Calmness settled inside me.
“Fitz, we’ve had enough.” I kissed him. “God’s taking us out of here, today.”
He opened his eyes, looked up wildly at the hornets, then stared at me. “Where’s he taking us?”
“Home.” I glanced at the empty water containers. “I’ll fill these up. You need more.”
“No! I’ll do it.” He winced as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “I’m going in the water.”
Bees flew all around us as Fitz got to his knees, haunches pushing through his sagging flesh.
“I’m going with you.”
“I’m fine,” he said firmly. He groaned, staggering toward the flap on all fours like a weakened, famished animal. He banged into the frame. I had to look away.
On my knees now, I smoothed the sleeping bag, plumped pillows of clothing, ignoring the remaining bees that hadn’t followed Fitz. I listened, waiting to help Fitz climb out of the water. I doubted he could do it alone. I’d heard splashes when he’d gone in and his deep sigh of relief to be momentarily free of the bees.
Suddenly he screamed, “¡Socorro!” Then, louder, he yelled for help again, his voice stronger than it had been in weeks.
“What is it, what is it?” I edged toward the tent door, frantic to get out.
“Men! Give me my glasses! I thought it was a log, but it’s going against the current! It’s moving this way!” His voice was fast and trembling.
“Men?” I was afraid to believe.
“Yes, I think it’s a boat. Hurry!”
I seized his glasses from beside the sleeping bag and thrust my head out of the tent. Fitz reached his hand up from the water to take them.
Staring down the channel, I saw two men in a dugout canoe paddling toward us. They were just seventy yards away, coming out of the flooded woods—the first human beings we’d seen in thirty-one days.
“Oh, Fitz, you’re right. They’re men!”
“¡Socorro! ¡Socorro!” Fitz shouted again.
“We’re saved!” My heart was thundering in my chest.
Fitz didn’t answer me. He was focused on the men.
As the canoe glided closer, I realized the men were Indians. Their short, straight black hair was swept back from their foreheads, their skin brown as cocoa. They stared intently at us as they paddled, never breaking rhythm.
Fitz called out again.
No response, but they kept coming. They seemed so grim.
“Why don’t they answer?” Fitz didn’t take his eyes off them.
“I don’t know.” I was riveted, too.
There was no sound except the paddles quietly dropping in and out of the water. Then I heard the men mumbling.
“Do you think they’re friendly?” Fitz asked, grasping the side of the raft.
“I hope so.”
“¿Hablo español?” we yelled repeatedly, thinking that we were asking the Indians if they spoke Spanish. Their continuing silence bewildered us. They were now close enough for me to see their high cheekbones and dark eyes. The front man was lean, his face narrow and his puckered mouth small. The man in the stern was muscular, with a broad chest and thick arms. His face was wide, his mouth a straight line.
I caught my breath when they were nearly upon us. Their paddles thrust the canoe forward, but the Indians’ bodies, like stone carvings, did not move. The men gave no sign of communication, their unblinking eyes penetrating us like arrowheads.
“What if they pass us by?” I asked, panic rising. Then I saw a rifle lying across the bow. “They’ve got a gun. You don’t think they’ll hurt us?”
Fitz’s mouth twisted downward. “The other guy’s got a rifle, too. Holly, get back in the tent.” He freed a hand from the edge of the raft, his eyes fixed on the men. “Hand me the knife!”
I ducked my head inside and fumbled in a box for the Girl Scout knife.
“Hurry!” Fitz pressed.
I dropped the knife into his palm. It looked small and useless in his unsteady hand. When I raised my eyes the men were perhaps twenty yards off. Modesty hit me. “I need clothes,” I said, backing into the tent.
“Stay in there,” Fitz insisted.
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right out.” I was afraid of the men, but I wanted to trust they would save us. “I’m sure they’re going to help us,” I called through the plastic wall as I knelt over my backpack and grabbed my purple dress.
“I’ve got to decide now before they reach the raft,” Fitz whispered hoarsely. “Our only chance is surprise. I might be able to get their rifle.”
“I know they’ll help us,” I repeated, searching for the dress’s neck hole.
“Stay in there, Holly. They’re here.”
