The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  “Look at how they’re building a bona fide, respectable fishing boat out of scrap metal. Back home in Québec, no one would ever have touched that stuff. It would have gone right to the dump, but here, it all makes sense. These people are survivors. Look at how they bend the steel. It’s unbelievable.”

  As we watched them put a piece of plate metal in place, the patriarch of the group came over to borrow my electric buffer. The Chief went up on deck to dig it out of the toolbox.

  Our visitor could speak English and introduced himself as Peter-Pedro Lopez. He was close to fifty, of average height, with the allure of a true Miskito: dark, part Indian, with a dusting of Garifuna thrown in for good measure.

  “Peter-Pedro, how well do you know the Mosquito Coast?”

  “I was born there. We have been living in Barra Patuca for a long time.”

  “How is the channel to get into Rio Patuca?”

  “It’s okay, but it’s unmarked and maybe twelve feet deep in the middle. You have to be careful; sometimes the surf is big and the entrance can be dangerous. The current there is strong. You need a good boat and a sharp eye.”

  “That’s good to know. Señor,” I asked, “have you ever heard about the Ciudad Blanca?”

  There was a long silence. It was as if I had turned on a breaker switch in a fuse box. “Ciudad Blanca, that’s far up the river! How come you know about that place?”

  “I met someone who told me about it, someone who’s been there. Do you know where it is?”

  He came over to where I was sitting and squatted in the shade. His eyes were vivid but his voice stayed calm.

  “My grandfather took me there once when I was a young boy. It’s three or four days up the river. Not an easy trip, but I’ll never forget that place. Bad spirits still live there.”

  “You mean that the place is cursed?”

  “Si, claro.”

  “According to whom?”

  “The old people don’t like to talk about it much, but they say that there are many angry spirits flying around there. It is an ancient city, covered with trees and jungle, Señor Jacques, but I remember a large white pyramid, yes, and big structures, walls covered with carvings. My grandfather said that it was a secret place where the ancestors used to live a long time ago.”

  “Could you explain to me where it is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, hang on a second.”

  I climbed onto Numada and came back a few minutes later with the chart I had taken from the shipwreck days before.

  “Show us on the chart. Here’s Patuca River.”

  The other men of Peter-Pedro’s crew crowded around. They all crouched down and discussed the details over the ragged-looking piece of paper. Then finally:

  “I am fairly sure,” said Peter-Pedro.

  His finger traced a line about four inches off the southern edge of the chart.

  “It’s about exactly here.” He stuck his finger in the sand and then looked up. Everyone laughed.

  “What is ‘about exactly’ supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “It means to find out exactly where it is located, I’ll have to take you there.”

  “Could you?”

  Peter-Pedro stroked the thin beard on his chin. I could see that he was already planning something. He looked back at the map and measured the distance with his fingers, calculated a few numbers under his breath, rubbed the sand off his hands and stood up.

  “Si, it’s possible. But why do you want to visit that cursed place? Sometimes there are gangs who go there to dig for artifacts. They take them out by boat. Is that what you want to do?” He took a dark green rag from his jeans’ back pocket and wiped the sweat off his neck.

  “No, not at all. I want to make a documentary about the theft and trade of artifacts being stolen from Central America. The Ciudad Blanca is important precisely because of the theft that goes on there. I want to see if the place really exists, and then film it while there is still something left to film.”

  “The people up there are dangerous. They don’t like strangers. Maybe I could take you there with my brother. He’s a good man, sometimes a bandito, but a good man just the same. He’s been up there many times and has friends in the area.”

  I glanced at the Chief, and then we both looked at the shipbuilder. Peter-Pedro Lopez was exactly the kind of connection we were looking for. He seemed too good to be true! Suddenly I had found a key to the door that was so mysterious and forbidden.

  I explained the details of my project to the Chief that evening. He didn’t know a thing about documentaries, and he thought it was crazy to go into the jungle to attempt to find some lost pieces of pottery. Later, I called Eddy.

