by Pam Withers
Something is not right about this field, Myriam thought as she walked the corridors between the plants, searching for leaves that were ready. Something is different about the leaves.
A distant dog’s bark jerked her head up. She looked back and saw Alberto waving frantically at her. Bending lower, she plucked, walked, and plucked her way back towards him. Do I have enough yet? Just a few more.
The dog’s bark was louder, and Myriam thought she heard a shout. She was close enough now to see Alberto silently mouthing “hurry.” She closed her fiber bag and started running, flying past the potatoes, corn, plantain, and yucca root planted around the coca.
The dog’s bark sounded alarmingly close now. The dog came tearing down the dirt corridor straight for her. For a second Myriam froze in fear, then sprinted for Alberto. Small rocks cut into her bare feet. Branches slapped her face. Roots threatened to trip her. A man was shouting somewhere behind the dog, which was only a few bounds away now. Alberto’s worn shoes were firmly holding down the lowest wire. One long arm held the next wire as high as it would go, and the other reached for her hand. Their fingers met as the dog sank its teeth into the back of her ankle. Alberto’s palms clenched hers as she started to fall headlong. Then he caught and pulled her through. Pain shot up her leg as the movement ripped her skin from the dog’s teeth.
“Run!” Alberto insisted as he turned to throw stones at the dog.
She heard the dog yelp and, seconds later, heard its owner fire gunshots. But, by then, she and Alberto were sprinting in a wild zigzag pattern for the heavy brush by the river. They mounted their bikes and tore down the trail, Myriam’s ankle throbbing and her precious fiber bag of leaves dangling from her handlebars.
Suddenly, she knew what was wrong with the field. “Alberto!” she called as he came abreast for a moment. “The coca leaves – they were trimmed!”
His face went pale. He understood what that meant.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jock’s kayak bobbed through the sunlit whitewater ahead. I yawned as I saw his signal from the eddy below this, our second rapid of the day on the Magdalena River. I patted the pocket of my paddling jacket, which held the special necklace. Beside me, in his kayak, sat Tom, a bearded young backpacker from Texas who’d dropped into Jock’s shop and signed on for this afternoon’s trip. Henrique and Tiago, fresh off a plane and bus this morning, were nearby.
Henrique was just like I remembered him: an ever-serious face beneath a generous mop of dark curly hair, complemented by a “soul patch” of hair on his chin. He was as short and powerfully built as his “shadow,” the much quieter Tiago, whose more relaxed face was framed by straight black hair pulled into a ponytail. I remembered that ponytail hanging loosely from under his helmet as he negotiated slalom poles with impressive ease at the last whitewater slalom world championships.
“How’s this compare with the Brazilian rivers you guys do?” I asked Henrique.
He gave me a sardonic smile. “More action at home than this one.”
“This one’s got more than enough action for me,” Tom cut in, stretching his neck to glimpse Jock’s kayak pulling into an eddy at the bottom of the rapid. “Does it look okay down there?”
“It’s fine,” Henrique responded, winking at me as Tiago rolled his eyes. We all found it a pain to have a novice along on our afternoon trip.
“Looks easy,” I told Tom while grinning at Lina, the cute young female reporter Jock had arranged to shoot the Brazilians and me. She was squatting onshore, aiming her camera at us.
“Great, thanks,” Lina said in Spanish as Tom beat Henrique and Tiago in translating her words for me. Henrique and Tiago spoke decent Spanish and English as well as their native Portuguese, but already we’d noticed that Tom was the best of our group when it came to Spanish.
“See you at the end of the river run,” Lina added. Her smile sparkled. Her tank top showed off her tanned shoulders beautifully. I pretended not to notice my Latino teammates staring at her appreciatively.
“She’s a hot one, huh?” Henrique said when she was out of earshot. “I think she and Jock are an item.”
“They are,” Tom confirmed.
“Oh,” I said, vaguely disappointed. Oh, well. I waved good-bye to Lina. “You’re next, Tom. Go for it.”
Tom wiped sweat from his forehead and fiddled with the buckle of his helmet. “Jock went left after the big rock, didn’t he? I couldn’t see. You sure it’s okay?”
