by Pam Withers
“But that’s part of the fun, not knowing,” says David.
I take out my binoculars and compass. “Bolivia has tons of national parks. Southeast of us is Torotoro National Park, with some crazy canyons and caves. I’m thinking the caving bit might be held there.” I turn and point east. “Somewhere that way is Carrasco National Park; maybe one of the sports in the racecourse will go through there. Plus there are two other giant national parks north and east of it.” As I face northeast, a spectacular snow-covered peak winks at me in the bright sun. “And that’s Mt. Tunari.”
“Love this springlike weather,” my mother says, gazing about at the rolling, sparsely vegetated hills, one with a massive Christ statue with outstretched arms.
“Spring weather to us, but it’s the rainy season here,” Raul reminds her.
“I’m okay with sun in the rainy season,” David says as the forklifts arrive and he steps forward to claim his fancy new mountain-bike case. “Good thing they’re supplying the canoes. Must’ve cost a fortune to bring our bikes.”
“It did, but never mind,” says Dad. “Now, team, I’m passing each of you some money to stash in your money belts. Feel free to use it for the occasional souvenir or snack, but most of it’s for emergencies, remember.”
“Can I go flag down a minibus?” Raul asks. “Can’t wait to use my Spanish.”
Dad and Mother nod approval, but I notice that Raul’s path to the taxi lineup takes him on a zigzag route from one hot Hispanic girl to another. A few indulge him in conversation practice.
Half an hour later, we’ve barely checked into our rooms at one of the city’s few five-star hotels when Dad, Mother and David announce they’re off to the palm-treed courtyard’s mosaic swimming pool “to get used to this elevation.”
“Not us,” Raul says before I can open my mouth. “Andreo and I were born at this elevation, and we’re hitting the market now.”
My family members exchange glances, but no one’s in a mood to argue. “All the more room in the pool for us,” David says.
With that, we’re off, free to race fleet-footed through the narrow and sometimes cobbled streets of this city of almost a million. We pass squares with flowers and grass, and a stately building with a clock tower and walkway under stone arches. We dodge dusty buses, men in colorful striped ponchos and women carrying babies in richly woven slings. Vendors call out, trying to sell us bright baskets, hats, purses and fabrics.
Back at the airport, people had stared at us, clearly knowing we were foreigners. They were the kind of stares I’ve had to deal with all my life in a community of few Hispanic people, the type of stares my parents learned to ignore long ago when out with their two young sons: one brown, one white.
But without my parents and David, I find that no one gives us a second glance, not even at Raul with his dreadlocks. It’s a heady feeling, this blending in for the first time in my life. Or maybe it’s the altitude’s effect—2,548 meters, or over 8,000 feet—making me light-headed. When we find ourselves in a market featuring delicious-smelling food, I say, “Hold up, Raul.”
“Yeah, mon, I’m starved too,” he says.
“¿Qué es eso?” we try out in Spanish, stopping before an indigenous man with meat on a stick over a hot grill. What is that?
“Guinea pig,” he replies in Spanish. Raul and I wrinkle our noses, then grin and produce some coins.
“When in Bolivia, eat like Bolivians,” I say. Guinea pig turns out to be delicious.
The vendor, obviously noticing that our accents don’t match our Quechuan faces, studies us curiously. “Quechuan?” he asks.
“Quechuan Canadian,” I reply politely as we move toward a fruit stand. There, we buy bananas from a kind-looking woman in a broad white straw hat, hoop earrings, plastic sandals and a checked apron. I hold up my photo of the domed building and ask if she knows where it is. She points down a street and gives me a stream of directions I can barely follow.
“Gracias!” we say—thank you—and are off again, walking now to accommodate our full stomachs.
“There it is!” I say finally. My stomach goes tight and my breathing becomes shallow. The domed building is in greater disrepair than in the photos, its paint faded and peeling. Three beggar girls about our age are sitting on its steps, barefoot and filthy, in sacklike dresses. I offer one my banana, which she grabs and peels as she mumbles timid thanks.
