I laughed now. “The Pink Palace it is—just the name for a lucky voyage!”
Villagers gathered on the riverbank to see us off. I glanced up the path to see two police officers approaching. Khaki-smooth and manicured, their necks were wrapped in ties and tight collars. They looked like mannequins. How were they not sweating? I wondered. People stepped aside to let them pass. All conversation ceased.
“Buenos días, señor y señora. Where are you going?” the taller officer asked in Spanish. Perhaps in his forties, he had a trim black mustache, piercing black eyes, and an unnaturally erect posture.
Fitz explained we were going to Riberalta, Bolivia.
“On this?” the shorter, older officer nodded to the Pink Palace, his bushy brows hiding his eyes.
“Sí,” Fitz and I both said, proud to show off our vessel.
The men looked skeptically, not at the balsa, but at us.
“Do you know rafts?” the taller man asked, his hands now resting on his hips.
“No, but a friend told us ‘just go with the river.’ He said there’d be no problem.” Fitz paused. “Is there a problem?”
The officers looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “No, no problema.”
“But a license is necessary,” added the shorter officer. “All comandantes must have a license to go down the river. Come with us.”
I looked at Fitz, then at them. “Where are you taking him?”
“To get the license. We must have a record in the aduana’s office,” the tall officer replied. “Your husband won’t be long. Anyone can take a raft. There’s nothing to it.”
Why did we need a license for a raft? I thought back to the plane crash. Maybe it was good to document where we were going. Still, I felt intimidated by the police officers’ serious demeanor. I turned to Fitz. “I’ll go with you.” I was afraid that Fitz was going to be carted off, never to be seen again.
“Stay at the raft to watch your things,” the second officer suggested, his mouth turning downward as he spoke.
“It’s funny that we never heard about a license before now,” I mentioned to Fitz in English. “It’s so casual around here. I never would have thought they’d be so official.” I slapped at a couple of annoying mosquitoes hovering around my ear. “I suppose they wouldn’t give us a license if they didn’t think the raft was seaworthy.”
Fitz nodded. “I’m all for a record. It makes sense to have the captain of the port know when we left.” He rubbed his neck. “It makes me feel better about this whole thing.”
The officers explained that once they issued the license they would radio ahead to Riberalta to say that we would be arriving there within a few days. If we didn’t arrive, the Riberalta port authority would radio back to Puerto Maldonado.
“If necessary, we could radio a commercial plane from Lima,” the first officer assured us. “Planes pass over the area two or three times a week.”
He made a license sound like very good insurance.
“How many days to Riberalta?” asked Fitz.
They conferred. “About ten, unless you go day and night, then five.”
“Is that what people do?” I asked. “They go day and night?”
“Sí, señora,” the taller, more commanding officer answered. “Your raft is big. Safe.” We’d heard this from Juan. It was confirmation that the Pink Palace could stay afloat should the river get choppy.
The men watched us digest this information. When we had no more questions they said, “Let’s go, señor. It won’t take long.”
Fitz squeezed my hand. “I’ll be back soon.”
I watched him walk over the dusty hill between the two officers. He was taller than both of them, and in at least as good a shape. I didn’t like that they had guns, but I felt sure Fitz could handle himself.
I puttered around the balsa, organizing our backpacks and boxes of supplies along the wall that faced the stern at the foot of the sleeping bag. There was just enough room to fit everything and keep the sleeping bag open, as a luxurious rug to lounge on in the day. Then I lined our books alongside the length of the sleeping bag. I felt pleased with our cozy little home as if it were an exotic Bedouin tent. When Fitz had been gone two hours, I began wondering what was keeping him. I wanted to go find him, but didn’t want to leave our belongings unattended. Everything takes a while here, I reminded myself. I had better stay put.
The kids waiting along the shore looked bored. “Hey, you want to play charades?” I called, pantomiming a horse.
They got right into it, each one taking a turn, acting out an animal, dancer, or soccer player. One boy climbed onto the shoulders of another and pretended to smoke a cigarette. “Ah, a tall man…the gringo, the gringo!” they all laughed, imitating Fitz.
—
I cheered when I saw Fitz walking down the hill waving some papers high in the air.
“Here it is!” he called. “Our license! We’re official!”
He showed me our much-stamped license. He was now recorded as the vessel’s indisputable comandante. The police had typed in Fitz’s occupation as a newspaper reporter.
“I tried to tell them you’re a social worker, but I couldn’t get it across,” Fitz said, leaping onto the raft. “They listed you as a housewife, su casa.” He shook his head as he chortled.
I was so relieved to see him that my wild hug pitched us toward the water.
“Whoa!” he said as we wobbled back and forth then steadied ourselves.
Our audience on the shore began to clap when we didn’t fall in. I’d forgotten we were on display. I turned to wave in acknowledgment.
“Take a look, Hol,” Fitz said, one hand still on my waist, the other clutching the documents.
I leafed through the sheets of paper, amazed. All these official stamps on every page and we didn’t need to know a thing about rafting.
“And listen to this!” Fitz’s tone was light as he explained that the captain had a new ham radio that he was itching to use. “He showed it to me—it’s beautiful. He’s actually looking forward to radioing ahead so Riberalta will be on the lookout for us.”