Henrique and Tiago smiled as I failed to stifle a chuckle. Poor Tom had paddled only a few times before, and he’d warned us he didn’t know how to roll if he capsized. Which meant Jock, the Brazilians, and I would be rescuing him if he flipped. The river was fast-moving, but this rapid was only Class II, so he’d have to be pretty incompetent or unlucky to go over.
“Relax, Tom,” I reassured him. “Jock’s ahead and the three of us are right behind. We’ll be there if you get into trouble. Just go with the flow and lean a little downstream.”
“Gotcha.” Still, he put off leaving the security of our eddy. “So all three of you have paddled in the world championships?”
“That’s right,” Henrique spoke up.
“Well, that makes me feel better. And, Rex, your grandfather was a famous expedition paddler?”
“He was, and he taught me how to kayak.”
“Wow, guess it’s in your blood. Well, let me know what I’m doing wrong today, okay?”
“Tom, you’re doing fantastic,” I said.
“Go for it,” Tiago added.
Tom slowly pushed out of the eddy, his paddle clawing awkwardly at the water. He floated sideways towards the “V” that generally marks the best route, hips rocking the boat as he attempted to achieve a downstream angle. Then his kayak hit the whitewater, and he cranked his paddle like a windmill about to come off its moorings. I winced as he bounced off a rock. Henrique shook his head as Tom spun and slid down a section backwards. All three of us cheered him when he slap-braced upright from a near tip-over.
The river, perhaps out of pity, eventually delivered him to Jock’s eddy at the bottom of the rapid.
Jock signaled me to come down next. I plunged my paddle in and shot out into the current, heading for the “V.” I sized up the rock that Tom had hit and decided to do a fancy S-turn around it. I could feel Jock’s and the Brazilians’ eyes on me as I traced a series of perfect S’s while I was at it. Pausing to play on the largest wave, I surfed it back and forth until I’d all but worn it out. Then I spun around and slalomed around every rock that remained between me and Jock and Tom, pretending I was negotiating an Olympic slalom course.
I slid into the eddy between Tom and Jock. But the funny thing was, as I exchanged high fives with them, the boulder in front of me appeared to tilt and spin for a microsecond. I placed my hands on their boats to steady myself, then quickly removed them so no one would notice.
Jock nodded at me in an approving way, as if accepting me as a fellow expert. Henrique and Tiago whipped into the rapid almost nose to tail, negotiating the waves and rocks like a well-practiced team. Jock and I grinned at them, me proud I’d persuaded such solid paddlers to join me on my Colombian expedition.
“What’s up, Tom?” Henrique asked as he stuffed his bow neatly into our eddy. I turned to see that Tom had pushed his boat up to the riverbank and was climbing out of it. Not chickening out after two easy rapids, I hoped.
“Hey, guys, sorry, but I gotta take a leak,” he said, and scurried up into the brush. Something frightened by his sudden appearance came bounding out of the bushes.
“Look,” Jock said, pointing to the creature. “A pudú – a miniature deer.”
I looked at its tail flicking as it bounded down the riverbank and into some acacia. “That’s cool,” I said, pleased to see some local wildlife.
“We don’t have those in Brazil,” Tiago said.
“Jock,” I said, grabbing the opportunity for our threesome to talk to him without Tom around, “Henrique, Tiago,
and I have made definite arrangements to kayak the Furioso this week.” I didn’t bother adding that my Brazilian friends had taken lots of convincing at first, preferring to do the creek lower down the mountain that Jock had recommended.
“You have?” Jock asked, looking startled.
“Yeah, the one on the Indian reservation.”
“Resguardos indígena,” Henrique corrected me.
“Right. Anyway, a girl I met at the market is going to tell us about the river rapids.”
“A girl named Myriam?” Jock asked.
“Yeah, you know her?”
“I’ve met her. I know where she lives. She’s probably the only one up there who speaks English. But I seriously doubt El Furioso is runnable.”
I ignored Henrique’s frown and the way he exchanged glances with Tiago.
“Do you have any topo maps of it? Do you know anyone who’s looked at it or tried it?” I asked.
“No. Just a guess based on Myriam’s descriptions and how steep the slopes are. All I know is, it’s maybe half the volume of the Magdalena.”