Just then, a tall fat man in a business suit and shiny black leather shoes emerges from the building. “Go! No food here!” he says to them in Spanish as they flee to a nearby alley.
“Nuisances,” he says, fingering a thin mustache and tipping his broad-brimmed black felt fedora at us in apology before strolling down the street. I turn to see the girls pause and peer back at us. As a breeze rustles their dresses, I realize that all three are pregnant.
“That fat man reminds me of someone,” I say.
But Raul has leapt up the steps and is examining a plaque. “It’s an office building,” he says. We run our fingers down the list of business names.
“Hugo Vargas,” I say gravely, the first to see it. We look at one another, and I push open the heavy wooden door.
“Wait, Andreo, what’s our plan?”
“Plan? Who needs a plan? The guy’s in jail anyway. Maybe there’s a secretary with files that would help us.”
“Yeah, right,” Raul says. “A guy who sold six hundred babies on the black market and got locked up for it is going to have all the up-to-date addresses of the moms who gave us away, ready for a pretty secretary to hand out to anyone who wanders in.”
I turn and face my friend. “Raul, now that we’re here, we have to at least see the place and play things by ear.”
“True,” he agrees, glancing about. “Okay, boss. Onward.”
Up the worn marble steps we go, our footfalls echoing in the skylight-illuminated grand stairwell. Our hands slide along its wrought-iron railings. Up to Office 13. We pause, crushed. The door is open and the room is bare. Electrical wires poke out from the walls and ceiling. Dust covers everything. We walk in, worn floorboards creaking with each step. I rest my hand on a broken electric fan. “Oh, well.”
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” booms a voice in Spanish in the doorway. A short, trim bald man in a pinstriped suit is beaming at us as if he delights in visitors. A waft of his cologne drifts our way.
“Um, just looking around. Leaving now,” Raul says in nervous-sounding Spanish.
“You have a connection with Hugo Vargas?” the man asks in perfect English, looking us over closely but without losing his smile.
“Sort of,” I blurt, with a sidelong glance at Raul.
“Yes,” Raul declares, studying the man intently.
“Maybe I can help you,” he replies, extending his hand. “Diego Colque, from the office next door. Private detective. Coffee in my office? Bolivia makes the best in the world, you know.”
Since I can’t come up with a reason not to, and since fresh-brewed coffee suddenly sounds very appealing, we follow him into his carpeted office next door, past the DIEGO COLQUE: DETECTIVE PRIVADO plate on the door. He gestures for us to pull upholstered chairs up to his massive mahogany desk, which is piled with papers. The window behind him frames the snow-covered peak overlooking the city.
“You are possibly adoptees handled by Señor Vargas?” he asks. I hear myself draw in my breath. Raul’s jaw comes unhinged.
“P-p-possibly,” I reply, my hand automatically moving to the photocopied adoption document signed by Vargas in my jeans pocket. I steal a look at Raul, whose face is struggling to project confidence, but whose hands are pressed so tightly together in his lap, they’ve turned white.
“Well, as you may or may not be aware, Bolivian police have developed an interest in Señor Vargas and his adoption agency, which was recently shut down. I am working with police to analyze his files, gather information and locate both his former clients and him.”
“Locate him?” Raul barks. “I
thought he was in jail.”
“Arrested recently, yes, but there was insufficient evidence to hold him. So he was released on bail, and now he has disappeared. I rented this office beside his old one specifically to help people like you. As we continue building our case, we are confident he will be rearrested and tried. Tell me, was one or both of you adopted? Can you furnish me with appropriate dates and information?”
“We don’t have any money to pay you,” I say, wiping sweat from where it threatens to dribble down my forehead.
“But that is not a problem,” Detective Colque replies. “It is the police department that pays my salary on this case. Also, I am finding it very fulfilling to help match adoptees with their birth parents—where that is possible and if that is what they desire.”
“We’re only sixteen,” Raul says, frowning. “Don’t you need our adoptive parents’ permission?”
