Ruthless River

by Holly Fitzgerald

  “Where are we going?” I asked, turning to Silverio.

  “Barraca de Santo Domingo, señora,” Roque replied.

  “Good news. We’ll be there soon,” I told Fitz, my hand resting on his shoulder. He nodded, his eyes suspiciously searching our surroundings.

  “How long to get there?” I asked. “My stomach wants to know.” I tried to make them laugh, and it was true, my stomach did want to know.

  “Soon, soon,” Roque chuckled.

  “Will we get food?”

  “Sí. Comida.”

  I started naming foods in Spanish. “Oranges, rice, beans, bread.”

  “Sí,” they giggled.

  As we skimmed into a wide pool of open water the Indians set their paddles across their laps. I felt sure there was quickmud below us. The men mumbled to each other as the canoe became still. A few minutes passed. I felt panic rising in my chest as Fitz’s back stiffened. Are they lost? I wondered. Even if they were, I knew they would find their way again. This was their world.

  “They could do away with us, right here,” Fitz said, tension in his voice. “They’ve got guns, and we’re too weak to fight back. They could shoot us and push us over the side.”

  I was alarmed. “Why would they do that?”

  “We have things they might want.”

  For a moment, all turned black in my mind. I realized that if the Indians wanted to, they could easily kill us and leave. No one would ever know.

  A scowl sat on Fitz’s forehead. His jaw twitched under his stubble. “Be ready,” he warned.

  “Maybe they’re just trying to find their way out.”

  “They know this area like we know Danbury. Why would they be lost?”

  “Sometimes we get lost in Connecticut.”

  The Indians’ mumbling stopped. The canoe started forward across the big span of dark water, toward eleven o’clock, then again entered a group of tight, interlocking trees.

  I heard Fitz sigh.

  After about an hour, perhaps two, we broke through the trees and glided toward a wide brown river.

  “Madre de Dios?” Fitz asked.

  “Sí, señor,” Roque replied.

  My breath came short.

  We’d tried so hard and fought so long to reach the river. Now that we were here she flowed steadily, indifferently, pushing stolidly on toward Brazil. The river reflected the colors of everything she saw: abundant green trees, gray clouds, slate sky. I leaned over the side of the dugout and scooped water into my hand. It looked clear compared to the swamp water we’d been drinking.

  “I said I’d kiss her if I ever saw her again.” I smiled at Fitz, touching my lips to the water.

  She hadn’t even noticed we were gone. I placed my hand on Fitz’s back. He was still tense.

  “Lago Santa Maria begins up there.” Roque pointed behind us to a separate channel that led off the main river.

  I stared at the entrance of our storm-driven turn toward disaster. Then I averted my eyes from that channel for the very last time. “How much longer?” I asked, desperate for food.

  “Twenty minutes,” Silverio said, moving his head back and forth.

  We can make that, I thought, though the anticipation was excruciating. South American time ran slower than ours. Twenty minutes could mean hours, or even most of a day. No matter, I told myself. We will survive.

  The mile-wide Madre was calm, unlike the night when she’d nearly killed me. The two men paddled hard to break into her main current, then we glided effortlessly downriver toward the place the Indians called home.

  A red riverbank rose on the distant side. We had not seen solid earth in nearly a month.

  “Land!”

  “We’re not there yet,” Fitz replied.

  Chapter 41

  Barraca

  Fitz was irritable. “They must have food at the barraca. I need to eat!”

  “We’re almost there.” I tried to soothe him as I told myself, We’ve waited twenty-six days. We can wait a little longer.

  Fitz hadn’t been grouchy during our month of starvation, but now that we knew food was coming, his restraint had burst its dam. I understood how he felt. I wanted to devour oranges by the tree-load. I wanted land to cradle me. Like an infant, I wanted my needs taken care of, immediately.

  “Will there be fruit?” I asked Roque.

  “Sí.”

  “Meat?” Fitz blurted.

  “Sí.”

  “Rice?”

  “Sí.”

  We needed constant assurance.

  Nosing around a bend, we saw four small thatched roofs about fifty yards up an emerald hill carved out of the jungle.

