Fool's Gold

by PJ Skinner

  The crew often dove into the river from the canoe as it went along but Sam preferred to enter the water from the bank. The river was mud coloured but pleasantly cool and refreshing. She was careful not to swallow any water, which was contaminated with bowel parasites and amoebas. She also made sure there were no routes open to the Candiru before she got into the river. It was a pain swimming in her long-sleeved shirt and trousers but she noticed that Doña Elodea kept her clothes on in the river so she decided to err on the side of caution. Her wet shirt wrapped itself around her torso and neck in the water, making her feel as if she was being strangled.

  At the end of a long, hot first day, they arrived at Arenas, a village of indigenous Indian people, the only one on the river. As they approached the village on a bend in the river, the women started to gather on the bank and sing for them. The sun slid down a golden sky, and the leaves of the jungle canopy gleamed in the warm light. Sam lay back in the canoe and watched the flocks of far-above parrots winging homeward and the rippling muscles of the boatmen as they sliced up the river through the turgid waters. She knew how lucky she was, and she soaked up those minutes to be relived many times over.

  Her reverie was disturbed by the sound of Wilson arguing with the women over how much their welcoming chorus was worth in terms of a tip. Money changed hands and was stuffed into sweaty crevices. They helped unload the canoes onto the pebble beach and then lifted the bags and boxes onto their backs to be carried up the steps on the riverbank back up to the plateau where the village was located. Once all the goods had been carried up to the flat land, they set off through the village with the women still singing, until they reached an open square with playing fields in the middle. Their group had been allocated a sturdy-looking, two-story wooden civil building on one side of the square, in which to set up their headquarters. It had recently been constructed and the boards had not yet dried and shrunk to expose the inside of the house to public scrutiny. There was a church at the other side of the square that looked like it had seen better days. The women of the village prepared a dinner of rice and tuna for the visitors, while the men all went to swim and wash in the river. Sam waited until the rest had finished and gone back to the square before cautiously removing her clothes. She kept her underwear on in case, knowing that it was unlikely anyone would be spying on her, but feeling as if she was being watched.

  Back at the square, the men and older boys played volleyball. Money changed hands with every point won, which were played to the last man standing. The men and boys had pudding bowl haircuts, and some of them wore loincloths instead of trousers. They played in bare feet. A crowd of younger boys and girls played a rough game of football in front of the church. The women sat out on open-sided, roofed platforms on stilts watching the games and breastfeeding their babies. Some of the women with infants were still children themselves. No attempt was made to hide their breasts from the visitors. Given his obvious interest in women, Sam was surprised that Wilson didn’t even glance at the bare flesh on display. It was obvious that he didn’t consider Indian women to be worthy of his attention, and it made her dislike him even more. He sat beside her on the steps of the house as if defying her to stand up and leave.

  ‘The women here get married at thirteen,’ said Wilson. ‘Where’s your husband? Are you divorced?’

  ‘I don’t want to get married. It’s not compulsory.’

  ‘But you’ve a boyfriend?’

  ‘No, not right now.’

  ‘You should go out with a man from Sierramar. We’re the best.’

  He stuck out his chest and moved closer to her, his hand brushing her breast as he reached for his cigarettes.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sam feeling uncomfortable and shifting along the step focussing her attention on Don Moises. It was fascinating how the other villagers reacted to him. They appeared to treat him with something approaching reverence. As she watched, some of the women brought their babies to him for a blessing. Sam was frustrated that she couldn’t ask him why they did this without using Wilson. He was being a bit too friendly and being unable to communicate clearly meant that she could not fathom why he had changed his mind about her. She resolved to work even harder to learn fluent Spanish. Meanwhile, Don Moises caught her staring at him. She nodded at him in respect and got a smile of approval in acknowledgement.