“Any army trouble?” Henrique asked Jock, if I understood his Spanish.
Jock shrugged and avoided our eyes, so I spoke up. “Well, her family is sending down two mules to carry our kayaks up tomorrow – the kayaks you’re renting us for a week.”
“Two mules.” Jock didn’t even crack a smile. “Good thing I got a deposit on your kayaks.”
“And we were wondering if you’d join us,” I continued. “Safer with four of us, or more if you have other guides up to it, and you’d get a first-descent credit with us.”
“A what? Rex, you guys can’t kayak up there.” He leaned back in his boat, which still sat in the wide eddy.
“Why not?” I asked.
Henrique sat up straight in his kayak, and Tiago pulled his boat closer to Henrique’s.
Just then, Tom reappeared and climbed into his boat.
“These three think they’re going to kayak the Furioso,” Jock informed Tom.
Tom laughed, like he and Jock knew something the rest of us didn’t.
“Listen, guys, you have no idea what’s up there,” Jock declared.
I spoke quickly, before my Brazilian friends could: “Or maybe I do, since my grandfather has been up there and given me inside information. So would you consider joining us?” It was an offer of a lifetime, if he’d just see it that way.
Jock shook his head and rolled his eyes at Tom, who smirked back, which I thought was pretty rude, especially since Tom wasn’t even from around here. Henrique and Tiago looked worried, and I was getting pissed off.
“Not a chance I’ll join you, buddy,” Jock said. “And I think you have no idea what you’re planning. Your famous grandfather’s information is sixty years old. As in, before the civil war.”
The sarcasm annoyed me. “The Colombia Tourism Board said it was fine. The embassy agreed and said it wasn’t dangerous, politically.”
“We made a bunch of calls and got the all clear on the political situation too,” Tiago inserted. “Are you saying not to trust that information?”
“I’m saying–” Jock began.
“So what if my info is sixty years old?” I interrupted. “Rivers don’t change. What if I pay you to join us?” Man, this is getting to be expensive. I hoped Gramps was good for wiring me some more money. As to the political risk, I figured we were already here. And I reasoned the tourism board and embassy knew more than Jock.
Henrique and Tiago started mumbling to each another in Portuguese. Jock exchanged looks with Tom again and tapped his fingers on his kayak. He seemed totally uninterested in the money offer, and I feared he was ready to lecture me. Then his fingers stop tapping. He took a moment to collect his thoughts.
“If the mule handler’s bringing two mules, we’ll load them up with five kayaks and have him drop off two of them where El Furioso runs into the Magdalena. That’s right where El Furioso’s canyon section ends. For $100.00 plus a deposit on those extra two boats, another guide and I will meet you there and paddle down the Magdalena to the door of my shop. The boat deposits are fully refundable as long as the boats don’t disappear before I get there. But the hundred bucks is nonrefundable, even if you don’t show at the prearranged time.”
“Awesome!” I enthused, ignoring the negativity. Note to self – the Furioso has a canyon section.
“Now you’re saying the Furioso is okay?” Henrique asked Jock, studying him closely.
“Go for it,” Jock said, keeping his eyes on the water just downstream of us.
“So if Rex, Henrique, and I do the Furioso, you’ll join us near the bottom,” Tiago pondered aloud. He was studying Jock’s face.
I was resenting how quickly Jock had named his price. But it soothed my teammates’ nerves, I reasoned, and Gramps would front the extra money.
“Hey, now that you wheeler-dealers are done planning your next trip, can we get on with this one?” Tom interrupted. “I really want to know, do the rapids get any harder than what we just did?”
“Only one of them,” Jock informed him. “It’s nice, slow-moving water until that one.”
“Wake me up if I doze off,” I joked. Or was it a joke? I felt unreasonably fatigued for someone who’d had a pretty good night’s sleep.
We paddled out of the eddy and floated, me feeling curiously light-headed. “Here we are in the world’s coffee capital, and I forget to grab some this morning,” I complained.
Tom guffawed. “World’s drug capital, you mean.”
I noticed Jock throw him a disapproving look. “Not anymore,” he asserted.
“Yeah, right,” Tom said, stroking his beard below a grin. “Try telling me cocaine’s not still your top export.”
