Bonita was right beside Diego. She pointed at the shadow that was Emilio, starting to creep down the hill.
‘Go and get him,’ she told Diego. ‘I’ll stop the others.’ Then she was gone.
A dance song that one of the soldiers liked came on the radio, and he turned up the volume. Diego used the music to cover up the sound of him sliding down the rest of the hill, getting there at the same time as Emilio. He tackled Emilio to the ground just as Dario and Leon let out a yell. Bonita must have scared them.
The soldiers sprang into action. Diego rolled with Emilio under a military truck, out of sight. He grabbed the gasoline-filled bottle and rolled it away down the pavement.
A spotlight was shone on the hill. Soldiers rushed up to grab Dario and Leon. Diego watched them being brought down the hill, Dario still holding on to his bottle of gasoline.
Boot-clad feet moved quickly all around the truck. Shouting went back and forth as soldiers radioed to the major at the north end of the bridge. Diego waited in fear for the soldiers to bring Bonita off the hill, but it didn’t happen. She had gotten away.
It was time to get out of there. Diego stuck his head out from beneath the truck and checked to make sure it was safe to leave. He held out his hand to Emilio. In a flash, they were back under the cover of the trees.
‘You ruined our plan!’ Emilio swung at Diego. ‘You ruined everything!’
Diego ducked and raised his arms against Emilio’s blows.
Bonita appeared behind them and pulled Emilio away.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she told him. ‘We’d better get back.’
The major was on the loudspeaker again. His voice reached them just as they cleared the woods and arrived back on the ridge.
‘Two of your people have been arrested carrying a Molotov cocktail they were intending to use against the army,’ he said. ‘If there is one more incident like this, we will clear the bridge before dawn, and without any warning.’
Suddenly Vargas was in front of them. He wrapped his son in a big hug.
‘Someone told me you’d gone off with those men,’ Vargas said. ‘I was so afraid! You must never do anything like that again!’ He looked over at Diego and Bonita. ‘Thank you,’ he said to them, then walked away with Emilio to sit with him by the fire.
‘That was close,’ Bonita said, heading back down to the bridge.
Diego kept his eyes on Vargas and Emilio together by the fire. He saw Vargas speak softly to his son, smooth his hair and kiss the top of his head. When Emilio looked away, Diego saw Vargas wipe tears from his eyes.
Emilio’s father loved him. He loved him even if he was sick a lot.
He loved him even when he made stupid mistakes.
SIXTEEN
It was not a night for sleeping, although some people did, and some people tried to.
‘We’ll need our rest for tomorrow,’ they said.
‘Tomorrow could be the end,’ others said. ‘We can sleep when we’re dead.’
The temperature had dropped. Mrs Ricardo gave Diego an extra poncho and ordered him to put it on. It smelled of tear gas and donkey, but it felt like a warm hug.
Diego was too tired to sleep. He went looking for Bonita.
She was sitting on the bridge, her back against the railing, not far from where the guitar player and the zampona players were playing their sweet, sad nighttime music. She didn’t object when he sat down beside her.
‘Some people have left,’ she said. ‘They’ve gone back to their farms. Others will leave in the morning.’
‘You can’t really blame them,’ Diego said. ‘It’s not as if staying is going to solve their problems. Your neighbour’s kids still won’t have any shoes, no matter what happens in the morning.’
‘You should go, then,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Diego agreed. ‘I should.’ But he didn’t move.
‘Your family depends on you,’ he said. ‘You’re the oldest. You have responsibilities. Maybe you should think about leaving before the morning comes.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, without a whisper of argument in her voice. ‘If either of my parents dies, the other would be lost without me. If my father dies, I can take over his work on the farm. If my mother dies, I can look after Martino and Santo. Things happen. They could die. Tomorrow, later. Things happen.’
Their shoulders were touching. ‘But I’m staying,’ she went on. ‘I’m staying because it would be easy to leave. I’m staying because it will always be easy to leave, and if I leave now, it will get harder and harder to stay. I’d spend my whole life leaving.’
Diego was going to say that just because you make a decision once doesn’t mean you’ll make the same decision all the time, but he didn’t. Besides, he knew what she meant. He knew of adults in both his parents’ prisons who made the decision to stop looking after themselves – to stop washing, stop thinking, stop caring – and that became a hard habit to break.
‘Are you staying?’ Bonita asked him.
It was time to ask himself that question. Maybe he could get some kind of work in the village north of the blockade, earn a few bolivianos, then hitch rides home with money in his pocket. That was the reason he left Cochabamba in the first place. Getting gassed and shot at was not part of the plan. There was nothing, really, keeping him here. In fact, it would be smarter to go.
But he would have to tell his parents that he’d walked away. They’d tell him it was the right thing to do, that his safety came before anything else. They’d mean it, too, because they were his parents. But there would be something in their eyes – not disappointment, but not pride, either.
‘I’m going to stay,’ he said.
Bonita didn’t say anything for such a long time, he thought she’d fallen asleep. Then she asked, ‘Are you afraid?’
‘Yes.’
‘So am I.’ She took hold of his hand and they sat that way, listening to the night music and waiting for the dawn.
