by Pam Withers
“Myriam, with my life jacket, you’ll float okay. Are you ready to get back into the water?”
She shook her head firmly and dropped her eyes.
Alberto looked concerned, but had no way of getting to us. I held up a finger to tell him we needed a minute. “Myriam, you can ride on the back of my boat, okay? I’m going to get into my kayak and turn it so that its tail end is near you. Slip into the water and grab my waist as you pull yourself up onto the boat, one leg dangling into the water on each side. Keep your weight even or we’ll capsize, understand?”
She nodded numbly.
“If we do, you need to slide off and stay near until I roll back up. You’ll float, because you’re wearing my life jacket. Then I’ll tell you when it’s okay to climb on again.”
Her eyes showed her agreement.
I eased my kayak off the rock, then shoehorned myself into it. I back-paddled and waited for her to slide on. She did as I’d requested. With her hands clasped about my waist, I left the eddy below the whirlpool, aiming for the most conservative routes to minimize my chances of flipping.
Alberto dog-paddled out into the current to join us and said some encouraging words to Myriam.
We traveled like that for a mile, me capsizing only once, and Myriam sliding off cooperatively when I did.
Lightweight as she was, it was awkward having a passenger – it definitely compromised my paddling style and safety – but I sensed that she was slowly regaining her confidence.
Then came a big one.
“Myriam, you need to slide off now and float through this on your own. I will hover as nearby as I can. We’ll get through it, I promise.”
She slid off wordlessly and positioned herself on her back, feet up. Her eyes scanned the whitewater ahead.
“I think it’s the last one!” I shouted, spying a place where the canyon walls seemed to open up.
I saw her body relax, even more as Alberto floated up to us and took her hand.
Then I was off, sprinting around rocks, punching through backwashes, route-finding on the fly once again. My empty stomach churned with the whitewater as the rapids battered me about. Once, while I was trying to sprint left, my downstream side slammed against a rock. Despite my best efforts to lean downstream, the river tossed me over upstream and plastered me and my kayak against the rock, the plastic of my boat shuddering as if about to wrap around it.
I held my breath, told myself to stay calm, and waited. If I came out of my boat, I would have no life jacket to float me and no boots to protect my feet from high-speed collisions with sharp rocks. Worse, Alberto and Myriam would have no guide to trailblaze through the violent whitewater. I waited until all my breath had run out. Just as I was about to eject, a surge of water decided to free the boat. I rolled up, executed a fast sweep stroke to keep from wrapping around another rock, then dashed down the left side of the angry rapid just behind a couple who were holding hands and working in sync to stay in the deepest channel, feet up.
The Furioso disgorged us into the Magdalena together. I towed my companions to shore, where Alberto helped Myriam out of the water. Then I went searching for the boats left by the mule at the start of this journey for Jock and one of his guides to join my Brazilian friends and me.
We couldn’t expect them to still be there. We were days late. So I emitted a cry of joy when Alberto dragged them out from under the bushes and hauled them to the water’s edge.
He was a in a big hurry, I noticed, and looking over his shoulder frequently. He pulled the break-apart paddles from each boat, clicked them together like he’d been doing it all his life, and seated Myriam before helping launch her into the river. Then he tossed his jug into the water, got in his boat, and dug in his paddle like he was afraid paramilitaries would burst from the trees any moment. He capsized, tumbled out of the boat underwater, and surfaced spluttering. I helped him back in.
I gave them both the briefest lesson in history on how to kayak, suppressing a smile as they spun and rocked and flailed for several seconds before reaching the center of the river.
Within half an hour, after I’d given them more words of encouragement and advice, both my kayak students were looking competent.
The Magdalena was gentle here, a fast and easy flow for miles. During the journey, Myriam relayed bits of her story, of finding the men in the field and of Abuela dying peacefully in her sleep in the cave. She wept between sentences. I was unable to stem a flow of tears myself. But hardly had they dried than I felt anger rise – anger and a sense of helplessness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We reached Jock’s shop in the early afternoon with seriously parched throats, shrunken stomachs, and drop-dead tiredness. No one had paid any attention to our party of three kayakers floating down the river. Even as we paddled through Jock’s upper village, passersby had barely turned their heads. That was fine with me.