  “¿Barraca?” I asked.

  “Sí, señora. Es Santo Domingo.”

  Fitz and I squeezed each other’s hands. We couldn’t take our eyes off the row of wooden buildings and the long sweep of green grass rising to meet them. I took a deep breath. I knew I was going to cry.

  The dugout struck the bank with a thump.

  When the Indians helped us clamber out of the canoe, we collapsed onto solid ground. I stroked the soil, mesmerized by the sweet, moist earth, tears flowing off my chin.

  Roque and Silverio practically carried us up to a tree near a house. Fitz and I dropped onto our backs in the tree’s shade. The Indians trudged back to the canoe to collect our packs, leaving us alone with the unbearable anticipation of eating. My sharp bones pinched me as I sought to position my crumpled body. Within seconds, a few natives wandered over.

  “Buenos días. ¿Tienes comida?”

  “Sí,” they replied, but they offered us nothing.

  A few chickens pecked in the grass nearby. Fitz eyed them hungrily but he didn’t move.

  The house on short stilts had a porch. A building to the right of us had no walls, just a steep roof that reached almost to the ground. The third building was another stilt house, and the last one looked like a barn with hay packed around its foundation. I glanced down the hill toward a black-and-pink mottled pig grunting along a worn dirt path toward us. Food, I thought, but my body refused to budge.

  There were footsteps beside us. A woman in a white shirtwaist dress stood cradling the biggest orange I’d ever seen. A blue headband held her brown curly hair in place around her stern, flat face. She stared down. I stared at the orange.

  A younger woman came with her small daughter. She knelt and began to fan me with her hand. It felt exquisite in the stiff, hot air. The older woman handed us the orange. We peeled it, trembling. We devoured it instantly, sucking the bitter peel.

  A crowd of ten to fifteen gathered around, staring as if we were exotic animals. Roque spoke Quechua to them, apparently telling our story, which he repeated to each new arrival. Silverio nodded and beamed.

  “What’s going to happen to us, Fitz? We can’t even walk.” I felt we were at the people’s mercy, and no one seemed to be in charge.

  “Are we going to get more to eat?” Fitz grimaced as he turned onto his side. His bones looked ready to puncture his skin.

  I pulled myself up on my arms to lean against the trunk of the tree. “I hope so.” My spine felt raw against the bark, but sitting up gave me a better view. I tried to see past the growing crowd.

  Fitz raised his eyes to find Roque. “¿Comida?” he whispered.

  “Sí, señor.”

  The Indians and mestizos jostled for position, moving in closer to us. Unable to sit up any longer, I crumpled to the grass.

  At that moment, a small plate of rice and fried plantain was passed through the crowd to us. We couldn’t see who had brought it, but we ate it with our hands. Another peeled orange followed. We split it and put it to our lips.

  I closed my eyes to savor the pulp melting in my mouth. There was so much juice it flowed like a stream down my chin.

  Fitz placed his finger on my chin to catch the escaping juice, pushing it back up to my lips for me to drink.

  Just then the crowd parted. A European-looking woman with short, curly
silver-brown hair appeared. She wore slacks and a fitted top, like my mom. Hands on her hips, she scowled, snatching the orange from us and throwing it away. I watched the pieces roll down the hill. “Bad for you,” she scolded, shaking her head. She was Bolivian and spoke Spanish. “You can’t have acid. Stomach, stomach!” She rolled her hand in front of her abdomen. A concerned smile flickered across her face. “I am Gregoria Desdre.” She turned to Roque and Silverio, directing them to take our belongings into her house.

  We entered a small sitting room with a wood floor, reed walls, and red curtains tied back from screened windows. Four wooden chairs, two benches, a small table, a treadle sewing machine, and a torn hammock furnished the simple room. Roque guided me to a chair, but Fitz couldn’t take another step and buckled to the floor.

  I stood up to help him but fell back onto the seat, my legs also liquid.

  He barely nodded. “I’m all right. I just need food.”

  A number of people were already sitting and standing around the room. With a sweep of her hand, Gregoria introduced us to her tiny white-haired mother and other family members.