  The sun set from one minute to the next, falling out of the sky like an egg yolk sliding off a skillet. Since there was no electricity, this would usually have been the signal for everyone to retire to their houses and go to sleep, as they all rose at dawn every day. However, after dinner, someone started the generator with fuel they had brought from Riccuarte, and soon, the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling gave out bright light. A party began on the ground floor of their building. This was mostly an excuse to make the visitors pay for a few bottles of cheap rum to get drunk on, but there was also some music for dancing from a big cassette player.

  Children of all ages pulled themselves up onto the porch to watch the adults dancing through the windows. There was a lot of pushing and shoving and some tears as they fought for the best view. Some of the bigger children joined in with the dancing. Sam went to the party out of politeness, although she was desperate for sleep. The party was in their building, so there was no chance of an early night. One of the men cornered Sam, grabbing Wilson by the arm and indicating that he should translate.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Um, no, not married yet.’

  ‘Good. Are you barren?’

  Wilson looked amused as he somehow conveyed this to Sam.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re too old to be single. Are you strong?’

  ‘Yes, I’m very strong,’ she answered and wished she could show him by punching him hard.

  ‘I need a wife.’

  Sam was about to inform him about the chances of snowflakes in hell, but Wilson intervened and took the man off to get another drink. The approach was a compliment of sorts, but it always depressed her to discover that the role of women had not changed anywhere. As a guest of the village, she needed to be polite, and she danced with anyone who asked, being careful to dance with the older, more important men first. The dance floor was soon covered in the squashed corpses of the large jungle moths, which had congregated around the lights and were dying in droves. Some of the more enthusiastic dancers skidded across the carnage. Luckily, Don Moises was tired and he sent the last of the dancers tottering off to bed before it got too late. There was no dissent, and Sam was struck again by his authority.

  The members of the expedition climbed the stairs to go to sleep on the top floor of the building, which contained one large bedroom and two smaller padlocked rooms. Sam realised that they would all be sleeping in one room. She would have preferred to sleep in one of the small rooms with Doña Elodea but at least the bedroom was clean and appeared to be free of wildlife. The men from Riccuarte all slept in a row, with Doña Elodea at the end beside the wall. Sam had hoped to sleep beside her, but Wilson indicated that she was to sleep at the far end of the room against the opposite wall. He put his gear down between Sam and the workers. She assumed he meant to protect her from any drunken assaults. She set up her mosquito net, attaching it to the wall, and lay under it on top of her blanket, exhausted by her day in the jungle.

  As she drifted off to sleep, a hand lifted her net, and someone lunged at her out of the dark. Terror forced the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t see who it was but then she smelt the cigarettes. It was Wilson, and now he was on top of her. She struggled under his weight, his foul breath in her face. She tried to push him off but to no avail. He started pawing at her breasts and grinding against her. He tried to kiss her, his moustache wet and his breath repulsing her. He stuck his tongue into her mouth. A screaming rage filled her chest. She couldn’t believe what was happening. She opened her mouth to scream, but then stopped. Could she count on the right type of response from the sleeping workers? She didn’t know how the men
would react. She certainly couldn’t explain in Spanish. What if they helped him? Or joined in and raped her, too?

  Revulsion made her freakishly strong. She freed her hands, and when he lifted himself up for a second, she pushed him off with her left hand and, swivelling to give herself room, she gave him a right hook into the solar plexus as hard as she could. Sam had done some self-defence training for fun with a former boyfriend, who wanted her to be able to protect herself while he was at sea. She knew to leave one knuckle sticking out when she punched him. She gasped at the pain in her hand. Wilson rolled completely off her, bringing down the mosquito net, and lay wheezing on the floor of the hut. When he got his breath back, he stumbled out of the room and went down the stairs, bumping off the walls. He left the building and did not come back all night.