Jock came sprinting out of his shop before we’d beached all three kayaks.
“Rex! You’re here! I can’t believe it! The radio reports said you’d been–”
“Shut up, Jock,” I said sharply, looking around. No one was in earshot, but I dared not take any chances, especially for Alberto’s sake. “Let’s get inside your shop, quickly.”
He looked the three of us over as if just noticing our severe exhaustion. He stared at Myriam and Alberto, his eyes running up and down the scars on Alberto’s bare back.
Jock shooed a guide out of his shop. “Go take lunch, okay? I’ve got a meeting with some customers.”
The minute the guide stepped out, Jock turned the sign from open to CLOSED and locked the door. By the time he’d turned around, I was busy rattling through his cupboard, grabbing coffee cups and filling them with water from the sink.
Jock watched wordlessly as we drank, refilled, and drank, water dribbling down our chins. He opened his desk drawer and produced guava sticky candy, which we swiped from his palm and loaded into our mouths.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I use your phone to call my mom? I’ll pay you back. Myriam and Alberto can tell you our story while I do that.”
He nodded. I grabbed the phone and dialed Gramps’ number. It rang and rang, then, “Please leave a message after the sound of the tone.”
“Gramps, Mom, I’m okay,” I said, my voice cracking a little. “I’ve escaped and I hope to be on a plane tomorrow. I’m calling from Jock’s. I’ll phone again when I can, okay?”
When I turned back to my friends, Myriam was speaking so rapidly that I couldn’t follow a word of their conversation. I walked to the window and looked out at the peaceful Magdalena, the stack of kayaks and rafts, the green grass, the delicate orchids, the waving ferns and yellow daisies, the mountain rising majestically above all.
It’s a beautiful country, I thought as I felt my pulse slow. Have I even noticed that before?
The animated conversation beside me finished with Myriam offering to pay Jock for Henrique’s and Tiago’s kayaks still up in the village, if they hadn’t been stolen or burned.
“No way. Forget them,” Jock replied generously. “Look, first I’m running out to get you some empanadas, meat and cheese pastries. If you want to shower while I’m gone, there are towels in that cupboard.”
I placed my wallet on the glass counter. “I’d like to buy three of your Expediciones del Río T-shirts,” I said. “Two mediums and a small.” I glanced over at my companions. “And Alberto needs some shorts or jeans, if you can spare a pair.”
Jock half-smiled. “Excellent souvenirs,” he said, gesturing to the counter as he tossed a pair of shorts at us: “Help yourselves.” He moved towards the door. “I’ll leave the closed sign up and lock the door behind me. When I get back, I’ll hand this afternoon’s business over to my guides and drive you to Neiva. We’ll phone your embassy and get you on a plane,” he addressed me. “Then I’ll help put Myriam and Alberto on the bus to Popayán.”
“Gracias,” Myriam said, eyes filled with tears.
“Do you need money for the bus fare?” Jock asked Myriam.
She shook her head proudly and pulled some wet paper money from her jeans pocket. Alberto stared at it. I recognized the second half of my pay. She must have retrieved it from the cave on her way to find Alberto. I was glad it was going to help get her settled at university – free to indígenas, Jock had told me – and that Alberto would be there for her.
We showered and dressed, drank more water, and fell half-asleep in the sun streaming through Jock’s shop window. The phone rang. On impulse, I picked it up. “Hola.”
“Rex?” My mom’s voice leapt through the phone. “Rex, is it you?”
“Mom,” I said, my voice catching. “I’m okay. I promise you, I’m okay. I’m sorry about all this. I should’ve quit and come home when my teammates did. I should’ve listened to people.”