I placed the documents in the camera bag and stuffed our passports back inside the money belts around our waists.
Fitz took a deep breath. “And get this—the captain has a Mark Twain calendar in his office, a gift from another traveler. That’s got to be a good omen.”
I was delighted to see Fitz so exuberant. He tied a cord to the paper-bagged quart bottle of beer Jim had given us and handed it to me. It felt loose inside the paper bag. I hoped it wouldn’t slip as I grasped the cord to let the bottle dangle. Just swing the cord hard and the bottle will follow, I told myself.
Pronounce our raft’s new name and smash the bottle on the raft; it should be easy. After all, my mom, when only ten, had christened Virginia, then the largest passenger ship on the seas.
More people arrived, waiting to see what would happen next. Youngsters climbed onto the raft to get a better look.
Fitz held the camera to catch the moment. “Okay, Hol!” he urged.
I wound up my arm and, with all the strength I had in me, swung the cord tied to the bottle as I called out the raft’s name.
Fitz clicked the camera as the bottle was in midair. He clicked the camera again as it hit the balsa’s outermost log. He clicked one more time as the bottle bounced off and slid, unbroken, into the brown water.
“Ooooh,” I heard the villagers lament, like a Greek chorus on the bank and on the raft. Then silence swelled around me as the bottle disappeared, swallowed by the murky river.
“It didn’t break!” I cried, slapping my hands to my face, feeling responsible for any bad luck that might result from the unbroken bottle.
“It doesn’t matter,” Fitz said. “It’s just a superstition.”
We could have walked back to town and bought another bottle. But it was now near noon and we had to get going. I told myself that christening bottles that didn’t break were like cracked mirrors
and spilled salt, black cats crossing your path: I didn’t believe in them.
“Come on, Hol, we’ve got to focus on reaching the border before dark. We’re not even sure how long it’ll take.”
He came down the bank, where he’d been taking photos.
I was still mad at myself. How could I have not broken that bottle? I thought about bottles breaking all the time when you didn’t want them to.
Fitz put his arm on my shoulder. “It’s not the real thing anyway,” he said. “It’s supposed to be champagne.”
—
No one could tell us how many hours the journey from Puerto Maldonado to the border post at Puerto Pardo would take. On the map it was about forty miles as the crow flies, but we could double that to account for the twists and turns of the river.
I began to wonder if perhaps people didn’t come down this river at all. Maybe they only went west. We definitely didn’t want to float unknowingly across an invisible line between Peru and Bolivia. With no motor we would just glide with the current. The Madre looked slow right now, but looks could be deceiving. The border is only a few hours away, I assured myself. We would make it before dusk.
The villagers and Fitz shoved us off. With the last push, Fitz hopped on and we waved good-bye. I took a photo of the kids waving back. Glancing up the bank at the slaughter shed, I saw there was only a single cow left alive, flicking her tail.
The raft floated out twenty feet then started back to the bank along the Tambopata.
“Holly, the current’s too strong to get in it, help me!” Fitz pressed his pole in the water against the bottom, trying to push us out again.
I threw my camera into the bag and grabbed the paddle.
Fitz poled and I paddled. The raft bounced around the bend and hit the bank of the Madre. We pushed off. My hands were slippery with sweat as I paddled toward the center. We sidled along the main current struggling hard to enter her, but she wouldn’t take us. Other currents grabbed us, whisked us back to shore. We fought our way out once more, renegade currents swirling us in circles as we headed toward the center.
“This is it, this time!” Fitz said as we again glided next to the main current.
“Yes, this is it for sure!”
But at the last moment eddies yanked us away. We tried again and again. I began to doubt the river would ever accept us. Assurance dissolving, I was hit with a memory: In high school I’d stood in a long line to audition for the elite choral group. I loved to sing. As my turn came closer I heard each girl’s melodic voice accompanied by the teacher on piano behind the door. They sounded so beautiful, so professional. My underarms began to pool. A few girls were still in front of me. Wet leaked through my shirt. Two girls. My heart thumped. Only one girl left. The pure notes soared. I bolted into the nearby bathroom. Leaning against the wall, I heard the bell ring: auditions over. Girls were giggling in the hall. I bit the index finger on my fisted hand, knowing I’d given up without even trying. Never again.
—
So I kept paddling. Eventually, the main current received us capriciously, like a moody nightclub bouncer. We were out in the middle now, standing tall in the noonday sun. Wiping our faces, we looked back to see how far we’d come. We had rounded a bend—or several. Puerto Maldonado was gone.
We were both heaving deep breaths. “Wow, we’re really moving fast!” I gasped, astonished at the raft floating smoothly on the river, relieved that we could stop fighting the current. I brushed Fitz’s hand and smiled. “The two rivers had to become one. That had to make it extra hard to get into the current.”
“I think so.” Fitz leaned down and kissed me. “Well, we did it, Hol! There’s no going back now.”
We stood with our arms around each other, my body wilting into his. “Even a boat would be hard to navigate against this current,” I said.
