by Pam Withers
“Neutral.” The commander spit into the dirt in front of Papá’s faded rubber boots. He shifted his eyes to Alberto. “You!” he shouted, lifting the butt of his M60 and pushing it without warning against Alberto’s shoulder.
Myriam tensed. She saw Alberto do the same, but he did not speak.
“Look at your shoes,” the commander jeered, pointing to where Alberto’s dirty bare toes stuck through holes in his worn sports shoes. Alberto’s gaze dropped to his shoes.
“You want boots? Brand-new boots like ours?” The commander swept his gun casually towards some of his soldiers, who’d lit cigarettes and were lounging with smirks on their faces. All wore smart-looking black leather lace-up boots. One was eyeing Alberto’s radio. Another group of soldiers, standing farther back without smiles, included two indígena boy recruits. Myriam wondered what lies had helped recruit them. She knew they were powerless to stop this harassment.
“You want money? A gun?” the commander persisted, his mustache twitching as his eyes bore into Alberto’s passive face.
Still, Alberto refused to answer or look the commander in the eyes. He wants a gun, all right, Myriam breathed to herself. But only to fight what your troops do to our people.
She saw her father open his mouth to speak and step protectively in front of Alberto. Suddenly a tiny pair of bare feet beneath a woolen skirt and poncho swept past Myriam and planted themselves between Papá and the commander.
Myriam’s entire body went taut. Papá’s chin dropped.
Her grandmother was a full head shorter than the commander, but that didn’t stop Abuela from raising a bony finger up to the commander’s face.
“We were here before you. We will be here after you. We help neither you nor those you seek. You heard my son. We are unarmed and neutral. Leave us in peace.”
And then, as casually as an actress who’d completed her lines and was scripted to head offstage, Abuela turned and walked back up the hill to Rosita, the bag of herbs strapped to her stooped back quivering.
The soldiers’ cigarettes drooped from lowered hands, spilling ashes onto their boots. The commander, eyebrows raised, followed the swish of Abuela’s dark wool skirt over her tough, blackened soles.
It might have been a second. It might have been minutes. But as Myriam’s party stood waiting, the commander finally returned his attention to Alberto, snatched his radio away, and spit once more at Papá’s feet.
Then his face lit up with an evil smile, and a deep belly laugh rose in the dry air, frightening Myriam more than his words or gun. His open mouth revealed crooked teeth, several missing. As his troops echoed the laughter, the commander whirled around, raised his gun, and shot wildly into the air. Lowering the gun, he walked back to his troops, the radio tucked under one arm. The soldiers retreated up the trail they’d come down, back into the woods, eagerly passing Alberto’s radio around. Alberto, now with Papá’s hand on his shoulder, remained rooted, but his dark eyes followed the men until they disappeared over a rise.
Myriam let out a long breath. Alberto had been right to stand still and not speak. And she couldn’t help but be impressed that her abuela had delivered that speech in flawless Spanish. Women older than Myriam’s generation had never attended school, and Abuela was one of the few who had taken the trouble to learn anything but their native language from the younger women. Myriam, like all girls her age, was fluent in both her native language and Spanish. But she was the only one in her community learning English from the non-indígena teachers at school.
“Abuelita …” Myriam scolded halfheartedly.
“Walk tall so Freddy doesn’t flop about,” her grandmother scolded back.
The party was tense and sober for the next hour’s walk down the mountain to the nearest road, the sound of their footsteps broken only by the men talking in low voices. Myriam watched her father speak softly to Alberto, watched Alberto’s chin jut out as he responded. Robbed of music, they eventually sat cross-legged in the dust along the roadside, waiting for the bus. Alberto dropped beside Myriam and offered her water from an old cola bottle, which she accepted. A few of the men – but not Papá or Alberto – sipped homemade sugarcane liquor from old glass bottles. It slowly eased the tension, and occasional laughter rippled through their ranks.
Two, then three brightly colored buses passed them, each packed full of standing passengers and cages of cackling chickens. More passengers sprawled on the buses’ roofs, while a few stood on the rear bumpers and held on to the back door handles.