  “I’ll make food,” she announced before she disappeared through a dark doorway.

  Someone hung a hammock from the roof for me. Someone else pushed two benches together for Fitz to lie on. One young girl entertained us with her baby pet monkey on a string. I smiled as the monkey scrambled up and down her arm. I thought of the monkey that had led the Indians to us. It was a friend, not food. Squealing children chased a ball that rolled under my hammock. Girls of different ages gathered around me, exclaiming excitedly over my colorful cloisonné ring. We’d given most of our belongings to Roque and Silverio, but now I wished we also had something for these people who’d taken us into their home.

  Fitz remembered that in the black bag were two rings he’d given me, as well as ten straw rings I’d bought in Copacabana. I found them in a side pocket and handed them out to Gregoria’s nieces and grandnieces. I also took two rings off my fingers and gave them away.

  Sitting on a chair beside us, Roque explained that he didn’t want our possessions.

  “We want you to have them,” I insisted.

  “We want to give you more!” Fitz added.

  Roque put his hand up. “No, no.”

  I looked at his toe poking out of his old, ripped shoes. These people deserved more than what they had.

  Gregoria said that our beaded jewelry, sheets, pots and pans, mosquito netting, and other camping supplies would make the Indians wealthy by comparison with others on the barraca. They were, she explained, serfs to her brother, who owned Santo Domingo, the rubber tree plantation, along with the horses, pigs, cows, and chickens that we’d seen wandering on the lawn.

  Though the Desdre family lived simply, their clothes weren’t torn or ragged. They slept in beds rather than hammocks. Their home had a wooden floor, not packed dirt.

  Gregoria gave us cups of what she called nestone. The hot, extremely sweet liquid cereal, made with a great deal of milk and sugar, went down so easily. Gregoria insisted on pacing the food portions. The gruel, later a bit of fish and rice, later a little more.

  I was extremely warm, despite being inside the house and away from the pepper-hot sun. A girl pulled a chair near my hammock and began to fan me. Her name was Mercedes, she said shyly, her large eyes at half-mast.

  Children tittered as they brought us sugarcane and a small yellow fruit with a large pit. It didn’t have much meat but tasted delicious. I could hardly believe this wasn’t a dream. A warm glow of tranquility suffused me.

  “Let’s celebrate this day every year,” I suggested to Fitz. “March 16 will be our personal Thanksgiving for how fortunate we are.”

  Effusiveness overpowered my fatigue. I tried to raise myself in the hammock to look at him.

  “I like it.” He smiled from the bench-bed, where he looked peaceful. “Instead of eating the rich meals we dreamed of on the raft, we’ll give thanks with food like we ate today.”

  Gregoria returned with a comb and sat beside me. She and Mercedes began to sort tangles from my hair. I’d assumed that if we ever escaped my long hair would have to be shorn, but these patient women proceeded to comb it smooth then wove a braid down my back. It felt so good to be spoiled by these strangers.

  Gregoria gave me dry clothes to replace my damp ones.

  Her nieces helped to shuffle us over to the little table. We ate roasted banana that was dry and hard to swallow. Gregoria joined us as we greedily slurped the hot soup, chicken, and rice.

  When we’d finished we lay down again, deliriously satiated. My heart leapt wildly. I was intoxicated with being alive.

  A few minutes later, men showed up with fresh fish. As the red sun set they wanted to hear our story. There were no lamps, but a three-quarter moon soon streamed soft blue light through the windows. We talked in the dark to their seated shadows.

  They asked us where we would go next. “Riberalta,” Fitz replied. They told us local boats traveled to Riberalta every couple of days to take produce to market. Like taxis, they stopped at barracas to pick up passengers. We would be able to catch a ride in the morning.

  In response to Gregoria’s demands that we see a doctor, we agreed to stop by the Maryknoll missionary hospital in Riberalta for a quick checkup before continuing our worldwide journey. Although we still couldn’t walk without support, we were both so elated that we didn’t doubt we could keep traveling.

