by Pam Withers
I glanced up and saw Gramps standing onshore, pointing an accusing finger at me.
“But I didn’t go over, Gramps, because my reactions are fast and I don’t panic. How about that, Gramps? But you never say anything positive, do you?”
“Just keeping you on your toes, boy. Don’t forget I taught you everything you know.”
“Not true. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve had lots of coaches, and they were way better than you.”
“Watch how you talk, boy! And where are your teammates?”
I paddled faster to try to get away from him. But he appeared around every corner, shouting insults at me and insisting I wasn’t allowed to do it solo. It has to be just trees bending and the wind whistling, but why can’t I shake him?
“You don’t really want me to finish this river, do you, Gramps?” I finally shouted. “Because it’ll make you look bad. You don’t really want me carrying on your legacy. You only let me come ’cause Mom pressured you into it. Or because you want me to fail.”
He turned away then, mumbling, “Guilt is a terrible thing to live with,” before vanishing.
It was just me and my little boat and this dark river rushing towards the last rapids Gramps had paddled. His diary said he’d heard but not seen the waterfall. He hadn’t paddled the canyon below it. What will he say when I do? And why do I care?
The wind blew up the river, skimmed droplets from wave tops, and flung them at my face. Serious rapids ahead. Slow down, I told myself. Give Myriam time to position herself.
I paused frequently to surf waves back and forth across the river, trying not to miss the companionship of Henrique and Tiago. Deserters. Chickenshits. I listened to the moos of cows in a nearby pasture, smelled smoke, and heard the distant voices of men as they burned a field.
Half an hour later, I caught a glimpse of Myriam’s people cleaning and watering their crops with buckets and hoses. I sensed the river picking up and strained my ears for the sound of rapids. What I heard instead as I paddled around a river bend was Myriam’s whistle, blasting in three shrill calls.
I spotted her and Freddy on the riverbank, trembling beside her bike, which she’d let drop to the grass. As I sprinted towards her – ready to protect her and Freddy at any cost – I saw her eyes widen and her arms wave frantically at me.
When the bow of my kayak touched shore, I heard the thunder of boots running. Since most of Myriam’s people worked barefoot, they had to be soldiers’ boots! There was no time to sprint away, no time to jump out of my kayak and find a tree to hide behind.
“Get away from here!” Myriam hissed, misery written in every pore of her face.
So I did what any sensible kayaker in my situation would do. I capsized in the deep dark eddy, ejected, and surfaced underneath my boat.
From the air pocket under my seat, all sounds were muffled. I tensed as I heard shouting and Freddy start to cry. Cringing, I expected the end of a machine gun to poke through the water and into my face, flip the boat back upright, and expose me.
I couldn’t follow Spanish at the best of times, never mind the Spanish of soldiers threatening a girl alone by the river with her baby brother and an overturned kayak. Nor could I understand the Spanish of the villagers on guard duty as they arrived to aid Myriam. Distorted by the thick shell of my boat, the arguments meant nothing to me. But the tone rattled me to my very core.
Suspended in the lukewarm water up to my neck, I felt terror in every limb. As I tried to still the thumping of my heart, I began to worry how long they’d argue. With every jagged breath, I was converting a limited supply of oxygen into something unbreathable.
How long before gunfire will erupt? Can a handful of unarmed indígena farmers scare off a unit of armed soldiers? How long before a bullet will penetrate plastic to hit my skull? How many minutes of breathing does a kayak cockpit offer? In all my childhood days of playing tricks on Gramps, I’d never measured that last one. I never imagined it would someday be a matter of life or death.
After a while, my face went clammy and my breathing felt labored. I would pass out soon. But better to pass out than come to the surface. Better to suffocate than be shot, especially if my very presence posed any danger to Myriam and Freddy.