  “Kwei Kwei, Eddy.”

  “Kwei Kwei to you, too. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some good news. I found the man who can take us to Ciudad Blanca.”

  After a short silence, “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I’m talking to you, amigo. He’s our man.”

  “So what’s his story?”

  “He’s a Mosquito Coast fisherman who’s building a boat next to mine. He says his grandfather took him to visit the Ciudad Blanca when he was a kid.”

  “He still remembers how to get there?”

  “So he says. You just follow the river south into the mountains.”

  “Which river?”

  “The Rio Patuca. That’s where he lives.”

  “How will we get there?”

  “We sail to the mouth of the river on Numada. After that, Lopez and his brother will take us upriver to the site with their own boats.”

  “Fantastic. Listen, I have some good news, myself. We have our Canadian content: Cowboy George has agreed to go. We’re in business.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Not at all. When will your boat be ready?”

  “In another month, at the most. The Chief is now lining up the engine. There’s still some painting to do and then I have to adjust the rig. After that, it will be ready to go.”

  “What about Valeska?”

  “No news. I’ve almost given up. I’ve the feeling that something happened to her.”

  “What can you do?”

  “All I can do is wait and see.”

  We made plans to meet in the Bay Islands, perhaps at Guanaja, the most isolated island of the archipelago and well-placed for an easy sail to Barra Patuca.

  “Let me know when you’ll be there and I’ll meet you with Cowboy George and the equipment. We can start filming while we sail over.”

  A few days later, we began to run out of supplies, so the Chief and I decided to hit the hardware stores in San Pedro Sula. We desperately needed basic things like hoses for the engine and stainless steel screws — which were nonexistent in Puerto Cortés. So, as a skeleton crew touched up the boat, we climbed on board a wheezing yellow “chicken bus” for San Pedro Sula. There was standing room only, and to find a place to stand, we had to push our way past long-faced passengers. We were all jammed in like sardines.

  Within an hour, we were downtown. Third Avenida was, as usual, packed with peddlers, pickpockets, street gang members and hustlers. It was a busy morning in San Pedro, but despite a few wrong turns and the intense heat, we managed to pick up the essentials. Resting in the shade on a bench in the city square, I began to go over the details of my upcoming expedition to the Mosquito Coast.

  “Chief, the plan is to sail east along the coast until we reach the place where Lopez and his brother are to meet us. Then we will head up the Patuca River to look for Ciudad Blanca. It’s going to be one hell of an adventure — dangerous, but worth the ride. I would really like it if you would join us.”

  I thought that he would bite the hook, but instead, he scowled and took a deep breath. “Yeah, a trip of a lifetime, but maybe my last trip, too. All I’ve heard about that area is that you know when you go in, but you never know if you’ll come out.”

  “But we’ll be with Peter-Pedro Lopez and h
is brother. They know that region as well as you know diesel engines.”

  “Maybe so, but there are just too many bugs, snakes and poison arrows for my liking. I hate all that stuff. You know that. Don’t squander your time, Jacques. Listen to me. Get your schooner back in the water and leave this rotten country before something else happens to you.”

  “Don’t be so negative, Chief. Anyway, there’s no way I can turn back now; I’m in too far.”

  “It’s your life, amigo.”

  A few days later, I watched my old friend pack his bag. His time off was over. In a few days, he was expected to join his ship in Québec City, climb on board, go down in the hole and care for a couple of huge diesel engines for a few months. “It’s a piece of cake,” he said, flagging a taxi on the road in front of the hotel. Just before getting into the cab, he added, “If you ever are in a bind, let me know. Someday, I’m sure that pile of ruins out there on the Mosquito Coast will be just another one of your crazy stories. Meanwhile, take care, amigo.” With that, he got into the front seat of the waiting cab and said his familiar phrase, “Señor, aeropuerto, y rápido por favor.”