The detective tilts back his padded leather swivel chair, rests his hands behind his shiny head and grins. “If Señor Vargas had done things in accordance with the law, it would be absolutely true.” The chair drops back to level, and he stabs his pen at a stack of file folders on his desk. “But, sadly, that was not the case with this criminal, and I mean to make him suffer for it. But, speaking of your adoptive parents, might they be willing to supply me with information, perhaps sign a document on how Señor Vargas went about his business with them?”
“No way!” I reply with more vigor than I intended.
Raul and I chat with Detective Colque for half an hour, me showing him my papers, which he photocopies and hands back, and Raul relating his own birth certificate details. As we relax and the conversation flows, I begin to feel an enormous relief—like a shaken-up can of pop whose lid has just come off. A lifetime of hopes, fears and emotions are spilling into the room. Ignoring Raul’s raised eyebrows, I even share bits of my dreams. Detective Colque nods and takes notes, his kindly face calm and encouraging, as if he has heard it all before.
“I can help,” he assures me. “I love helping. So you, Raul, don’t have your Order of Adoption. It means we can’t be sure Señor Vargas handled your case. But given your birth date and the fact you were born in Cochabamba, I may be able to help, young man—if you’d like me to try.”
“Sure,” Raul says after a moment’s hesitation, “even though my birth parents will probably end up being worse than my adoptive ones.”
Detective Colque offers Raul a curious but sympathetic look. “It’s true that adoptees have to be prepared for possible disappointment,” he says gently.
Then he turns to me. “Now, you two are off on this adventure race, and you have no cell phone, but perhaps I can send you updates by e-mail? Where does your race route take you?”
“We don’t know that until race day,” Raul informs him.
“Really? That’s interesting. Well, there are Internet cafés in most villages in Bolivia.”
Ten minutes later, we’re flying down the staircase, whooping and high-fiving as we burst through the front door.
“So easy,” I marvel. “We might actually find out whether our birth parents are still alive and why they gave us up. That’s all I want.”
“Not to meet them?”
“No,” I lie as an image of my adoptive mother’s face flashes into my mind. If she knew we were here.… A knot of guilt forms in my throat, momentarily choking the excitement.
“Well, he may not actually find out anything, especially in my case—thanks to my adoptive parents not having saved all the paperwork.”
I feel a stab of guilt at Raul’s tone of resignation and resentment.
“Maybe that won’t make any difference,” I say, resting my hand on his shoulder.
Truth is, I’m feeling so hopeful that I’m almost light-headed, but given the shadow on Raul’s face, I decide it’s time to change the subject. “Okay, it’s all about the adventure race now,” I say cheerfully.
Raul nods. “Speaking of which, the last one to the hotel hot tub is a slacker,” he says. We all but knock down a dozen Cochabamba residents as we dart through the crowds back to our hotel.
CHAPTER SIX
David, Raul and I are cruising the streets of Cochabamba, being tourists in the warmth and sunshine, when I sense we’re being followed. Twice I whirl around to the sound of bare feet padding on the pavement behind us, but whoever is in pursuit seems to hide in time. Finally, I catch sight of them: the three beggar girls in their oversize raggedy dresses.
“Guys,” I inform my companions as we step into a cobbled alleyway between two-story stucco buildings. “Don’t look now, but we’re being tailed.”
“And we’re in a dead-end alley,” David observes, turning and removing his hands from his pockets as if ready for a fight. Raul and I spin slowly, only to see a slim woman of about thirty standing in the center of the lane. She has two long, thick, black braids and sparkling red earrings that set off her sun-reddened cheeks. She’s wearing a white blouse and gathered cotton skirt: black with embroidered red and white stripes near the hem. A colorful striped poncho rests over her narrow shoulders, and dainty sandals protect her feet from the cobbled street. A brown bowler hat perches on her head. She’s startlingly attractive for her age. Her eyes are on me.
“Detective Colque told me you’re looking for me,” she says in accented English.
I feel my skin prickle. I exchange glances with Raul.
“You look just like I expected,” she says, moving forward and beaming. “Handsome and strong-built, like your dad. Sixteen now, right?”
