by Pam Withers
——
“We’re here,” Jock finally announced. I sprang out of the truck and walked briskly to the river. It smelled fresh, the scent of pine and eucalyptus in the air. I had to admit how pretty it was – maybe even one of the most beautiful places I’d been – and neither Montana nor Alberta are shabby in the natural-beauty department. The river was big, moving at well over 3,500 cubic feet per second. Fun and safe-looking, like Jock had said. Downstream I glimpsed midriver boulders, but not much that would worry a skilled kayaker or a big rubber raft. Upstream was even tamer, swift-moving water for as far as I could see.
I stretched my stiff body, turning 360 degrees to take in the surrounding mountain range. The mighty Andes, Gramps’ playground when he was young. The upper stretches looked like they might hold steep mountain creeks for “real” kayaking. I couldn’t wait to get the show on the road.
I followed Jock to the basic concrete-block building with tin roof that served as his headquarters. Its single window and door faced the river. My eyes passed over the stack of inflated rubber rafts in an attached shed and focused on a small rack of new-looking plastic kayaks in army camouflage pattern. Excellent.
“So, you rent out kayaks often?” I asked Jock.
“No. They’re mostly for my guides.”
“And you’ve kayaked some rivers higher up in the mountains?”
Jock hesitated. “No. I don’t know much about the rivers farther up.”
“Why not? Can’t we take the truck up there and you can join Henrique, Tiago, and me?”
He turned and stared at me. I couldn’t read his expression. Finally, he said, “Not many roads up there. So, no, that’s not an option. If you want a first descent, there’s one creek close by I was going to recommend.…”
“No, we’re set on the Furioso,” I informed him, taking satisfaction in the way his eyebrows shot up. “So how else would we get up there? Tractor? Mule?” I smiled at the image of kayaks balanced on a mule’s back. I knew there were trails up there. I hadn’t been able to get topographical maps, but Gramps had told me. Back in his day, he and his expedition mates had used lightweight, fold-up canvas kayaks, carried them up in big backpacks, then put them together like a tent with tent poles. Those were the days before sturdy plastic kayaks, like Jock had. None of us – my Brazilian friends and me – were old enough to rent a car, so we had to figure out a way to get to the Furioso. I’d been hoping for a ride from Jock.
Jock’s hands moved to his hips. “Rex, the Furioso is out of the question. Even if it were runnable, which I doubt, it’s on indígena land, resguardos. Like your Indian reservations. Basically, no one goes up there except the local priest and soldiers.” The last word came out kind of tense.
“Indígena.” I stumbled over the pronunciation and pictured the barefoot, felt-hatted Indians of my grandfather’s journal. I smiled. They’d know the rivers up there, might help me out for a little money. Or an avocado sandwich? I stifled a chuckle. Oh, yeah, and I was supposed to look up the family my grandfather had gotten the necklace from. “Ever met any? Do they come down the mountain sometimes?” I tried to keep my voice nonchalant.
“Yeah, at the market here in town. You should check it out this afternoon. Good for souvenirs. Plus, buying things from the indígenas helps support their community,” he added tentatively, like he wasn’t sure that would concern me.
“Sounds good, and the Magdalena looks fun,” I said politely, even though it looked a little boring. I’d push for more information about rivers up the mountains tomorrow, after my teammates arrived.
Jock smiled. “Yeah, you’ll enjoy the market. I’ll drop you off at your hotel now and pick you up at eleven in the morning, just after your friends get here.”
“Okay.”
Set back from the main street’s uneven dirt road, the slightly dilapidated Magdalena Hotel, I noticed, was under renovation where it shared a wall with the police station, which also seemed to be undergoing repairs.
“Hey, next to the police station. Can’t get safer than that!”
Jock gave me a strange look, but didn’t say anything. Three machine-gun-toting policemen in front of the station searched me with their eyes as Jock lifted my pack out. They looked all of eighteen. Don’t they know it’s rude to stare?
Jock helped me check in. “The market closes in an hour. It’s down the main street, then turn left.”
“Gotcha.”