I heard some muffled sobs. Then she said, “Rex, I’m sorry I wasn’t in earlier. Gramps was in the hospital. He was so worried about you. He kept saying it was all his fault. He was on the phone for days, ranting at government officials here and in Colombia. He even shook his hunting rifle at reporters camped on our lawn. Plus, we were busy trying to raise money to …”
I heard the key turn in the door. Jock entered with a basket of empanadas and Lina, his reporter friend, behind him.
I turned away, putting a hand over my ear as the others began talking.
“Mom, Gramps will be okay, won’t he?” I asked, a bit choked.
There was no answer, just more sobs. Then, “He passed away this morning, Rex. I’m so sorry to have to tell you. So sorry you weren’t here. But you know, don’t you, how much he loved you? He always loved you.”
I sank to the floor and turned my face away from the others. My hand reached out for my waterproof bag and touched the bulge of the journal. “Mom, thanks … for telling me. I … I’ll be home soon. I love you. I’ll call you back as soon as I know what flight I’m on. I promise. Gotta go now.”
I hung up with a broken heart. Gramps has passed away? A part of me always believed he’d be around forever. I turned to see Lina interviewing Myriam and Alberto, snapping photos of them and me. I looked at Jock.
“Okay, dude?” he asked. “This is a big scoop for Lina. A kidnap victim escaping and–”
“Jock, Lina, Myriam,” I said, “I just don’t think it’s safe for a reporter to be here.”
Myriam, hair freshly washed and wearing her new, bright red Expediciones del Río T-shirt, rose and placed her hands on the hips of her still-damp jeans. “I’m telling Lina about what happened to our village. That is what is important.”
I hesitated only a second. “You’re right.”
“The real story is the kidnapping,” Jock interrupted. “If Lina quotes you about the massacre, Myriam, you know that all the officials, including the Colombian Army, will deny it. And no reporters will go up there to check it out.”
“A reporter has already been up there,” Myriam said, her jaw set. She took two steps over to the counter and placed her hands on my waterproof pouch. She pulled out my camera and handed it to Lina. “I took photos.”
She sank to the floor as if the declaration had exhausted her. Alberto pulled her to him, allowing her to press her face against his shoulder.
Lina, not even thinking to ask my permission, switched my camera on and flicked through the photos. Her face drained of color. Jock moved to look over her shoulder. I hung back, not really wanting to see.
Lina’s expression moved from pained to aghast. She lowered the camera slowly and squatted down to eye level with Myriam. “We will tell your story,” she said.
“But–” Jock tried to object.
Lina shook her head at him firmly. “It is a story that must be told,” she said, her hand reaching out to touch Myriam’s shoulder gently. “It may scare away some of Jock’s precious tourists, but it must be told.”
I watched Jock nod, his eyes cast to the floor. Myriam looked gratefully at Lina through her tears.
“Myriam is going to be a reporter,” Alberto announced to Lina, pride in his voice.
Myriam looked at Alberto, then shifted her gaze to Lina. “I’m going to be a reporter,” she repeated.
“Colombia needs indígena reporters,” Lina said. “And you can speak English. That means I can help you get interviews with international news agencies when you reach Popayán. Shall I make some calls?”
“Yes,” Myriam replied bravely.
I stood awkwardly, still shell-shocked about Gramps’ death, but feeling a sense of pride in my cousin, too.
Lina interviewed Myriam and Alberto some more, then turned to me. Myriam translated her words. “So, Alberto and Myriam broke you out, and the three of you jumped over a waterfall to escape the guerillas. Then you guided them by kayak through Dead Man’s Canyon to here? And that’s a first descent?”
I was startled to realize I hadn’t even thought about the first-descent aspect for days. It no longer interested me. I stood up. “We escaped from the guerillas, and we found our way to here. I have no comment as to how. All that’s really important is that Myriam and Alberto are safe now and have a chance to tell the world what is happening on their resguardo.” I knew Lina would leave out mention of Jock’s connection because it could endanger him.