The river now looked at least three-quarters of a mile wide, flowing fast and full. A little shiver passed between my shoulders. The Rio Madre de Dios was stunning, but her power scared me.
Yet the Pink Palace floated easily, and I, assured by her steadiness and size, decided to sit down at the stern and take in the view. Fitz remained standing, watchful for a while longer. I swept my eyes over the river on either side of the tent, shielding them with my hand from the white sun flashing off the water. The Madre was vast and so was the jungle on both her banks. Farmlands of grasses and crops stretched up high hills, and small wooden houses with porches, like Ernesto’s, were nestled among miles of jungle. After a few more bends the river grew wider. Fitz and I saw no houses on either bank, only dense, steep rain forest interrupted by sporadic plots of plowed land. Soon we saw no open land at all, just hills of thick canopy rising to the horizon.
“There’s no one else here,” I murmured. “I’ve never been this far from people before.”
My interest intensified at such virgin beauty, at the river’s freedom to go where she wished. Yet a curl of apprehension crept into me as we traveled deeper and deeper into the unknown.
Chapter 9
First Day on the River
The jungle softly undulated alongside the river, perhaps a half mile away on either side of us. We were so far out that the forest looked like tiny clouds of green moss and Brillo pads. Our Rio Madre de Dios was ever changing but somehow always the same. She was a snake that carried us on her back.
The logs of the Pink Palace rode two or three inches above the main current that carried us forward, usually near the center of the river. Occasionally the current swirled us toward one shore or the other. The trees looked very different close up. Wild, gnarly branches with waving slim leaves looked like long, unbrushed hair. Other trees were stately and tall, with wide, handlike leaves. Thick vines strangled tree limbs. The Madre would jerk us back to her center again without warning.
It was a quiet, sultry day. We could hear every small bird, each splash from a fish. Red-and-blue macaws flew above us, squawking to each other in a full blue sky. We were the only craft on the river, and we made no sound at all, traveling like a feather, barely aware that we were moving. Yet when I looked out at branches and logs floating nearby, I saw how swiftly the river took them. Lighter than us, they sailed toward the horizon, disappearing around a bend. The river was faster than a galloping horse. Unlike a horse, the Madre never had to rest.
I smiled at Fitz and he grinned back. We’d done it! We were actually floating down the Madre on our jungle queen headed for the Amazon. We joked about which of us was Huck Finn. We both wore straw hats, but Fitz was comandante. I guessed I’d be Jim, or maybe Becky, but Becky hadn’t gone down the river.
Were there any stories about a girl riding a raft? Perhaps one day I would write one. We bantered for hours now that we had nothing else to do. I teased Fitz, the “comandante,” and he teased me about “su casa.” I took photos of him at the helm, wearing his straw hat, navy-blue-and-white-striped shirt, and jeans—my river boy.
Juan was right—we didn’t need a guide. We lazed along, letting the river carry us. The Madre’s playful currents relaxed me into a trance. I rested my head on Fitz’s lap as he held the tiller. From far off I heard birds cry out, smelled the drifting scent of ripe mangos and something like gardenia. My eyelids closed.
“Holly, look!” Fitz called out, making me laugh with surprise as I opened my eyes to see iridescent butterflies—red, yellow, orange, purple—fluttering around me. Then they darted off.
I dangled my hand in the water, then finally sat up and stretched my arms out like a bird. “I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so liberated,” I said. I squinted at Fitz in the sunlight that jumped off the river.
He swept strands of my windblown hair from my face, coming closer for a kiss.
Had I ever felt so happy? How fortunate we were to have each other to adventure with.
The Pink Palace’s plastic tent sparkled at the bow. The rest of her round logs, about two feet in diameter, spread seven feet to the stern and served as our deck, on which we spent the
afternoon sitting, or walking back and forth, splashing our faces with the cool river.
“Hey, I guess we have time to relax now,” I said. “The fort won’t be coming up for hours.”
Fitz grinned, his dimples going deep. He put his arms around me. “The Pink Palace can take care of herself,” he agreed.
“The scenery can, too,” I replied.
“You’re my scenery,” Fitz said, smiling as he guided me inside.
—
An hour or two later, we sat by the tiller feeling the heat of the late afternoon sun. We ate the last of the bread and became thirsty for fruit. Juan had advised against bringing much bread and fruit because it would only rot in the humidity. He’d said there would be plenty of farms along the way. “Just call out and people will boat out and bring it to you.”
We floated down the center of the widening river, seeing no signs of human life.
“Gee, we still haven’t seen anybody,” I said, feeling a little unsure.
“Hol, we’ve been preoccupied!”
“True.” I agreed, laughing, my anxiety ebbing away.
We continued to glide down the Madre, far from anything we’d ever known. As the afternoon sun began to glow orange, we started looking more carefully for signs of civilization. Eventually we saw six thatched-roof houses set high on a hill in an open area of red dirt and green scrub grass. So far away from us, they appeared small, like a doll village. Then I spotted three figures walking near the river. One wore a red sash.
“Oh, Fitz, there are people! They’ll come out!” We called out, “¡Hola!”
The people waved.
“Have you bread? Oranges?”
“Sí.”
Ruthless River Page 7