——
I left my stuff in the ordinary-looking room and headed for the market. When I rounded the corner, I smiled. Music blared from dusty boom boxes; people in stalls shouted out their wares; and crowds moved up and down the flagstone plaza. The tons of natives didn’t look so different from ours, except for their ankle-length skirts, ponchos, and funny felt hats. The men’s skirts were long and straight, and their ponchos were sleeveless. They wore their black hair short. The women’s fuller skirts had lines of trim, and their ponchos covered their arms. All the women had long braids, and many carried babies in bright sashes.
I approached an older woman. “Calambás familia?” I asked, gesturing around the market. Gramps had made me memorize the name.
She looked at me and held up a tray of cookies.
“Cuánto?” I asked, fishing into my jeans pocket for change.
“Dos miles pesos.” Two thousand pesos.
Dead cheap, but I handed her half of what she asked for, just like Gramps had advised.
Her dark eyes turned resentful, but she passed me the cookies. I bit into one. Not bad.
“Gracias,” I said.
I worked my way through the market for more than an hour, asking lots of people if they knew the Calambás familia. Growing frustrated and impatient, I was about to give up and head back to my hotel when, finally, someone pointed me to an elderly, barefoot woman. She was seated across the plaza on a blanket in dusty grass, selling bundles of herbs. I headed over. She was turned the other way. A long braid extended from below her hat to her tiny waist. Even from the side, I could see that whiskers poked out above her upper lip. Gross. She looked way too old to be selling stuff in a noisy, dirty marketplace.
“Cuánto de las hierbas?” How much for the herbs?
She turned and stared.
“Cuánto?”
She looked briefly at the herbs in her lap, then returned to studying my face. Finally, she seemed to pull herself together and named a price. This time, I gave her the full amount. She pressed a big bundle of herbs into my hands and smiled a toothless smile. Then I remembered to ask, “Calambás familia?“
“Si.” Yes.
“Rex Scruggs,” I said, extending my hand. Her hands flew to her face. Okay, why am I freaking her out? Next thing I knew, she rose on those tiny, frail-looking legs and clasped both my hands in her dark bony ones. I barely stopped myself from yanking my hands away. The top of her hat came to my shoulders, but that uplifted face, whiskers and all, glowed. She radiated welcome.
I started to babble in broken Spanish about my grandfather meeting someone from her family ages ago and about me wanting to hire a guide to kayak the river near her village.
She didn’t seem to understand, and I couldn’t figure out a word of her response. Plus I felt my face redden as she refused to release my hands. I’d pretty much decided she was crazy when a shadow fell over us. I turned to see a tall, skinny native boy, a little older than me, glaring. The old woman dropped my hands and started talking at the boy, calling him Alberto and gesturing wildly.
He listened to her for a moment, surveyed me coldly, then walked to a stand where a girl was selling embroidered tablecloths. He spoke to her briefly and then led her back to us.
The girl was lighter skinned and way better looking than any of the other indígenas I’d seen. She reminded me of the long-legged beauty at Milltown High I’d been rude to. But this one wasn’t friendly. She looked at me with suspicion, then held an animated conversation with the herb lady, not a word of it in Spanish.
“I’
m Myriam,” she finally said, extending her hand reluctantly while the boy beside her hovered.
“You speak English!”
“My grandmother thinks you look like someone she met when she was young. But all white people look alike to us,” she added. “What is it you’re trying to tell her?”
I felt tongue-tied for a second. All white people look alike? Who does this girl think she is? And why does the guy beside her remind me of a bouncer about to throw me out? I had half a mind to whirl around and head back to my hotel.
Instead, I drew myself up to my full height. “My grandfather, who’s a famous explorer, traveled here sixty years ago. And he met the Calambás family near the Furioso River. He told me to ask around for them.”
She didn’t reply at first. She just looked me up and down like she’d taken a sudden dislike to me. The boyfriend, if that’s what he was, was watching her every expression. The old woman was speaking excitedly in her language.
“I’m Myriam Calambás,” the girl finally said.