Myriam sat silent for a moment, then gave me the slightest of smiles and translated for Lina. “It was a first descent,” she added, clearly enough for me to understand. “Rex should get that credit, whether he wants it or not.”
“I agree,” Jock spoke up.
I shrugged. “Whatever.” I didn’t care. Too many things were more important.
I sank my teeth into one of the pastries Jock brought us. It made my taste buds dance and awakened a suddenly voracious appetite. I ate it in two big bites and reached for more as Myriam and Alberto did the same.
The food must have had something in it, because as the three of us climbed into the back of Jock’s red Toyota Hilux pickup truck, we all began nodding off. As I lay my head against my pack, I felt the bulge of Gramps’ journal. I wouldn’t be writing in its last pages after all; I no longer viewed my journey as an extension of his. Indeed, I had no further need for the journal, yet it would always be a part of me. When I got home, I’d have lots of explaining to do to Mom. But she’d come to terms with my discovery of Colombian relatives, and she’d be proud of me for helping where I could.
I raised my fist to thump the journal so it wouldn’t poke into my head and drifted into a deep, comforting sleep. We all slept like babies as the Hilux bounced over ruts. The space blanket did little to keep off the dust, but we didn’t care. We were free. We were headed down the mountain. We were on our way to new lives.
Acknowledgments
Just for the record, the Furioso is a fictional river; the Magdalena is real. All characters in this novel are fictional, even if, sadly, many of the issues depicted are all too real. Jock’s village is very roughly based on San Agustin in Huila, Colombia.
I am deeply grateful for a B.C. Arts Council grant toward this project, and to Leona Trainer for encouraging me to “reach further” with my writing.
I also owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Colombian anthropologist Lina Gómez, who worked tirelessly with me through every stage of this project – from earliest conception through readings of the evolving manuscript, including assisting in collecting and translating material in Spanish. She emerged not only as a valued partner in my work, but as a Spanish tutor and friend. Even so, any errors are my own.
Warm thanks to Melanie Peck, my traveling companion and translator in South America, and our guide Miguel; anthropology professor and filmmaker Laura R. Graham (see her documentary Owners of the Water: Conflict and Collaboration Over Rivers); Anna and Colombian refugee Ruby at Pastoral Imigratoria in Ibarra, Ecuador; my husband, Steve Withers, a fellow whitewater kayaker with a sharp eye for critiquing my manuscripts-in-progress; Cathy at XPAC Capilano Hatchery in North Vancouver, B.C., Canada; and Tao Berman
of Washington state, who holds numerous first-descent records in whitewater kayaking and is the subject of Going Vertical: The Life of an Extreme Kayaker, by Tao Berman and Pam Withers. Barbara Berson, Bob Mayer, and Nan Gregory also offered valuable editorial input.
I appreciated information from ONIC (National Organization of the Indigenous of Colombia), CRIC (Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca), and ACIN (Association of Indigenous Councils of Northern Cauca): www.onic.org.co; www.cric-colombia.org; www.nasaacin.org.
Also, various Icarus Films documentaries and the inspiration of the report (available online) from the Mission to Colombia to Investigate the Situation of Indigenous Peoples, organized by Rights & Democracy, with the cooperation of the Assembly of First Nations (Canada) in 2001.
A portion of the earnings from First Descent will go towards organizations working for the rights of indigenous peoples worldwide. These include www.cs.org; www.intercontinentalcry.org; www.minorityrights.org; and www.survivalinternational.org.
Teen readers included Julian Legere, my niece Esther Tuttle of the Lakota nation, Suraya Clemens, and members of the Bibliophiles grade-eight book club at Christianne’s Lyceum of Literature and Art in Vancouver, Canada, and Malcolm Scruggs of California, whom I met in Ecuador.
And, finally, thanks to Sue Tate and all the Tundra Books staff; Lynn Bennett at Transatlantic Literary Agency; and Chris Patrick, my speaking tours agent.