“Abuelita,” Rosita said, breaking the silence among those sitting in the roadside dust, “tell us the story about the avocado sandwich.”
Abuela smiled and placed her hand on Rosita’s felt hat. “But you’ve heard it so many times.”
“Please, Abuelita,” Myriam’s many cousins chanted.
“I was a young woman, Myriam’s age,” she began. “I was looking for berries in the field across the river.”
“But couldn’t you have been blown up?” a cousin asked.
“This was before land mines and soldiers,” Abuela responded, her eyes far away. “A white man came hiking up the mountainside.”
“Did he have a gun? Were you scared?”
“Shhh.”
“He pointed to my necklace, which my great-grandmother had given me. He held out some coins like he wanted to buy it.”
“You had coins then? Not gold?”
“Shhh.”
“They were not coins I’d ever seen, so I pointed to his pack. I wanted food. He pulled out an avocado sandwich.”
“But, Abuelita!” Myriam interrupted, feeling more rage than the last time she’d heard the story, years ago. “It was an unfair trade! How could you?”
Her grandmother moved fond eyes to her oldest granddaughter. “If I had not done this foolish thing, the necklace would be yours, it is true. But I was hungry.”
Hunger. It’s the same excuse she always gives. As always, Myriam failed to hear regret in the words.
Just then a bus pulled over, and Myriam’s community stood and walked towards it, all except the men who would take the unloaded mule back up the mountain. The men of Myriam’s community pushed the heaviest bags to the bus’ roof, then scrambled up after them and lowered their arms to pull the women up. Papá escorted Myriam’s grandmother to a seat inside the bus, ignoring the comments of non-indígena passengers.
“She smells. Let her sit outside. Those indígenas. Do them a favor and they take over. They used to know their place.”
Minutes later, Myriam and Rosita, perched on the bus’ roof, arranged their ponchos to keep the dust from making the twins cough. Myriam pretended to be unaware of Alberto studying her. No one spoke as the vehicle swayed and bumped over the potholes for thirty minutes, its radio blaring static-mangled ranchero music.
The moment the bus halted in the town’s market, Myriam’s group scrambled down and looked about eagerly. Myriam’s heart always picked up in town. So many people, so many market stands, so much noise! As Myriam helped haul goods to their stall, Papá steered Abuela to a shaded place where she could sit down and display her herbs. Myriam wondered what he would say to her about her performance on the mountain.
Alberto, Rosita, and others opted to work the milling crowds – Colombians of many skin colors and white tourists – leaving Myriam on her own for a while. “Tablecloths,” she called out, draping the wool fabric she’d embroidered in bright colors around her stall. “Only 10,000 pesos or $5.00 each.”
“Those are nice,” came a deep voice from the stall beside her. She turned and surveyed a new occupant: a tall, muscled boy of mixed European/indígena blood. A few years older than Alberto, he was leaning over the partition that separated them. A moment before, he hadn’t been there. Or maybe she hadn’t seen him because he’d been bent over, pumping up the item she could now see filled his entire stall: a giant rubber raft. It looked so entirely out of place there, sitting in the dirt of a mountain village, that she wanted to gigg
le. But, mostly, she felt dumbstruck by the unexpected friendliness of a non-indígena boy.
“Thank you.” She raised her eyes. A sign on his booth read EXPEDICIONES DEL RÍO. River Expeditions. He’d hung up color posters of people in rubber rafts and kayaks, paddling down a wild river. She stared wide-eyed at the posters.
“I’m Javier Gómez, though my clients call me Jock,” he said in Spanish as he extended his hand, prompting her to lift hers shyly.
“I’m Myriam.” Gathering her courage, she added, “Is Jock an English word?”
“It is. It means, um, ‘sporty.’ I specialize in clients who speak English, so it helps to have an English nickname. I take them down the Magdalena River in rafts or kayaks. They have lots of money, you know.”
She looked around to make sure no foreigners were nearby, then lowered her voice. “Sometimes they buy tablecloths from me. Sometimes I ask twice the price, and they pay it without bargaining. Especially if I speak English to them.”