SEVENTEEN
Morning rose with a heavy mist off the river, engulfing the bridge in a gray, slow-swirling cloud.
‘Diego,’ someone called from the north barricade. ‘Someone to see you over here.’
Diego came out of his doze. Bonita was already up and away. He rubbed his eyes and got to his feet.
All across the bridge, people were slowly stirring. Diego made his way to the north barricade through the half-light of morning. When he got there, the captain was waiting for him.
‘Are you all right?’ the captain asked.
Diego didn’t answer. This was the man who was going to shoot at his friends the very first day of the blockade.
‘I’ve been ordered back to Cochabamba,’ the captain said. ‘I’m leaving this morning. Now, in fact. You can come with me.’
Diego was too shocked to respond right away. He looked back at the people on the bridge.
‘I can’t…’
‘Diego, it’s going to get bad. This major isn’t going to count off and bluff. He’s going to clear the bridge! What good would it do…’
‘You mean you weren’t going to order us to be shot?’
‘Of course not.’
Diego believed him, and was glad. He thought about the captain’s offer. Then he thought about Bonita, and the rest of the Ricardos, and Vargas and Emilio. They were all staying. They had no one to give them a lift to a safer place.
‘I can’t leave,’ Diego said.
‘Take care of yourself. If I ever have a son, I hope he turns out to be just like you.’ He shook Diego’s hand and turned to go.
‘Captain?’ Diego called out. ‘Which way is Cochabamba?’
The captain pointed up the hill behind him.
‘Just follow the highway,’ he said. Then, with a wave, he was gone.
Diego returned to the blockade. The cocaleros were gathering for a final meeting before the sun came up.
‘My friends,’ said Vargas, his voice bringing them all together. ‘Comrades. Campesinos. I have somethi
ng to say to you.’
Vargas spoke without a microphone, his arm around Emilio’s shoulder. His words became trapped in the fog and hovered over them. Diego joined the others, gathering in close to be able to hear.
‘It’s not that long ago that, before people like us could meet with a Bolivian official, they would spray us with DDT, because they were afraid we would spread lice and germs. Today we are able to shut down the country. One day we will govern the country, and even those who look down on us will be forced to meet with us as equals.
‘We are here today with nothing but our bodies and our courage. We have come together, and we have acted, and we have shown the world that we are strong.’
All over the bridge, Diego heard people say, ‘We are!’ and ‘Solidarity!’ but they didn’t say these things loudly. The moment was too solemn.
‘We are engaged in a very old struggle, the struggle of poor people to control the land they work and sweat over, to control their resources, and to control their lives. It is the struggle of the Hebrew slaves in Egypt. It is the struggle of the people of South Africa to end apartheid. It is the struggle of every working person in history to liberate themselves from the rich people who exploit them.’
Vargas moved about the little circle the protesters had made for him. When he talked, he looked right into people’s faces.
‘Cocaleros, none of us is rich. We struggle to feed our families, we struggle to send our children to school. Our lives may never be comfortable. But when we go to our graves, with our last breath and thoughts we will know we lived in dignity and stood by those who needed us.
‘The struggle of the moment will be played out here, and soon, but it will not be our last struggle. It does not matter what they do to us today. We cannot be frightened. We cannot be silenced. And we cannot be stopped.’
The words of victory from the crowd got a little louder as people found their courage. They bumped up against each other, gaining strength from one another. Diego stood with the Ricardos, their arms around each other as they stood side by side and shoulder to shoulder with the others on the bridge.
Diego felt tall standing together with the other cocaleros. They were all tired. They were all hungry. Many, like Diego, still had eyes and throats that burned from the tear gas. Diego knew something was going to happen, very serious and very soon. He was afraid – and yet, he wasn’t. In this moment, in spite of everything, Diego was happy.
The group broke apart. The sun would soon be up. Diego helped pick up blankets and other debris from the bridge. It wouldn’t do for protesters to trip on things while they were running. He could feel the tension in the people around him. He saw it on their faces – a calm, hard, scared determination. He wondered if they were asking themselves the same questions he was asking himself. Would he be brave? Would he be proud of himself at the end of the day? Would he stand by his brothers and sisters?
He thought he would, but he wouldn’t know for sure until it was all over.
Diego carried an armload of blankets up to the ridge where the little children and their caregivers were staying. The blankets would be good for the wounded who would be brought up to the ridge to be taken care of. Sister Rosa was there helping to set up the first-aid station.
Diego knelt down beside her and helped spread out the blankets.
‘You should leave,’ he said. ‘You and the other nuns. The sun will be up soon.’
Sister Rosa flashed her bright, wide smile and gently pushed the hair out of Diego’s eyes.
‘We are exactly where we need to be,’ she said. She didn’t seem scared at all. Diego smiled back at her. Smiling made him feel braver.
He returned to the bridge.
The army had moved up the road from the south end and were now just a short distance beyond the south barrier. Diego smelled diesel fuel again. This time he was better prepared for tear gas. His kerchief was freshly wet with vinegar and tied firmly around his neck, ready to pull up over his nose and mouth when the gas started flying.
He took up a position behind the south barrier. He could see the soldiers getting ready for the order to take the bridge.