I dropped the polyester shift over my head and staggered to my feet. My rubbery legs surged forward, pitching me through the door with no control.
I couldn’t stop. I fell off the balsa and tumbled into the air. The bright blue sky spun above me. I saw the rifles. I saw the silent Indians grab the bow of the Pink Palace. I saw them watch me as I fell toward the deep, murky swamp. “¡Socorro, por favor!” I called out as I went under.
Chapter 40
Banana Chips
Gasping, I popped to the surface. An Indian’s hand was reaching out to me. “Oh, señora, pobre señora,” the voice said gently. I lifted my hand from the water and he grasped it. I raised my other hand and let him pull me into his canoe.
As the Indian extended his hands to Fitz, I fell onto the roughly chiseled canoe bottom, gulping air, trying to take in the two men and the sudden prospect of rescue. Somehow Fitz crumpled next to me. We trembled, hugging each other. Overwhelmed with joy, we both began to cry.
“Gracias, gracias,” I repeated between sobs.
The men began to speak to each other in Quechua.
“I hope we can communicate with them,” I said to Fitz.
He turned his head toward the Indian closest to him in the bow. “¿Hablas español, señor?”
The Indian nodded. His mouth opened but said nothing.
Using Spanish and his finger to point at himself and me, Fitz told them our names. Resting my hand on Fitz’s back, I felt the effort it took for him to speak.
The men sat staring.
“What are your names?” I ventured, looking back and forth at each of them, hoping to give Fitz a moment to rest.
“Roque,” “Silverio,” came their solemn replies.
Silverio, the man with the wider face who’d pulled us from the water, was seated at the stern. Up close, he looked Incan, his posture regally straight. His arms bulged like tree trunks from his white short-sleeved shirt. No taller than me, he was all muscle. His straight black hair was cut in bangs but fell to either side of his face, mostly under a bandanna. He looked blind in one eye. His good eye searched mine, but he said nothing. His soft “pobre señora” had soothed me, but now his solemn manner made me anxious. I couldn’t tell if he was friend or foe. I looked for warmth in his good brown eye; his grayed eye didn’t move.
Roque, slightly taller, had a slender face and physique. He had narrow cheekbones, a long nose, and arched eyebrows hinting at Spanish ancestry. His shirt was bright red, torn in the left shoulder. Patches covered the knees of his muddied khaki pants, and the big toe of his right foot burst from a hole in one boot.
“You’re a miracle,” I said in what I hoped was correct Spanish. “We’ve been here twenty-six days.”
Roque blew air from his mouth so his cheeks puffed out, as if he were incredulous to see us. “Here there is no land, no people,” he said in Spanish. He pointed to a tree that had dark green leaves grouped in fives, like fingers, converging to one stem. “In July, this lake dries. We can tap the rubber trees.”
July’s four months away, I thought. We would never have made it.
Once Roque started to speak, his Spanish grew loquacious. “We were on the Madre de Dios hunting turtles.” He nodded to a dead turtle in the canoe. “We saw a monkey in a tree. Very
good eating. We chased it through the flooded forest. When we got here, to Lago Santa Maria, we lost the monkey.” He paused. “Then we saw you.” He crossed himself. He still seemed amazed to see us.
I squeezed Fitz’s hand. He sat in front of me, behind Roque. Fitz glanced at me, his eyes shadowy from hunger but glistening a little. When he put his arm around me, he was still trembling.
Lago Santa Maria. I wondered about such a beautiful name for a seasonal lake that could be so deadly. Roque’s and Silverio’s chiseled faces softened. Roque wanted to know how we ended up here.
Although weak, I was exhilarated and bursting to talk. Fitz joined in. Using rudimentary Spanish with lots of gesturing, we explained what had happened to us. The Indians’ eyes widened as Fitz and I told our story.
At the end we were breathless. Looking around I saw we were still at the Pink Palace and wondered why we hadn’t moved. The hunger gnawing in my stomach was an urgent need to escape. “Please, take us with you?” I pleaded.
“Sí, sí, señora,” Silverio nodded, extending his hand but stopping short of touching me.
“Oh, gracias.” I wept, my shoulders shaking.