  The little house filled with the aroma of freshly cooked fish. One of Gregoria’s nephews took my arm to guide me, by lantern light, to the tiny eating nook. Another one helped Fitz. The nook barely had room for the four-foot table and a bench on either side. I squeezed onto a bench then was startled by something rough and warm against my legs. I lifted the table cloth to find a big sow, snuffling for scraps.

  “Fitz, look!” It seemed so incongruous, so magnificent.

  Fitz smiled. “I bet you’d love one of those under our table at home.”

  “Yes!”

  “Not for bacon,” he promised, now that our stomachs were finally being filled.

  The fish was served with a buttery sauce, and we inhaled every bite. The lantern light played on the walls and faces, casting an orange glow over the room.

  “I’ll never forget this day, or your kindness,” I told Gregoria and the rest. “Thank you.”

  “Sí, sí.” They nodded. “Es extraordinario.”

  Fitz looked exhausted, murmuring, “Thank you so much.”

  Marina, the niece, noticed our eyes drooping. “Come. You must be tired.”

  She made us a bed on the sitting-room floor with sheets, blankets, and our still-damp sleeping bag for padding. Many people sat around the edges of the dark, bare room, talking quietly as we lay down.

  Drifting toward sleep, I heard a boat’s engine cutting to silence at the Santo Domingo bank. Marina jumped up and ran out. We learned it was her husband returning from upriver with a boatload of Brazil nuts. He joined us in the sitting room, eager to hear our story. My eyes closed in the darkness, lulled toward blissful sleep by their lilting Spanish voices. He would take us to Riberalta in the morning.

  “¡Señora, señor!” I was jolted awake by Gregoria as she led a man and woman through the front door. More people! She lifted her lantern to the man’s face. It was Roque. He’d come to introduce us to his wife. She stepped forward and handed me three perfect white eggs; then a plastic bag of bananas was dropped onto our sleeping bag. “Por señora.” Roque placed a pure-white hen in my hands. It all happened so quickly. Tears flooded my eyes.

  “We can’t take these,” I said.

  “You must,” Gregoria responded.

  She explained that Roque and Silverio didn’t feel right about accepting our gifts, so they’d come to give us one of their best chickens and three white eggs, a week’s worth of wages. They, who had so little, gave so much. It was difficult to stop crying.

  —

  Eventually the Desdre
family and friends went to bed. Fitz was lightly snoring, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. It was stifling on the floor, and the mosquitoes had found their way in, despite the screens. I watched the hammock sway in the windows’ breeze. It would be cooler than the sleeping bag. I climbed into it.

  My spine curved to the rope cradle as I studied moonlit patterns on the floorboards. Extending my arm into the moonlight’s path, I watched my hand turn silver. The splendid moon’s puckered face looked down at me as if we were the only ones awake in the world. Its beam seemed to wink approval that Fitz and I were safe. The last three-quarter moon had led us to the riverbank in Puerto Maldonado, for our very first night on the raft. It seemed so long ago.

  Gratitude settled into my soul as I cherished this private moment with the moon. I’d savor each day, clear or stormy, for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 42

  Maryknoll

  MARCH 17

  I awoke in the darkness to voices down at the boat. Everyone was up but Fitz and me. Gregoria soon brought us nestone, bread, and coffee. I wanted to ask her if we could have Roque’s eggs for breakfast but it seemed there was no time—Marina’s husband was in a hurry to go.

  “Ooh, I feel terrible,” Fitz moaned, bending over with both hands on his stomach. He’d eaten too much last night, but there was no time to feel better.

  “Can you make it?”

  “Yeah, we can’t miss this ride.”

  We gathered what wasn’t already in our bags, leaving the eggs in the drawer where I’d placed them.

  “What about my lovely chicken?” I asked Fitz. “Can we take it with us?”

  Gregoria overheard me. She picked up the live chicken and said she’d cook it. I was heartened that she could cook a chicken when there seemed to be no time to cook eggs, but she was boss and people followed her lead. She must have decided the captain could wait. For a moment I was wistful about the fate of the chicken, almost wanting to keep it as a pet. Within twenty minutes, the chicken had been killed, plucked, cooked, and plated for us to take with us.