  It felt a little strange watching that beat-up taxi disappear around the bend. My friend was gone. Would I ever see him again?

  That week, Peter-Pedro Lopez and his crew finished building their fishing boat and, without ceremony, put it in the water. That strange-looking rig embodied lots of hopes and dreams, but I knew that the Lopez family would succeed. They were welded together as tightly as the little boat that they had just built. Before they headed off, the fisherman came over and we exchanged phone numbers.

  “My brother and I will make sure that you are well looked after. My friend, if there is anyone who can get you to the Ciudad Blanca, it is the Lopez family.”

  I had one last question for Peter-Pedro.

  “Have you ever seen a big dark green yacht called Esmeralda enter the Patuca River?”

  He thought a few moments.

  “Si, si, early last month, just before I came here, it ran aground on a sandbar at the entrance and we helped get it back into the channel. They said they were tourists who wanted to explore the Patuca. After they came in, they anchored around the bend in the river. We left to come here right afterwards.”

  “Did you see a woman on board?”

  “Yes, there was a woman on deck.”

  My thoughts began to race.

  “What did she look like?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at her. She wasn’t a gringo, that’s for sure.”

  I froze. Could she have been Valeska? What if Barker had been able to catch up with her? No, impossible. Yet for a few moments, I had some very black thoughts. There was a real possibility that she had been kidnapped and murdered. Or maybe she had gone back with Barker on her own and had made up a plot to somehow get even with him. She could easily lead him on for a while, then go for the jugular. Or perhaps she had just decided to team up with him again for the money and the excitement. She did look on top of things when she did that gun transaction back in Punta Sal. Whatever scenario it was, her absence was driving me crazy, and there was little that I could do to find her. She had to find me.

  I spent the next few days alone, tying up numerous loose ends. I found myself constantly wondering about Valeska and what might have happened to her. It was starting to feel like a bad toothache that wouldn’t go away, but working with my hands was the best remedy I knew to ease my mind. Soon, working on the boat was the only thing that counted.

  One hot afternoon, to cool down a little, I dove off the dock and went for a swim, then climbed onto the cement pier and lay down on my towel in the sun. I must have drifted off. I was awakened by a soft female voice.

  “Jack, Jack, wake up, it’s me.”

  Was it a dream? I couldn’t be certain until my eyes focused.

  Her mouth was swollen. Behind the sunglasses, I noticed her blackened left eye. “Valeska!” I jumped to my feet. For a long moment we held on to each other without a word. “But where have you been?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ve been travelling for hours. I’m so thirsty, do you have any water?” Her soft voice broke the silence. It was weak and frail. There was a bandage on her forehead.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I’ll tell you later. First I need a drink of something.”

  We went over to Numada, where her small bag sat on the cement by the ladder.

  “Is that all the baggage you have?”

  “It’s all I need.”

  “Come on up, there’s drinking water aboard.”

  We climbed the ladder and entered the intimacy of the main cabin. At close range, her face looked older than it had when I saw her last and the sparkle in her eyes had dimmed. She must have been living on the edge for months. I poured her a glass of cool water and she gulped it down.

  “Remember the last time we talked on the phone, when I told you that I was going to go back to the university and follow up with those people who were interested in the Ciudad Blanca? Well, on my way to Tegucigalpa, a car ran me off the road and I smashed into a tree. I was cut pretty badly. The moment that I cleared the blood out of my eyes I saw two guys running toward me. They were armed.”

  Her lips were trembling. She stopped for what seemed an eternity.

  “Luckily for me, I had my 9mm in a bra holster. I shot them both before they could react. When my nerves calmed and I could see straight, I drove away in their car, abandoned it on a street in Tegucigalpa and then went to a cousin’s place in the Santa Cruz mountains to recover. Cell phones don’t work up there, neither does the Internet. And all I wanted was to forget everything.”