Fitz, his eyes ghostly again, asked if they had food: “¿Tienes comida?” He was so thin I thought he would blow away.
“Sí,” Roque replied.
“Where?” asked Fitz, glancing wildly around the inside of the canoe.
“The barraca. Señora will feed you,” Roque explained.
He looked beyond us and nodded to Silverio. They still weren’t moving the canoe. I became afraid they would change their minds and leave us here.
“What is ‘barraca’?” I asked.
“Downriver, a few hours from here,” Roque replied.
I must have asked “where,” not “what.” The men began discussing something. What are they saying? I wondered.
Shifting my hand in the ten-foot dugout, I pressed down on something clammy behind me. I turned to look. My hand was on the head of a three-foot-long turtle wearing a grim smile. My hand shot back into my lap.
“She’s dead,” Roque beamed. He pointed to his friend and himself.
Rescuing us would cut short their hunting. Was that what they’d been discussing? I tapped Fitz. “What if they want to keep hunting? They might need this space in the boat for game.”
Fitz pushed his hand through his hair. “They could be on a long expedition.”
The canoe had been cut from a balsa tree by a machete. Besides the rifles and the turtle, I saw a green glass bottle and a small cloth bag. “They don’t look like they have overnight supplies.”
“Can we go with you?” Fitz asked again in Spanish.
“Sí, sí,” they both agreed. But still we did not move.
“¿Ahora, por favor?” I asked the men. Now, please?
“Sí,” said Silverio softly, but he didn’t pick up his paddle.
“We were trying to get to Riberalta. How far is Riberalta?” I asked him.
The men conferred before Silverio replied, “Eight hours by boat.”
We almost made it by ourselves, I thought. We were so close but for that abominable storm.
“Comida,” Fitz pressed.
The late-morning glare on the hollows of his cheeks spotlighted his emaciated face, even with his beard.
“Sí, sí. Bring your things,” Roque said.
“We can leave them.” Fitz glanced at the Pink Palace. “You can have them. Just take us, please.”
The men did not seem to be in a hurry. “Go.” They gestured with their arms. What if they leave us the minute we climb out? I thought. I didn’t want to budge.
Silverio smiled at us.
“Stay alert,” Fitz warned me.
We crawled out of the canoe and into the tent. Peering out often, to make sure they were still there, we fumbled with fatigue as we tied our money belts around our waists and collected the black camera bag with the camera and film. I pushed my journal, thin budget notebook, and the parrot feather fan on top of the clothing into the bag. We couldn’t think what else we would need.
We just wanted to climb back into the canoe before the men changed their minds.
We’re going to get out of here; we’re going to get home, I repeated to myself. I felt a spurt of energy from fear of being left behind as I dragged the black bag to the door. “Oh, Fitz. We’ve got to hurry. What else should we take?”
“Clothes,” he mumbled, his eyes darting around our tiny home.
We stuffed clothes into the bag. None of our things mattered to me now. We emerged from the tent to see the men patiently waiting.
“More,” they said when they saw how little we’d packed.
Reluctantly, we crept back under the plastic and dragged my orange backpack and Fitz’s gray canvas bag outside. The Indians lifted them into the canoe.
“More!” Silverio held on to the Pink Palace with one hand.
“I’ll get the woolen blankets and my typewriter then,” Fitz said, half smiling.
We sat down on the Pink Palace and hauled ourselves into the canoe. “Please come back later for the rest. You can keep it all,” I said.
The Indians leapt onto the raft. The canoe jumped away from the Pink Palace because Fitz and I weren’t holding on to it. Fitz reached for a paddle and maneuvered the dugout close enough for me to grab the balsa. The men busily bundled the mosquito netting around the clothes we’d left in the tent. They grabbed the fishnet we’d made from Fitz’s shirt, the hammocks we had planned to use on the boat we’d missed, the roll of extra plastic, rope, the pots and pans. They handed us the sleeping bag and Girl Scout kit.
Quickly the men ripped the faded plastic off the poles of the tent and yanked out the stakes. I wanted to cry out. No question, without the Pink Palace we wouldn’t have stayed alive long enough for the Indians to find us. The men collected nails, pried the oilcan cookstove off the balsa, and placed them all in the canoe. Within minutes the Pink Palace was a bare raft again.
