.’

  They lifted him up again so his legs dangled in the air. Diego took advantage of the moment to kick the soldier in the stomach. The other men laughed as the soldier bent over, winded and in pain.

  ‘You’ve been stomping coca,’ the captain said. Weeks in the coca pits had bleached all the colour out of Diego’s feet and legs. The sores were healing, but they were still there – red blotches on washed-out skin. ‘Your parents are monsters, making you do that. Don’t they know it rots your skin away?’

  ‘They’re not my parents,’ Diego said. He’d meant to defend the Ricardos, but the wrong words came out. ‘They had nothing to do with the pit. They took me in. I ran away from the pit. The men there killed my friend.’

  ‘Killed your friend?’ That got the captain’s attention. ‘Where was this? Can you show us?’

  ‘There was jungle,’ Diego said, ‘and a rope bridge, and a little village with a shop.’ As he talked, he knew he’d never find it. He’d slept on the trip there from Cochabamba. Then there was the terrifying helicopter ride with Smith, and another dash through the jungle. He had no way to prove his story.

  ‘Where are your parents, then?’ the captain asked.

  Diego held his tongue. He knew he’d broken the law by working in the coca pits. What if the army made his parents spend more time in prison because of what he’d done? He wasn’t going to make things worse. He wasn’t going to answer any more questions until he knew exactly what those answers would cost him.

  He set his lips firmly tight and gave the captain the sort of glare he’d wanted to give the prison guards all those years but was afraid to.

  The captain just laughed. ‘I wish the rest of you were as tough as this kid,’ he said to the other soldiers. ‘Then the Bolivian army would conquer all of South and Central America and not stop until we reached the White House. Wouldn’t the gringos be surprised to see us there? We’ll take the boy back to that fa
rm tomorrow and search for that pit. If there are no signs of it, we’ll know he’s telling at least some truth.’

  The captain gave orders to unload the coca and to find Diego a secure place where he couldn’t get away.

  The soldiers first tied Diego to a tree, with the rope going around his middle so he had to keep standing. The captain called them idiots, cut the twine from around Diego’s wrists and sat him down at the table in the kitchen area. He tied one of Diego’s ankles to a leg of the table.

  ‘If he gets away, I’ll blame you, not him,’ he told his men. ‘Do your job properly.’ Diego saw the captain pass a signal to the older man who was cooking nearby.

  ‘Hungry?’ the cook asked.

  Diego never turned down food. He’d been without it too often.

  He nodded. A warm empanada was placed in front of him, and he gobbled it down.

  ‘I see you like my empanadas,’ the cook said.

  ‘They’re good,’ Diego agreed.

  ‘I bake them on the fire. You wouldn’t think that was possible, would you?’

  Diego had never thought about it. ‘No.’

  ‘Let me show you. You seem like a cultured fellow, interested in good food and the finer things of life.’

  Diego laughed.

  The cook’s hands danced about, spooning chopped meat and vegetables into squares of pastry.

  ‘The men here don’t know an ear of corn from the ear of a pig. They want hot, fast and plenty. They swallow without even chewing. They don’t care what they eat, so I can experiment. I’m going to write a cookbook when I retire. Foods of Bolivia. Do you think it will sell?’

  Diego nodded. He wiggled his bound foot, testing the strength of the captain’s knot. The cook kept talking, but he watched Diego out of the corner of his eye. Diego was used to judging the alertness and temperament of guards, and he knew he was being watched. It didn’t stop him from trying to wiggle out of his bindings.

  The cook put a fresh batch of empanadas in a makeshift oven of folded foil and pot lids. He never stopped talking, telling Diego how to prepare and bake a monkey, what type of snakes could be added to stew and disguised as chicken, different herbs in different parts of Bolivia.

  ‘If only we’d go to war again with Chile,’ he said wistfully. ‘We could get back our access to the ocean, and I’d have fresh shellfish to work with.’

  The baked empanadas were set aside to cool. They’d be given to the men on night patrol, the cook said.

  Diego was allowed to sit with the men for supper. The food was much better than what he was used to. Rice, beans, corn and chicken. He ate as much as he was given. He didn’t know what was ahead, but it wasn’t likely to include food like this.

  The soldiers grumbled about eating with a prisoner, and a kid at that.

  ‘Take your plates elsewhere, then,’ the captain said. ‘This kid showed more spirit and loyalty today than all the rest of you have since you came under my command.’

  ‘Maybe you should draft him,’ a soldier said. ‘He can take my place.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ several men echoed.

  ‘Or you could hire me,’ Diego said suddenly. ‘I could work for you. For pay,’ he added. ‘I could run errands, help the cook, keep things tidy.’ He counted off the chores on his fingers.

  ‘You think a kid like you is tough enough to work with soldiers like us?’ one of the men jeered.

  ‘What’s so tough about you?’ Diego asked. ‘All you do is rip up coca bushes and steal from farmers. Big, tough soldiers.’

  ‘We go after the coca farmers because they’re easy to find,’ the captain said. ‘We have to stop the flow of cocaine to North America. The United States government gives Bolivia money to do this. Bolivia is poor. We need this money.’

  ‘Money’s no good if it makes you do bad things,’ said Diego.