“Maybe in the Seventies,” Jock said firmly. “Tourism’s one of our biggest industries now. Anyway, Tom, where are you staying?”
“Camping outside of town with friends,” Tom replied. “What about you, Rex?”
“I’m at the Magdalena Hotel. So are my friends, as of tonight.”
“No way – the place that got hit when guerillas attacked the police station last week?” Tom exclaimed.
“Huh?” I asked. He was joking, I decided.
“Rapids coming up, guys. Let’s concentrate,” Jock said.
I glanced up. Nothing remotely resembling a rapid was within sight, but Tom straightened his shoulders, positioned his paddle, and turned himself downstream. “What class will these be?” he asked.
“Class I for a little while,” Jock said, winking at Henrique, Tiago, and me. “Then a Class III, which is as hard as it gets.”
Class III, still easy for me and my first-descent mates. I looked at the hint of whitewater well ahead. Strangely, the calm river seemed to be surging up and down. Or is that my head? I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again.
We fell into our agreed order: Jock, Tom, me, and the Brazilians. Tom snagged on a rock. I had to come up behind and push his kayak off it. The effort seemed to drain me. I sat in an eddy with my neck craned to make sure that Tom, slow and nervous, stayed ahead.
Finally, we hit a series of riffles. Easy stuff. So why do I capsize halfway through, and take two tries to roll?
“Nice roll,” Tom said. Jock just looked at me. I didn’t turn to assess my teammates’ reaction.
“I needed to wake myself up,” I said.
As if to punish me for lying, my head started pounding and my stomach felt like it was going to upchuck.
A little while later, Tom flipped. I watched him swim out from his overturned boat, and I paddled over to rescue him. I shook my head in frustration when he let go of both his boat and paddle, which headed downstream.
“I’ve got him!” I called to Jock up ahead. “You chase his gear.”
“Okay,” he called back, scooping up Tom’s floating paddle and maneuvering towards the runaway boat.
I did have Tom, I really did – at first. He clutched my stern, and I turned my kayak towards
shore to haul him in. There was a rapid coming up downstream, the Class III. Plenty of time to get him out before then, even if the Brazilians didn’t sprint to catch up and help.
As my kayak shuddered and rocked, I realized Tom was panicking. No! What an idiot! He’s climbing up my stern! I sucked in a quick breath as I tipped into the drink, upside down, knees still gripping my kayak, holding my breath. I will roll as soon as Tom gets off the bottom of my overturned boat. One, two, three.… Reaching my paddle upward, I flashed it across the surface above me, flicking my hips.
What? I didn’t even rise far enough to catch a breath! Heavy, heavy feeling. Tom must still be lying on my boat. I set up again, tried again. Please get off my boat, Tom. I tried rolling three times. My lungs, my lungs! I must do what I never, ever do. I reached forward, grabbed the loop on my spraydeck, and pulled to eject. I need to breathe. I surfaced and sucked blessed air into my bursting lungs.
Shame enveloped me. Now Jock, Henrique, and Tiago would have to rescue two swimmers. I saw them click into action.
Jock threw Tom’s paddle to shore and abandoned trying to push Tom’s boat there. “Help Rex!” I heard him shout to Henrique and Tiago as he raced over to Tom.
Water slapped my face as I glimpsed Tom grab Jock’s stern. Get him to shore, Jock, before we hit the Class III rapid.
My fingers clung to my boat as I angled my body. At least I’m not dumb enough to let go of my kayak, like Tom. Water flew skywards as I kicked towards shore. My chest strained with the effort. As Henrique and Tiago headed toward me, I kicked harder. Must show them I can get to shore by myself. I saw Jock reach shore and Tom scrabble up the riverbank. Jock swiveled his head to make sure the rest of us were okay, then tore after Tom’s runaway boat again.
“Are you okay?” Henrique asked as he and Tiago pressed their kayak bows against my boat and began to push us.
“Uh-huh.” But I felt weak, like I was swimming in molasses. I couldn’t seem to move my limbs as my buddies stroked hard towards shore. Almost there. No! Bigger waves engulfed me; stronger currents tore us away into the fast-moving Class III. My rescuers abandoned me to look out for themselves. They’d descend on me again at the end of the rapid.