Our things were of considerable worth to the Indians. Fitz and I stared, openmouthed, as they began to pull up the tent’s floorboards with pocket knives and their bare hands. Lago Santa Maria must not be close to their home, so they wanted to take everything now.
“Please,” Fitz said, “will you come back for the boards later? We’re so hungry.”
“Sí, comida, por favor.” I had my hand at my stomach.
The men stopped to look at us then nodded to each other. Silverio dropped the floorboard as Roque put his knife in his pocket.
“Gracias,” we both said.
I don’t know where they could have stacked the boards, anyway. The canoe was stuffed.
Their kindness brought tears to my eyes.
The Indians took their positions in the canoe. Roque, with good eyes, knelt in the bow.
Fitz sat behind him and I sat behind Fitz. Silverio took the stern to steer according to Roque’s directions. He handed Fitz the green glass bottle. It was corked with a piece of corncob. “Chicha,” said the Indian, indicating what we knew was fermented corn juice. We had tasted the mealy drink in Ecuador. The smell was distinctive.
Roque handed me a small cloth bag containing thin, circular pieces of fried plantain.
“Eat.”
The preserved fruit was the first food we’d been offered in twenty-six days. My hands shook as I brought a chip to my mouth. They were hard and crunchy, like potato chips, but sweet.
At last the men began to paddle. As we pulled away from the raft, I listened for the jungle sounds behind me. No orchestrated birdsong farewell. No wing-flapping applause at our good fortune. Even the bees weren’t around to witness our escape. The heat of midday had brought quiet to the animals. My body flinched as I heard a thin hum of bees in the marsh. A frog croaked, a tree creaked, there was a brief rustle in the canopy above, then sultry silence fell over us. I focused on the sound of the paddles slicing into the swamp. It was a paltry good-bye.
As we floated briskly away, I stared ba
ck at what remained. A narrow row of balsa logs held only paperbacks scattered across the partly raised floorboards, the bones of our Palace. I would never return. Neither mourning nor wistful, I was serenely joyous, grateful beyond telling. I would need no lingering look to remember the Pink Palace forever.
Facing forward, I was curious to see how the Indians would find their way to the elusive river. The dugout rode the flooded lowlands much higher than our little balsas had. Sunlight glittered on the water, dancing in front of us. Like angels guiding us, I thought. “I wonder how they’ll get out of here?” I asked Fitz. “I’m sure they can’t go up against the current.”
“I was wondering that, too,” Fitz replied, his brow furrowing. “Probably the same way they came in.”
The Indians crossed our bay to the opposite side of the swamp, about an eighth of a mile. The paddles plunged into the murky water, deep and smooth. We made good time. Roque called out obstacles, and Silverio steered around them. They headed directly through the flooded jungle, between the trees, occasionally hacking at brush with their knives.
Fitz and I grasped each other’s hands and mumbled, “Thank you, thank you,” to God, and to these two men. I was overwhelmed with emotion, my entire body shaking, tears filling my eyes. Silverio patted my head, moaning, “Señora, señora.”
Fitz’s face and body unexpectedly tensed. His eyes darted around the dark forest. “Where are we going?”
I felt perfectly relaxed with these men, like a child with her parents. “Don’t worry. They know what they’re doing,” I reassured Fitz. I had no doubt about them.
“How do we know where they’re taking us?” Fitz asked.
“We’re just going to have to trust them.”
We ducked under branches as the canoe rode midway up the trees. The branches beneath the water level scraped and slowed us down. It was much cooler in the darkness, even without a breeze. A shiver passed through me. Looking up, I saw shafts of light falling between the trees, briefly illuminating us, like God’s grace.
The Indians found a narrow opening into a canopy of taller trees, many of them palms, which we hadn’t seen along the swamp. Once we were inside the canopy, the low horizontal vines weren’t as numerous, allowing the canoe to glide easily over the calm water, well above the mud and bushes below. Tall, smooth trees and rough-barked palms rose from the water in silent witness to our liberation. The streaming light now changed to dappling splashes on the dark, swampy bayou.
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