  ‘Now he’s an expert in government, too,’ said one of the soldiers, shoveling in more rice.

  ‘Perhaps you have a better idea,’ the captain said to Diego. ‘I grew up in this territory. So did most of my men. You think we want to make our neighbours poor?’

  ‘Catch the bad guys,’ Diego said.

  The captain laughed, but it was a laugh without any humor in it.

  ‘Catch the bad guys. The bad guys who have more money than we do, more planes, more helicopters, more friends in high places. You wouldn’t understand this, Diego, because you’re only a boy, but just because someone is in a position of power and authority doesn’t automatically mean he’s a good person.’

  Diego knew all about that. He’d seen guards steal from prisoners.

  ‘I didn’t join the army to rip up plants and scare good families,’ the captain said. ‘You find me a way to catch the real bad guys and I’ll do it.’

  The soldiers left the table as soon as their plates were empty. The cook poured himself and the captain some coffee and poured Diego a mug of tostada.

  ‘Where are your parents?’ the captain asked again.

  ‘In prison,’ Diego finally admitted. ‘In Cochabamba.’

  ‘You were living with them in the prison?’

  ‘In San Sebastian Women’s Prison.’

  ‘Do they know where you are and what you’ve been doing?’

  Diego shook his head and stared down at the table. He pictured himself walking into the women’s prison with nothing to show for his time away. The guards and the other prisoners would see him for what he was – just a dumb kid who never did anything right. Sure his parents would be glad to see him, but then what?

  He took a big swallow of the warm, sweet drink to keep himself from crying. There was still the debt to pay, and no way to pay it.

  Diego was put on a spare cot in the cook’s tent for the night. He was handcuffed to the frame of the cot with real handcuffs, not just a rope he could try to untie.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ the cook said, as he turned down the flame on the kerosene lantern. ‘There are too many things out there that can hurt a boy on his own.’

  Diego was too miserable to answer. He lay in the dark, listening to the noises of the military camp settling down for the night. Across the tent, the cook slept on his own cot and snored.

  Hoping the sound of the snoring would cover up the sounds of his sobs, Diego cried.

  FIVE

  Diego was wakened by the sound of jeeps revving their engines and the noise of heavy boots running through the camp. His handcuffs had been removed some time during the night, and the cook’s cot was empty.

  He poked his head outside the tent.

  ‘Let’s go!’ the captain yelled to his men. ‘Load up!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ one of the soldiers asked.

  ‘The cocaleros are blocking the highways,’ the captain said. ‘Get Diego into a truck!’

  ‘Diego? Who’s Diego?’

  ‘The boy! Put the boy in a truck. Maybe we can use him.’

  Diego started running, but he was no match for the soldiers, and he landed face-down in the dirt. In the next instant the cook was there, threatening the soldiers with his frying pan. The soldiers apologised, picked Diego up, dusted him off and led him over to one of the trucks.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Diego asked, as he was lifted up into the back of a pick-up truck. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just following orders,’ said the soldier, getting into the truck beside him.

  The convoy of pick-ups started to head out of the camp. The cook ran up with a bundle full of still-warm empanadas.

  ‘Don’t share them with the lads,’ he told Diego. ‘They’re all for you.’

  More soldiers climbed into the back of the truck, squishing Diego against the side wall. He clutched the bundle of pastries to his chest with one hand and held on to the side of the pick-up with the other. The truck lurched into action and joined the line of military vehicles heading out on the road.

  In spite of not knowing what was happening, Diego was enjoying himself. He was no longer handcuffed, the g
ood Bolivian sun was shining down on him, and all around was green and beautiful. He’d wait and watch out for his next best chance.

  The truck passed through a small village, slowed down, then came to a complete stop. Diego leaned out to try to see what was happening, but his view was blocked by the trucks ahead. The captain’s jeep pulled out of the line and drove down the side of the highway.

  Diego couldn’t see what was going on, but all the car horns blasting away told him a lot of traffic was being held up.

  ‘Bloody cocaleros!’ One of the soldiers next to Diego spat over the side of the truck. ‘This was supposed to be my day off.’

  Then the captain’s jeep pulled up beside the truck, and the captain ordered the convoy to follow him to the front of the line. They drove down the wrong lane of the highway, passing cars with horns honking, trucks full of lumber and cattle, and a bus full of people hanging out of the windows, yelling complaints.

  The truck reached the front of the stalled line of traffic, and stopped.

  And then it was before them.

  Stretched across the road was a line of people sitting on the pavement, not letting anything pass. In front of them was a barrier of logs and branches.

  Behind the first barricade were more people dragging more branches on to the road. Some were stringing tarps between branches to make a shelter. Diego saw children and babies, old people and folks in between.

  And then he saw someone he knew.

  ‘Mrs Ricardo! Mrs Ricardo!’ He waved and hollered, but Mrs Ricardo didn’t seem to hear. There was a lot of noise from people yelling curses and banging on their car horns, and from the cocaleros yelling out chants and slogans.

  ‘We want justice! We want justice!’

  He watched the captain walk alone up to the front line of protesters. A small group of men and women stepped out of the blockade and walked up to meet him. Diego watched the captain listen to names and shake everyone’s hands. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he watched the protesters talk, saw the captain nod, then wave his arm at the line of backed-up cars and trucks.