The air grew ever more stale, and I felt my dry throat begin to close up, like someone was strangling me. I allowed my right hand to rise slowly from my hip to the paddling jacket pocket where Gramps’ necklace lived. The item on which I’d pinned foolish superstitions for so long was failing me. Maybe Gramps should have paid far more than an avocado sandwich for it … should not have taken advantage of a starving woman. Maybe she’d had no right to sell it, which means I have no right to own it. Maybe I should give it up to Myriam. Why didn’t that occur to me before? Maybe, for this oversight, I’m going to die.
As my tiny space spun in circles, I felt myself falling into darkness. Suddenly the boat lifted and brilliant light blinded me. Myriam’s father reached into the water. His strong arms grabbed me under my armpits. I felt myself flopped onto the riverbank.
“Myriam,” I mumbled, trying to focus on a circle of concerned indígena faces above me.
“They’re gone,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Have I mentioned that the indigenous men here wear skirts, usually go barefoot, and carry the most rudimentary tools? I’ve seen only one or two alluring specimens among the undernourished females, who do all the cooking over open fires. They’re mostly kept away from us and speak no Spanish, as far as I can tell. – Malcolm Scruggs
They let me hang out around the cook fire that night, sipping a thin broth the women had prepared. The soup only made me hungry for real calories after kayaking all day, but I wasn’t about to complain, knowing they’d all been doing such hard physical labor since sunrise. I sure could’ve used some of those fried cornbread patties they’d served me that first day, but I knew without asking what had happened to most of the corn in their fields. At least not all the trout had died, they informed me.
We were sitting on wooden benches against the outside of the community center, kerosene lanterns flickering around the plaza, everyone in hats and wool ponchos except me. I’d just jogged down the hill from my little guest hut, wearing jeans, T-shirt, and fleece jacket. When it gets dark, it can get plenty cool at fifteen thousand feet elevation, even on the equator.
I leaned casually against the adobe hacienda wall, just like all the leathery-faced, mostly toothless men around me. I even extended my running shoes out in front of me, the same way they splayed their bare feet in the courtyard’s dirt beneath those calf-length skirts.
Next time I’m at that market, I’ll buy a sleeveless poncho to fit in better around here, I thought. It would be an interesting souvenir.
I wanted to sit next to Myriam, but she’d led me to the bench her papá shared with half a dozen men and motioned for me to sit beside him. Like the other women – even her elderly abuela – she hardly ever sat down during a meal. It seemed like the women served the food, ate, chased children, and embroidered all at the same time.
“Eat well,” Papá said to me in Spanish, with a booming voice and a big grin, as he scraped his own clay bowl with his spoon. “Today you were the fish too clever to be caught.”
I smiled wanly, wondering what he meant, exactly. And how can he joke about a life-threatening experience?
Secretly, I’d nicknamed him the big friendly giant. He was tall, confident, happy, and generally at the center of any cluster of men. Every time I saw him, he was either working at the rate of several men or waving a large hand while answering questions and directing others. I could see where Myriam got her energy and assertiveness from.
“Papá!” cried the twins, toddling over and trying to clamber up his long legs. He lifted the kids effortlessly into his lap while beaming at Myriam’s mother across the courtyard. Flora sat contentedly on his knees, but Freddy raised his chubby little hands and swiped Papá’s hat, reaching over to place it on my head.
“Gracias, Freddy!” I joked as Papá broke into a barrel laugh.
If I couldn’t sit beside Myriam, I didn’t mind being beside Papá. He was the only man there I felt comfortable around. His powerful build, angular jaw, and sharp eyes reminded me of Gramps. He even had the same self-assured, leaderlike personality. But where Gramps was impatient and sarcastic, Myriam’s father struck me as a study in patience and contentment. Which made no sense, considering the poverty and stress of this place.
“Bunch of dirty Indians,” I imagined Gramps saying if he found himself dropped into this scene.
“And how much of our river did you kayak today?” Papá asked me. His eyes communicated genuine interest, and he delivered his Spanish so slowly and clearly that I could understand him.
“From the trout tanks to where you found me,” I said. “Myriam has been very helpful. She knows the river well.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling. “She has lived on it all her life.”