  “I understand that. But who do you think the guys who attacked you were?”

  “They were goons hired by Dog. Who else? But now they’re dead.” She took a deep breath. “You were right,” she said. “I should have just stayed out of harm’s way, but I felt I had to get even with that bastard. He really wants me out of the picture for good, but it won’t happen. I won’t give him that pleasure.”

  I took her in my arms without a word. She had been to hell and back. She still had bruises from the accident on her shoulders, back and thighs. We lay on the mattress in the aft cabin and I stroked her dark hair as I spoke.

  “It was a nightmare. I thought I would never see you again.”

  Thinking about the horror that she had endured sent a dull, sympathetic pain through my body, but I kept looking her straight in the eyes until the wave of emotion broke and passed over. Ever so gently, I drew her closer, whispering, “You’ll be safe here with me, Valeska.”

  We kissed again and I held on to her. Some of magic between us was still alive, but something was missing. It would take time to repair her damaged body and spirit, and maybe even more time to reconnect. To see her eyes begin to shine again would require all the care, love and trust I could give her. We lay there together and didn’t say a word, but after a while, I began to wonder. “I’m curious, were the documents they took from your uncle’s house the originals?”

  “No, the originals are at the lawyer’s office.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “I’m not certain. I hardly know the man.”

  “Perhaps Barker bought him off, as well.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “Where do you go from here?”

  She hesitated. “You are the only hope I have.” She rolled over and snuggled right up to me. I could feel her weakness and her willingness to accept all the help that I could give her. It’s funny the way things work. Suddenly I was about to begin a relationship I had dreamed about for months. Was I ready?

  A day later, when I saw that Valeska was feeling a little better, I told her about the film project.

  “Do you have access to the Internet on board?” she asked.

  “Yes, I can pick it up from the base’s office.”

  “Good. I want to continue doing research.”

 
“Fine, since there’s still work to do before we get this boat back in the water. Everything needs to be put back in place.”

  I brought her up to the two forward cabins. “I keep the sails up here. This is a workbench, and this is a small bunk that sometimes serves as storage. I keep all the lines here, the fenders and various things I need to keep this thing running. Nothing luxurious, but everything works.”

  “I really like your boat, Jack Legris. I will just make it a little more comfortable, that’s all.”

  “A woman’s touch?”

  “No, a Valeska touch.”

  “Even better.”

  At night, the wind howled in from the north. The next day, while it rained, she slowly put the galley back into working order, until we were finally able to cook a proper meal on the propane stove. Valeska had begun to regain her lost energy, her voice was stronger, and I could see that, despite her injuries, she was regaining her strength. We were working as a team now. I could feel it.

  The next day, we had running water, fresh towels and clean sheets on the bed. After supper, Valeska sat for hours working on my computer, completing the research she had begun in Tegucigalpa. Soon, the main cabin was full of documents, maps and drawings. That week, she spent hours surfing the Internet and wading through papers strewn around on the cabin floor. During the long evenings, we sat at the galley table, sifting through information. Valeska seemed enchanted by her research as she read the highlights that she had written down on her notepad.

  “All recent expeditions that have gone looking for the Ciudad Blanca have either come back empty-handed or disappeared,” she said. “And … jungle travellers, including hunters and pilots, have occasionally reported sightings of strange-looking structures and mounds in certain areas near the Nicaraguan border. A man named D.H. Williams was an engineer from New Orleans who had worked on the construction of the Lake Yojoa highway in the 1940s. He reportedly visited the ruins twice. The first time, he was looking for petroleum in La Mosquitia when he had to make an emergency landing on the river near the ruins. Later, he went back and filmed it. It was the first real recorded proof that Ciudad Blanca really did exist. Williams showed this film only to people he could trust because he said he was afraid that if too many people saw the footage, the place would be overrun with looters. Then, for some mysterious reason, the film disappeared into thin air, and so did its director. They just vanished.”