Behind him he could hear the cocaleros reassuring themselves that everything would be all right. They were planning to lie down on the road in front of the army. Diego couldn’t bear to think what would happen if the army kept rolling right over them.
‘The mothers are doing a blockade of babies,’ Bonita said, as Mrs Ricardo and other mothers walked out to the bare part of the highway between the army and the south barrier. They each had a baby in their arms or strapped to their backs in an aguayo. They sat proudly, bowler hats perched tall on their heads, and nursed or sang to their babies, steps away from the army.
‘What are they doing?’ Diego asked.
‘Shaming the army into stopping,’ Mr Ricardo said, and added, almost to himself, ‘I hope.’
‘Where’s Martino?’
‘Up on the ridge rolling bandages. We can’t keep track of him down here.’
The sky over the river began to brighten. The sun was coming up.
‘This is your last warning,’ the major’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker. ‘This is absolutely your last chance to leave. We are taking back this bridge.’
Then the sun rose up, quite definitely. The morning had broken. Diego heard the revving of motors, saw the soldiers clamp on their gas masks and point their rifles. He pulled his kerchief up over his nose and mouth and watched the troops begin to advance.
The bulldozer came closer and closer to the line of women and children stretched across the highway. Diego could hear some of the babies crying and their mothers singing. He grabbed on to Mr Ricardo’s and Bonita’s hands, squeezing them in fear as the blade of the bulldozer shovel came closer and closer to Mrs Ricardo, Santo and the others.
Then it stopped.
Diego saw the television camera at the side of the road, filming everything.
From behind the bulldozer came streams of soldiers, a hundred of them, maybe more, faceless in gas masks. Working in teams, they lifted each mother and child off the road and carried them back behind army lines. The women didn’t fight, but they certainly didn’t help, either. The soldiers had to do all the work.
Beside him, Diego felt Mr Ricardo breathe a sigh of relief.
‘They’re just arresting them,’ he said. ‘They’ll be all right.’
It didn’t take long for the soldiers to carry the women away, and the bulldozer started smashing through the south barrier. The first tear gas canisters landed on the bridge. People scrambled to toss them back. Diego’s eyes began to sting.
He couldn’t tell for sure what was happening at the north end, but he guessed it was more of the same. The roar of machines was behind him as well as ahead of him, and then the helicopter appeared. The propellers blew away some of the gas.
The bulldozer easily pushed through the barricade Diego and the others had worked so hard to build. As the army advanced, the cocaleros retreated to the middle of the bridge. More tear gas came flying in. A canister landed near Diego. He picked it up and threw it back, then felt a terrible pain in his chest. The blow knocked him to the ground.
He heard rifle shots and saw others fall near him.
Was he shot? His chest hurt so much.
‘Everyone lie down,’ Vargas called out. Diego looked up to see the television camera in his face. All around him people lay down on the bridge until the army could not move one more step without running over somebody.
Diego felt himself being lifted and carried off the bridge by a soldier in a gas mask.
It was over. The blockade was over.
EIGHTEEN
‘Where does it hurt?’ he heard Sister Rosa ask.
He opened his eyes. She was leaning over him.
‘Is it your chest? Let me see.’
The army had turned one lane of the highway into a holding pen for the demonstrators, using portable fencing and rolls of barbed wire. All the cocal
eros from the bridge were being held there.
At first the soldiers wouldn’t let the nuns in to provide medical care.
‘Go back to your church,’ they said. Then two of the nuns – Sister Rosa and Sister Juanita – sat down in front of the soldiers and refused to move, until they were finally carried away and put in the pen, too. The third nun, Sister Maria, was up on the ridge looking after the children and the wounded who hadn’t been arrested.
‘They were shooting rubber bullets,’ Sister Rosa said, feeling Diego’s chest for broken ribs. ‘You might have cracked something. I’ll bind you up just in case, but you should get checked out by a doctor as soon as you can.’
Diego didn’t know when that might be. The bandages around his chest made him feel a little better.
‘You’ll have a big bruise,’ Sister Rosa said as she helped him put his shirt back on, ‘but I think you’ll be all right.’
The protesters were packed in pretty tightly. Diego leaned against someone who leaned against him in return. At last there was nothing to do. At last he could rest.
In just a short time the army and its bulldozers managed to wipe out all traces of the community on the bridge. Boulders and branches, tarps and old tires were all shoved away into the trees and down the river bank. Before very long, cars started rolling across the bridge again.
‘Is everyone all right?’ Vargas asked, making his way through the crowd in the pen. There were a lot of wounded, mostly from flying gas canisters and rubber bullets. Some people had tripped when they were trying to get out of the way of the army, and they had scrapes and sprains.
When Vargas saw Diego, he said, ‘I want to thank you again for stopping my son. He could have been killed. I don’t understand why he would try to do such a foolish thing.’
‘Tell him you’re proud of him,’ Diego said, with his eyes closed. For some reason his chest didn’t hurt so much when his eyes were closed.
‘He knows I’m proud of him,’ Vargas said.
‘Remind him,’ said Diego. He felt Vargas’s hand on his head. Then the union leader walked away.
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