I nodded and shifted on the hard bench. I could tell the villagers were watching me, but it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as when I’d arrived a few days earlier.
A kitten rubbed up against my leg. When I picked it up, Myriam’s mutt, Capitán, barked at the little furry ball as if jealous.
“Was I in danger of being killed this afternoon?” I addressed Papá, hoping he’d understand my poor Spanish.
Papá studied me before answering. I got the sense he approved of my directness. “You’re worth more alive than dead,” he replied, looking me in the eyes. “Because you’re white.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Of the many feelings that statement evoked, I decided to focus on my appreciation for his honesty. The kitten on my lap purred and leaned into my stroking hand as if to reassure me.
“And Myriam?” I asked. The cat blinked up at me.
Papá studied his calloused hands this time. “She’s not in danger of being kidnapped,” he said. “Killed, maybe. All of us are in danger.”
I felt someone standing beside me and looked up to see Myriam.
“Especially leaders,” she added, looking at her papá, who didn’t flinch.
“They don’t kidnap indígenas, only kill them,” she elaborated. “They would kidnap kids to make them soldiers, except there are enough indígenas who volunteer for that.”
Bitterness crept into her voice. I wondered if she was referring to Alberto. Earlier, when she’d told me about him joining up, I could tell she was unhappy, but I was half-glad to be rid of him.
“Kids volunteer because they’re desperate for food,” she continued. “Or because they believe the lies the soldier recruiters tell them. Both the paras and the guerillas take in children as young as eight, not that you’ll ever hear the leaders admit it.” Again, there was barely restrained anger in her voice.
“Eight?” I half-choked as I looked towards Rosita’s younger cousins, who were helping her wash dishes under the pipe that led from the river. “What good is an eight-year-old soldier?”
Myriam’s eyes were cool as she surveyed me. “The little ones are assigned to guard the camps. If they fall asleep, they’re tortured or killed while the others are forced to watch.”
My breath left me. Thin as my soup had been, it churned uncomfortably in my stomach. “That’s illegal.” I felt stupid the moment I said it. The kitten leapt from my arms. “And any of you could be killed at any time?”
Myriam shrugged. “Yes, but there is safety in numbers and in not carrying weapons.” She drew herself up tall, then repeated our conversation for her father’s sake.
He nodded.
“Why?” I asked.
“Occasional murders aren’t noticed,” Myriam replied. “Massacres of unarmed indígenas have a chance of making the news. And that’s bad publicity, even by the twisted standards of paras and guerillas.”
“Oh. How do you live with it?” I asked.
Myriam translated that to Papá.
“We have no choice. We are used to it. And this is our land,” he said. “Besides, they can’t kill all indígenas, and someday we will be left in peace. We will even regain more of our land, like the indigenous of North America. This is our goal.”
I wasn’t much good at history, but I had the vague feeling that Native North Americans had been through this. Didn’t Canada’s prime minister formally apologize to them a few years ago? Aren’t Native American land claims a big thing in the courts nowadays?
“And your goal,” Papá continued, “is to paddle El Furioso to La Magdalena?”
I stared at the ground, even though I detected no trace of irony or resentment in his voice – no sense he was contrasting my goal with his, which was helping his people survive.
“How many more days?” he asked, releasing the twins as they squirmed out of his lap and ran to their mother.
“Two, maybe three,” I replied.
“Are you finished with Myriam yet?”
I hung my head. I needed her only that first day to describe the river. I knew it was selfish to keep asking her to meet up with me, but I craved her company more each day. I was helplessly attracted to her, even if she seemed uninterested in me.
My hesitation prompted him to speak again. “Because tomorrow we are having a minga, a work party to restock and repair the trout holding tanks on the river. We need all the men who can help. The women make the food.”
I looked about and saw the women cutting and piling up firewood. They were putting what was left of their maize – the corn – in the ashes. That was to soften it and clear its rind, Myriam explained to me earlier.
I raised my eyes and made a quick decision. “I can help,” I said. “I can take a day off from kayaking. My river experience might even be helpful.”