  Furious and scared, Sam sat on the floor trembling, trying to think of what to do. What would come next? What if someone else thought she was fair game? What could she say in her pidgin Spanish to make them go away? For all she knew, the villagers might think it was Wilson’s ‘droit du seigneury’ to have the gringa and maybe theirs, too. Shaking with fury and the after-effects of fear, she wanted to cry, but she was afraid to. She felt dirty and ashamed. Putting her mosquito net up again, she was suddenly conscious that she was being watched and that not everyone was still asleep. She lay down under her net, tense and afraid. She stayed awake the entire night, running through the attack again and again in her head. Why had Wilson attacked her? Was she safe now? By the time dawn arrived, she could almost imagine that it had been a bad dream but it wasn’t.

  Chapter IX

  It was difficult to avoid Wilson the next morning. Sam ate breakfast at the far end of the house steeling herself for the day ahead. There was no way of going home or contacting anyone to come and get her. She would have to stick it out. Wilson approached Sam before work started and apologised in halting English.

  ‘I am sorry, Sam. Very sorry. I thought you, well you know, I thought you...’

  He saw the fury on Sam’s face and stopped speaking.

  ‘You thought I what, Wilson? You thought I’d like to be raped in front of the workers?’

  ‘I don’t understand, Sam. Speak slowly.’

  ‘Fuck. Off. And. Die. Is that slow enough for you?’

  Wilson now looked like he was in a total panic. She guessed that he was afraid she would tell Mike about him and he would lose his job. Hadn’t he imagined that she would resist his advances? She had no idea what was going on in Wilson’s head, and anyway, she was humiliated and indignant. She was all alone in the jungle, unable to speak for herself, reliant on his good graces to get along, and totally vulnerable. He had tried to take advantage of her while her defences were down and in front of everyone. What sort of pervert was he? She was apoplectic but unable to let off steam in front of everyone or in any satisfactory language. And now he followed her around like a lost dog, chain smoking and apologising. So much for her fond imaginings of working in the jungle with fellow geologists and being a team and having fun together. It was a nightmare. She tried not to cry.

  After a breakfast of sweet coffee and bananas, the canoes were packed and pushed off from the riverbank. Sam was speechless with misery. She sat apart, steeling herself for the day ahead. When they landed to do some sampling, she stayed as far away from Wilson as possible and did not address a word to him except for saying yes or no. He wore his trademark all black outfit with his polyester slacks tucked into black Wellington’s, his face in shadow under his fedora emphasising his smoker’s wrinkles.

  The morning dragged. Sam pretended not to understand anything Wilson said in either language, shrugging and turning her back on him when he tried to talk to her. She was determined to carry on somehow even though she was desperate to get back in the canoe and head home. Even though she went through the motions and drew sections of the pits dug in the gravel, a profound feeling of humiliation weighed her down, and she felt lost. When they rested, she sat apart from the group, listening to her Spanish tapes and mouthed the words silently. She had never imagined anything like this could happen to her. A horrible hollow feeling grew in her chest turning it into a bottomless black pit.

  She was about to burst into tears when she heard a strange, high peeping sound in the jungle. The men heard it, too, and started talking and pointing at Sam. They had noticed that she had removed herself from the group and did not smile or try to talk. They all knew that Wilson had assaulted her but they did not understand what had happened or why. They were worried about their pay if the trip was cancelled. Sam had displayed an interest in photographing everything that moved or didn’t. They knew what the peeping noise was. Rijer went up to Sam and gestured into the jungle. He did a pantomime of taking a photograph and pulled her arm. She didn’t have any interest in taking a picture but she needed a distraction. She grabbed her camera and said ‘Vamos!’

  The men took off into the jungle, dragging her with them. She was a bit frightened by this headlong dash into the darkness, but she had understood the pantomime about the camera, so she ran with them. Wilson and Don Moises showed no interest in the frog noise and did not go. The hunters ran quite far into the vegetation at right angles to the river until they stopped at a wet rock face. They pointed at a bush. Sam looked into the gloom and couldn’t see a thing. She could still hear the peeping sound louder now, desperate. She nodded, unconvinced, afraid to move nearer. They kept pointing with insistent fingers. Suddenly, through the shadows, she saw a bright green snake slithering off into the darkness with a frog’s head and legs sticking out of its mouth. The frog peeped forlornly, trapped in the jaws of the snake. She cursed her cowardice and snapped a photo of what later turned out to be the back view of a well-camouflaged snake with what looked like twigs in its mouth.