“Who is this woman?” David asks, his voice cracking.
She holds open her arms; bracelets on her wrists jingle musically. “Andreo, my son, we finally meet.”
I move toward her, drawn as if in a dream, when three men appear behind her, grab her roughly and drag her backward. One, the mustached fat man with the black fedora I saw earlier, clamps a hand over her mouth and turns to glare menacingly at me.
“You! Leave her alone, you hear? Or you’ll be sorry …”
“Mom!” I shout. I try to sprint forward, but both David’s and Raul’s hands grab on to my elbows. “Mom! Someone! Help!”
From above, a woman opens a window and empties a bucket of water into the lane, striking me full force in the face.
“Mom!” I shout, struggling more violently against my companions’ restraint.
“Andreo, I’m here,” I hear my adoptive mother’s voice. “Are you okay? You’re having a nightmare. David, it was quite unnecessary to toss a glass of water in his face.”
I sit up in my hotel bed to see Mother in her nightgown perched by my side, David in pajamas holding an empty water glass and Raul behind them peering sympathetically at me. I wipe droplets of water from my face and blink at the trio.
“Oh.”
“Way to wake up half the hotel,” David says. “Like we need to kick off the race in a few hours exhausted from your ranting.”
“Do you think you can get back to sleep now?” my mother asks, touching my shoulder gently.
I know I’m too old for a motherly hug following a disturbing nightmare, especially in front of David and Raul, but for a split second, that’s what I long for. And yet, even when I was little, I don’t remember her doing that. Just the light, tentative touch on the shoulder. Does she know what my nightmares are about?
I flop back down, turn my head to the wall and growl, “Thanks for the shower, David. And you can turn off the light now. Sorry.”
The door clicks as Mother leaves; David and Raul crawl back into their beds. When I hear both breathing deeply, I rise, pull on my clothes and tiptoe down a narrow stairwell. In the lobby, a sleepy attendant observes me blandly as I seat myself at the Internet terminal.
Sure enough, an e-mail from Detective Colque.
Andreo, I’ve been able to confirm that your birth mother was born in a small village near Cochabamba. She moved to Cochabamba at the age of seventeen, after being rejected and shunned by her family.
She gave birth to you here, then seems to have disappeared. So far, I’ve found no death certificate, so she is likely still alive. Nor marriage certificate, though I am still searching, as that would give us a different name to pursue.
I will update you and Raul (on whom I’ve found nothing so far) as I can. When does your race start, and where will it take you? Good luck, and please contact me should you come across any helpful information yourself.
Sincerely, Detective Diego Colque
I sigh. “Well, that’s something.”
After hesitating for a moment, I type Thanks, but what small village near Cochabamba? P.S. We won’t know our race route till later this morning. Then I traipse back to bed and sleep soundly until my alarm goes.
Three large buses with plush seats move from hotel to hotel until all twenty-five teams of five are aboard, motoring northeast out of Cochabamba to the mystery starting point. Partway up a paved road with heavy truck and bus traffic, we’re discharged into a giant parking lot where minibuses full of our bikes—collected from us earlier—are waiting. More excitingly, we’re issued maps of the region, checkpoints marked carefully. Dad allows me to spread these out as the rest of our group looks over my shoulders.
“So, our first leg is biking,” Dad declares, his eyes sparkling as he moves in his sleek, black Lycra bike gear to claim our bikes. At one end of the parking lot, a giant banner is strung between two poles: COCHABAMBA ADVENTURE RACE it declares above a podium on which three officials with microphones and a couple of media types await us. According to announcements being made, the first is the mayor of Cochabamba, the second the race organizer and the third a police official who will advise us on traffic safety for biking on this crazy road. Barely into the speeches, it’s this third guy—a tall, straight-backed man in police uniform—who takes long strides toward us, followed by a knockout cute, athletic-looking teenage girl.
“Team Family Dynamics, I presume?” He addresses us in clear English, his face and tone friendly. It’s the lame team name Dad came up with after commenting that “Raul is honorary family for the week.” Dad invited no further opinions on the matter.