Jock laughed an easy confident laugh, nodding appreciatively. He indicated no surprise at meeting an indígena girl who spoke English. She warmed up to him. He raised his thumb. “Smart girl.”
Smart girl. If only Mamá, Papá, and Abuelita would say that, instead of pressuring me to leave school. If only Alberto hadn’t mocked me the one time I’d dared to mention university.
“Is that your baby?” Jock asked as Freddy stirred and started bawling.
“No, he’s my little brother,” she said, reddening as she loosened the sash and rocked Freddy in her arms. Jock obviously knew that indígena girls marry earlier than non-indígena.
“Where are you from?” Jock asked.
She told him, and he asked lots of questions about the river near her home, El Furioso, as if he loved rivers as much as she did. She described its rapids and waterfall as they chatted in between serving customers. Now and again she glanced across the road at Abuela, expecting a disapproving look to discourage her from speaking with a strange boy, but Abuela seemed preoccupied with selling her herbs.
“You spend a lot of time embroidering,” Jock observed at one point.
“Yes, but I hope to go to university,” she replied bravely. “I want to be a reporter.”
Jock nodded. “University is free for indígenas, right? Even housing?”
“Yes,” she said.
“That’s good. You should go.”
While her heart warmed to his encouragement, she knew he had no way of knowing that her family couldn’t afford to get her to Popayán, the university town a six-hour bus ride away … even if everything else was free … even if they approved of her going, rather than fiercely opposing the idea.
When Papá and Rosita returned, Jock seemed to understand that he and Myriam could not keep speaking. Anyway, he was drawing crowds, and she could tell he had a knack for selling his raft rides. When she wasn’t too busy herself, she listened to his English, which sounded fluent.
“You’re from Colorado? Fantastic! I’d love to visit there! I hear you have some of the best whitewater in America! But wait till you raft the Magdalena River.”
Her head jerked up when he added, “Now don’t forget to stop at this stall beside me. Best embroidered tablecloths in Colombia, and she speaks English.”
Myriam shot him an astonished look, and he smiled as the foreigners ambled her way, their white faces examining her tablecloths with interest. When Rosita busied herself rearranging the cloths, she looked a little uncomfortable as Myriam tested her English on the customers. Myriam reddened when she stumbled over the occasional word, but grew more confident with each transaction.
Standing in front of her stall, she’d just finished a conversation in English when someone touched her shoulder from behind.
“English is an ugly language,” Alberto said in a low voice. “I hate it when my beautiful girl speaks that ugly language.”
Myriam bristled, but held her tongue. Alberto moved in front of her, where he held up his empty fiber bag, blocking her view of Jock. “We sold all our potatoes, but your father says I shouldn’t buy another radio.”
“I’m sorry, Alberto,” she said, “but maybe when he sees how much I made …”
Alberto moved quickly to snatch her bag and count her earnings. He smiled proudly at her. “You will make a good wife.”
“I agree,” Papá said with a smile.
Myriam clenched her teeth and stood staring past Papá and Alberto. Jock was gone, raft and all. He’d disappeared almost like he was never there. If the university accepts me, I will disappear, she decided. I will have to run away.
CHAPTER THREE
It was Monday, two days since I’d rescued the kid on the river. Two days spent e-mailing and phoning around the South American paddling circuit until I’d extracted promises from my top two choices: Henrique Coutinho and Tiago Fialho of Brazil. I was pretty psyched about that, and, better yet, Mom and Gramps seemed satisfied. Now I was rooting through my school locker for my books and sweating bricks over the fact that I might flunk this morning’s Spanish test, when I felt a strong hand come down on my shoulder. I swung around so fast, I nearly knocked Mr. Peterson off balance.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Peterson.” What is the principal doing beside my locker? As if my pretest nerves aren’t bad enough.
“Rex, I didn’t mean to make you jump. Just wanted to congratulate you on your heroism over the weekend.”
“My what? Oh, that.” I shrugged, color creeping into my face as I noticed a few students slowing down, trying to eavesdrop.