  She was remonstrating with herself for being feeble when she looked up through the bushes at the face of the rock. To her surprise, the early morning sun highlighted what looked like worn steps cut into the rock. Concave with use, the steps had pools of water in them with sediment at the bottom. Rijer grinned at Sam. He took a plastic sample bag out of his pocket and ate the leftover piece of meat he had secreted in it. Then, he turned the bag inside out and filled it with sediment from two of the steps. The other men slapped him on the shoulder and seemed most amused by their trip and pleased that Sam had got her photograph.

  They all walked back out to the river where Rijer emptied the sample bag into a pan and sat in the river. He carefully swirled the contents around the pan, reducing the coarser material until there were only black sands at the bottom. He beckoned Sam closer. As she leaned in, he trickled water across the sand, washing it down the pan. A strip of golden flakes appeared at the bottom of the pan.

  ‘Gold,’ he said.

  Wilson had been observing and cautiously stepped closer.

  ‘From where?’ he queried.

  ‘From steps in rock.’

  ‘Maybe Inca make steps,’ he said to Sam, ‘to catch gold? You want show me?’

  Sam had not been aware that the Incas had been in this part of Sierramar. She thought that they were mountain people. Intrigued by the steps, she would have liked to stay and do some exploring, but they had work to do and she had no intention of going anywhere with Wilson.

  ‘We need to get on,’ said Moises. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  His veneer of calm had slipped and he appeared agitated. Perhaps he was trying to get home before it rained?

  ‘Next time,’ said Sam.

  Wilson shrugged and they all went back to the canoes. The day went on in the established pattern with Sam now happier after her short adventure but still traumatised.

  ‘You know, I don’t have any luck with women,’ said Wilson.

  Sam did not reply. Phrases like why am I not surprised flashed through her head.

  ‘I was forced to marry my wife.’

  ‘Who forced you?’

  ‘Her brothers.’

  ‘A shotgun
wedding.’ Well, that figures. He probably raped her too. She wouldn’t marry him even if someone pointed a shotgun at her head. Bastard.

  She pretended to be asleep for the rest of the trip home. When they got back to the village of Riccuarte, a fiesta raged. All the street lights were on, their variety of size and colour creating quite a show. The boys suggested they go dancing. Sam leapt at the chance to avoid Wilson for the evening. They ate tuna and rice again for supper. No wonder she was constipated. Her stomach was distended, and she felt as if she would explode.

  The dance was in the schoolhouse. It was a long, low barn with three or four blackboards on the walls. It was dimly lit with all the desks pulled back against the walls, which were used as tables for the drinks. Most of the desks were reserved, but they found one in the corner where they could sit. Rain lashed down in waves soaking the dancers with a combination of rain and sweat. Everyone carried a large handkerchief or a towel and rubbed themselves down from time to time.

  Don Moises bought three beers and a bottle of potent local brew that Sam declined to try. Carlos sashayed up to her. Would she like to dance with him if they put a go-go record on? She would, even though she had no idea what go-go was. Go-go turned out to be the local version of pop music. All the records so far had been rhythmic African tunes. Everyone danced quite stiffly with lots of intricate footwork. Most people stared down at their own feet, checking out their moves. Sam tried a couple of dances but found it hard to tone down her movements. Wilson danced surprisingly well and was having a ball. Carlos shimmied back over for another dance. At exactly the same moment, the huge son of Doña Elodea requested a dance. They stared at each other. Sam was speechless. Wilson was off strutting his stuff on the dance floor, so mediation was not a possibility. She grabbed Carlos and whisked him off to dance under the glare of the jilted boy.