“Hey, that’s great,” I enthused. “My name’s Rex Scruggs, and I’m looking to hire someone who knows the Furioso. I’m going to kayak it with two friends.”
A half-smile played on Myriam’s lips. But just as I thought we’d gotten somewhere, she turned and spoke to the boy, Alberto, beside her. He laughed, called out to others, and pointed at me. In no time, he’d drawn a small crowd, who pressed around him to listen. The only word I understood was “El Furioso.”
I looked from the crazy woman, who was staring at me, to Myriam, who just stood there with crossed arms. Of course, I thought. They don’t know what kayaks are. Or they don’t think it’s possible to kayak the river, since they know nothing about the sport. That wasn’t the right way to start.
I pulled out my wallet and tugged some bills from it. “This is what I’ll pay you for a week of guiding,” I told Myriam. “All you have to do is answer some questions about the river and hike along it with me and my friends for a ways. Maybe not even an entire week.”
It had the intended effect. People stopped laughing and fixed their eyes on my money. Myriam uncrossed her arms and looked from the wallet to me. And the crazy woman started talking to the girl. I got the sense the crazy woman was on my side, but Myriam shook her head.
“Twice that,” she stated, meeting my eyes with firm resolve.
My mouth dropped open. What should I do? Gramps would walk away, for sure. And give her an earful. But, hey, she was a member of the family he’d told me about, she spoke English, and she was extremely cute. And so what if she’s a tough little negotiator? Clearly the natives had learned a thing or two since Gramps’ time. Though it would cut into my spending money big-time, I could do it. There wouldn’t be many other expenses, after all.
“Okay,” I said, half-regretting it as murmurs of admiration for Myriam rose all around. Admiration from everyone but her bouncer, that is.
Did I detect a flash of amazement on Myriam’s face before she smiled? Man, she was more than cute; she was drop-dead gorgeous. And I’d finally impressed her. She stuck out her hand out for me to shake.
“How will you get your kayaks up to our village?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Does someone in your village have a four-wheel drive?”
She smiled in a way that made me feel stupid. “Tractor or mules. I’d recommend the mules. And that will be extra because it takes it away from planting and moving our crops and materials for a day.”
I sucked in my breath and felt very tired suddenly. Okay, I was getting taken to the cleaners by Myriam Calambás. But I convinced myself it would all work out.
Over the next half hour, we agreed that the hostile bouncer – Alberto – would show up at Jock’s place with two mules in three days and guide me, Henrique, and Tiago up to their village. For this, I had to pay Myriam half the guiding fee up front. But it was almost worth it to see her face light up again.
I then found myself buying three embroidered tablecloths without even bargaining, I guess because I was sure my mom would like them. By now, the market was rapidly disappearing, with stalls being taken down and goods going into the burlap bags everyone seemed to carry.
“Thanks for everything,” I said, holding my hand out once more to Myriam as I ignored the frown this put on Alberto’s face.
“You’re welcome. See you Tuesday,” she said, shaking it briefly with a hand that wasn’t half as warm or moist as mine.
Rex, get a grip, I told myself as I headed back to the hotel. She’ll fall for you soon enough. Play hard to get until then. And remember, you’re the boss.
CHAPTER SIX
It was Monday, two days after market day. Myriam watched the schoolchildren crest the hill and tear ahead of Rosita. Rosita and some of her girl cousins lowered the smaller children they were carrying so they could race into their mothers’ arms with happy cries. Myriam’s eyes remained on Rosita. She felt her heart turn over as her sister fished an envelope out of her skirt pocket.
“What does it say?” Rosita asked as Myriam tore it open.
Myriam took a very deep breath to keep from shouting for joy, using all her self-control to force a serious expression onto her face. Should I tell Rosita, swear her to secrecy? she wondered. No, not yet. There are still plans to make and money to collect from the ignorant white boy. The one I might persuade to deliver me to the bus for university, if I actually have the nerve to go through with this.
“It’s from my teacher. It’s the exam I have to take and send back. And she says she enjoyed teaching me and best of luck.” Myriam allowed herself a sad smile.