“The kayak freak is sucking up to the principal,” one of the football jocks observed to another in a raised voice, prompting chuckles. Just what I need: the principal talking to me in the hallway. Like I’m not having enough problems settling into Milltown High. When I get back from Colombia, maybe I’ll be a hero, at least in Gramps’ eyes.
“I just happened to be there. It worked out. No biggie,” I said. I was about to turn back to my locker when I noticed a young man, neither teacher nor student, standing at Mr. Peterson’s elbow. He had slicked-back hair and a leather jacket.
“Well.” Mr. Peterson dared to clap his hand on my broad shoulder again. “We’re proud of you, son. This is Thomas Graham, a friend of mine from the local paper. He said you didn’t return any of his calls.”
What? I remembered Gramps moving the phone into his room. I remembered hearing his low voice answering it a few times. He’d never once mentioned calls for me.
“I was wondering if you’d give him a few words now. You know, the press coverage looks good for Milltown High, given that you’re a student here.”
I felt the heat in my neck rise flaming to my face. I glanced left and right, searching for an escape route. There were only swelling bunches of students leaning our way while pretending to talk.
“Not now, please,” I said. Did it come out sounding like I was pleading?
“Judging from the fact you’re out on our river regularly, you must plan to race again this coming season?” the reporter asked, stepping squarely in front of me. His face was over-friendly and deadly determined, his pencil poised above a slim notebook.
“Hey, I’ve got to get to class.”
“Not for ten minutes,” Mr. Peterson asserted.
I sighed and looked at the reporter. “Yes, I’m training for slalom kayak races.”
“Races,” the loitering jock mocked in a stage whisper.
“He’s my hero,” the jock’s friend responded in a high-pitched voice, drawing laughter from the gathered crowd.
If the reporter heard, he ignored them. “Your grandfather is Malcolm Scruggs, the kayaker who was the first to conquer a bunch of rivers in South America, right?”
I relaxed a bit, deciding to ignore my detractors. “Yes.”
“And is it true you’re headed to South America soon to tackle a first descent of your own?”
I drew in my breath. Gramps has let that out of the bag already? I pictured Gramps sitting at the loca
l bar, saying, “Thinks he’s ready for an expedition, foolish boy. Well, I’ve called his bluff by paying his way. Let’s see what he comes back with.” I blinked and tried hard to imagine him saying instead, “My grandson, ready to carry on where I left off.” But the first image weighed heavier.
I stared at the reporter, tongue-tied. The jocks were moving down the hallway, their hands trying to mimic paddling a kayak as they wiggled their bottoms and laughed.
“Rex?” Mr. Peterson was grinning broadly. He wanted the headline MILLTOWN HIGH KAYAK-CHAMP BAGS A FIRST RIVER DESCENT.
Well, so did I, but without the “Milltown High” bit, and not before I’d earned it.
“When do you leave?” Thomas Graham was pushing, ignoring the fact that I hadn’t answered his previous question.
I closed my locker slowly. First, I needed my new passport to arrive. Then Gramps would book the plane ticket. Cheapskate that he was, I expected a red-eye econo flight.
Before I could answer, the bell rang. “Call me at home at five, okay?” I said, then pushed past him and beelined for Spanish. I plunked down at my desk and studied the graffiti on it, waiting for my pulse to slow.
“Life sucks,” someone had written. I crossed off “sucks” and replaced it with “rocks.” Clearly, the graffiti writer didn’t have goals, didn’t know how to reach out and make life happen. A positive attitude is everything. I will pass my Spanish test. I will kayak the river Gramps walked away from in Colombia.
A long-legged girl from the reserve passed by my desk, a whiff of lavender perfume trailing her. I’d noticed her before. She was pretty hot and always smiling at me. I mean, a guy knows when a girl is giving him the I-want-you look. Especially when no one else had been very friendly to the new kid. Or is it just that I don’t have time to make friends, given the demands of my training schedule? In any case, sadly, she needed to find someone else. It wasn’t going to happen between us. My grandpa would freak. She was from the wrong side of the river. Unless I decided I wanted to freak him out …