As Myriam translated, I swear I heard pride in her voice. And Papá’s eyes settled on me in an approving way.
“I accept,” he said.
The next morning, I found Myriam working feverishly with the other women and girls. They were boiling chicken, kidney beans, onions, plantain, and some kind of root that looked like a cross between a carrot and celery in giant pots on the fire. Much of the food came from the load I’d fetched.
“Smells delicious,” I said, breathing deeply as I paused by the oven in the center of the plaza.
Myriam smiled. “The men will be hungry after working on the trout tanks.”
“I’m a little worried about how helpful I can be up there without much Spanish,” I said, glancing at the path to the river.
“I know. Papá said I could come for half an hour as you get started, to help with explanations. They have been there since dawn. You slept in,” she teased. “Then I’ll come back here.”
“Super,” I said, a little sheepish that they’d let me sleep in.
She tapped her stirring spoon on the edge of her clay pot and said something to a stout, middle-aged woman beside her. The woman nodded without glancing at me, adjusted her poncho and hat, and took over, but not before I caught her disapproving look. I half-smiled as I interpreted her body language: Men shouldn’t linger in the kitchen and women shouldn’t visit the minga site. Myriam beckoned me, and we set off up the path.
“I just need to make a quick stop on the way,” she said.
Curious, I followed her as she walked briskly up the trail. When she detoured to the cave’s steps, I pursued her all the way to the top and watched her pull the money I’d paid her from her skirt pocket and stash it under a rock in the cave.
We heard the men laughing and talking before we came upon ten of them working in the sun by the river. With boards, plastic sheeting, and rags, they’d begun repairs on some of the rims of the trout tanks. They also had a pitiful number of buckets with new trout stock.
Papá greeted me with a warm smile. He even rested his hand on my shoulder. “Our whitewater expert,” he said, introducing me to the men, some of whom had come from a nearby village. “You have helped repair such tanks before?” Papá asked.
“Yes, in Montana. A summer job.”
“Aha, good boy. Your papá taught you, perhaps?”
I lowered my eyes. “I don’t have a papá. Just a grandfather.”
A million times I’d wondered who my father was, what he was like. It hadn’t helped one bit, thinking about it or asking Mom.
Papá looked at me curiously. “And your grandfather is your hero, yes?”
I shook my head, then caught Papá’s disbelieving look. “He used to be, when I was growing up.” Even as I said it, I had a sneaking suspicion that Papá wouldn’t think much of Gramps.
He chuckled. “I will be your papá for today. And you will be our hero if you can unplug the water intake.”
“No problem,” I said, with a rush of warmth for Papá and the way he encouraged the community to accept me. Through Myriam, he explained that the gravity-fed water intake unit had a screen on it to keep debris and animals out of the tanks. Every few months, it plugged up. To unplug it, someone had to pull themselves underwater against the dangerous current, remove and clean it, then pop it back on.
“It’s much harder than it sounds,” he said. “It’s too easy to run out of breath, get washed downstream, or be pulled and held against the concrete, which can scrape your skin raw. Most men here are frightened of the job. Especially since some cannot swim. The man who always did it drowned last year.”
I looked at him respectfully. “It’s the perfect job for me. Paddlers spend a lot of time reading and outwitting currents. We learn early on to stay calm underwater.”
We chatted some more through Myriam. Papá explained that high water and time worked to erode the concrete structure, undercutting it. Since the trout were a major source of food and income, nearby communities held mingas to repair them at least once a year.
“I’m honored,” I said.
Myriam left. I shed my jeans, under which I was wearing my neoprene shorts. The men – some wearing skirts and felt hats and others wearing jeans and baseball caps – stared. Well, what else would they do? Wouldn’t I stare at them if they showed up in their skirts, felt hats, wool ponchos, and bright red scarves in Montana or Alberta? Here, most of them worked barefoot. And none of those who shed their ponchos and T-shirts had chest hair, I noticed. No wonder they were staring at mine.