Rosita shrugged and strode over to Mamá.
“Myriam,” Mamá called, releasing the twins so they could hug Rosita and jostling to calm the baby on her back.
“Yes?” Myriam responded, stuffing the acceptance letter – accepting her on condition she pass her final exam, which of course she would – deep into her skirt pocket and walking to her mother with the twins on her arm.
“Abuelita’s feeling poorly. She’s begging for a coca leaf.”
“She doesn’t remember that the soldiers destroyed our garden?” Myriam asked.
“No,” Mamá said with a sigh. “Coca plants were always around when our elders were young. They won’t accept anything else for aches and pains.”
“Should we fetch a doctor?”
“You know we can’t afford one. Abuelita’s the closest thing to a doctor we have. And as stubborn as a mule,” Mamá added.
Myriam nodded. Between farmers growing coca for illegal, high-paying cocaine operations and the government set on destroying those fields, the cost of the leaves had risen more than tenfold within Abuela’s lifetime. The elders just couldn’t understand that it was impossible to get any outside of the community’s garden.
“What are you asking, Mamá?” Myriam’s stomach tightened.
“See if you can pick some,” Mamá pleaded. “Ask Alberto to help you.”
Myriam felt her own sharp intake of breath. “You can’t ask us to do that, Mamá. Please, Mamá, don’t.”
But Mamá merely hugged Rosita and the twins close, fastening her eyes on the ground. Myriam’s throat felt dry and scratchy, and she knew she couldn’t argue further.
“Be careful,” Mamá said as she leaned over to kiss Myriam’s cheek.
Before supper, Myriam and Alberto climbed on their bicycles and rode up a series of bumpy trails.
“We ditch the bikes here,” Alberto said in a low voice, pointing to a field surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.
“Is the fence electric?” Myriam asked.
“No, that would draw too much attention,” Alberto replied. “See how they mix potatoes, corn, and plantain in with the coca plants? So military helicopters can’t tell it’s a coca plantation.”
“And they have labs for turning the coca leaves into cocaine?”
“Somewhere,” he said uneasily.
“And the money goes to pay for soldiers’ food and un
iforms and guns and grenades.…”
“The paramilitaries,” Alberto said forcefully. “Only the paras live off drug money. Not the guerillas.”
“That’s right. The guerillas kidnap people instead,” Myriam said sarcastically, knowing full well that some guerilla units ran on drug money as well. “I’ve also heard that both paras and guerillas torture soldiers who disobey commands. Even the little-kid soldiers.”
“Shut up, Myriam. You don’t know anything about it, and if someone’s listening, you’ll get us killed.”
“It’s Abuelita getting us killed. For a handful of coca leaves.”
“Because our garden got hacked up,” Alberto said, spitting into the dirt. “You know I should join the guerillas. You have to face up to it one of these days. Now stop talking.”
I’ll never encourage that, but I’ll shut up for now, Myriam thought wearily. She didn’t want to fight anyway. Alberto was a good man, as fiercely loyal to family and the community as she was. Just not the right match for her anymore – not since he’d quit school. She tried to shrug off the guilt she felt for refusing to marry him.
He crept up to the fence, pressed the bottom wire down with his shoe, and held the other up high. “Quick,” he whispered.
Myriam bent low and stepped through the opening, then crouched and looked around. Little birds hopped about on the ground between the rows of plants. Larger birds sang to the gentle swish of bushes in the breeze. It was peaceful here. She crept stealthily through the field to some head-high coca plants. Inspecting their straight branches, she ran her fingers along the opaque, oval leaves. Among the indígenas, picking coca leaves is a sacred act, one that only women and children perform. Myriam had to select, pluck, and stash the leaves in her fiber bag, and Alberto had to stand guard. It would take a few hours to ferment and dry the leaves back home. Then she’d place them on low-burning wood coals in a big clay pot, moving them about just so to make sure they didn’t burn.
Her ancestors had been doing this for thousands of years – for medicine, nutrition, and ceremonies. Why should narcotics agents from other countries suddenly make it so difficult?