Diego's Pride

by Deborah Ellis

  ‘Maybe,’ Diego started, a plan taking shape in the notebook in his mind, ‘maybe we could build them a separate little house attached to the wall by the stove, so they’d get warmth from the fire but would have more room to grow. Maybe you could raise forty or fifty all at once.’

  Bonita chewed thoughtfully on a potato.

  ‘You talk as if you’re not leaving,’ she said. ‘You talk as if you plan on staying here. Maybe you think you’ll just keep living on our farm.’

  Diego didn’t know what to say, although there was some truth in Bonita’s words. He knew he needed to see his family, he needed to make things right, but he didn’t know whether he could live in the prison again without going crazy. He’d begun to daydream of having enough money to travel back and forth, to support his family, but also to spend most of his time with the Ricardos. He’d even started to think about bringing Corina back with him. Mrs Ricardo would take good care of her, and farm work and space to play would take the whine out of her.

  ‘It’s not your farm,’ she said. ‘I’m the oldest. That should count for something, even though I’m a girl. I do as much work on the farm as a boy would do. Twice as much.’

  Diego had a feeling the conversation had switched into something else, but he wasn’t sure what. Then Bonita switched it back to him.

  ‘I’m glad that we helped you out when you needed it, but now there are a lot of other families you can turn to. We didn’t have enough to go around before they stole our coca. Don’t think you’re moving in.’

  ‘I’m not. I don’t!’

  ‘You don’t even need to stay on the blockade, do you? You’re not really one of us. You don’t need to stay.’

  It was a mean thing to say. Diego didn’t even bother to ask her why she said it. He just got up off the log and walked away.

  He walked through the party to the north end of the bridge, as far away from Bonita as he could get without leaving the blockade. He leaned against one of the tree branches that made up part of the barrier.

  ‘What’s the matter, Bug?’ Dario was there, drinking chicha with his buddies. ‘Girl troubles? They only get worse, my friend, but oh, is it worth it!’

  Dario started to brag. From Diego’s experience, the more bragging, the less there was to tell. He turned his ears off and stared out from the north end of the bridge, then found Emilio for a few games of chess.

  His mind wasn’t on the game, though, and Emilio beat him easily, twice.

  ‘Go to bed,’ Emilio said. ‘I’d rather play with Santo.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘Good morning, campesinos!’

  A woman’s voice boomed out from a megaphone, making Diego jump right out of his sleep.

  A couple of the little kids started to cry at being woken up suddenly. That didn’t stop the old woman holding the megaphone.

  Diego propped himself up on his elbows and nudged Emilio, who was sleeping beside him. They watched the old woman move closer and closer to where Dario, Leon and the other men of the chicha party were sprawled together on a mat, moaning and groaning about the loud noise.

  ‘We are here for a purpose,’ the old woman announced, the megaphone making the sound of her voice echo down the river. ‘Some of you seem to think that purpose is to drink chicha. Maybe we should have a meeting to see if everybody feels that way.’

  Anybody could call a meeting at any time about anything that was bothering them. You didn’t have to be a union official. Even Martino called a meeting one afternoon to complain that the young men kept borrowing the children’s ball to play soccer on the bridge but wouldn’t let the little kids join in. The meeting decided that the young men had to get their own ball or play only under the direction of the little kids.

  ‘I am calling a meeting this morning, right now, to discuss the banning of chicha from the blockade,’ the old woman continued.

  Diego was all in favor of banning the homemade corn beer. He didn’t like the taste anyway, and it might mean Dario and Leon would do more work instead of just giving orders.

  It was a good-natured meeting. Those with the morning-after heads grumbled, but they were clearly outnumbered.

  ‘Let’s put it to a vote, then,’ Mrs Ricardo said. ‘All those in favor of banning the drinking of chicha – and any other alcohol – on the blockade…’

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ came a yell from the north end of the bridge.

  It wasn’t just someone. It was a whole lot of someones. Down the highway came a big group of people armed with sticks, and they were heading toward the blockade.

  The protesters scrambled into action. The young children and old people ducked under a tarp in the center of the bridge. Everyone else went to the barricades.

  The little kids Martino’s age had been given the job of collecting stones, and now Diego saw what they were for, as protesters picked them up, ready to throw.

  ‘Wait until they come close enough!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Who are they?’ Diego asked.

  ‘Probably the people we turned back on the bus,’ the man next to him said. ‘The food and beer have probably run out at the village, and now they think they have a right to come through here.’

  Diego picked up a stone.

  ‘Get ready,’ said the man. The crowd was coming closer. ‘Wait.’ Diego felt his muscles tense up, and then, ‘Now!’

  Diego threw as hard as he could – not aiming, just throwing. There was yelling all around. Some of the people picked up the stones as they landed and threw them back at the cocaleros. Others got right up to the barricade and started to dismantle it.

  ‘Get them!’ the man beside Diego yelled, and they hurled their stones at the barricade busters until they backed away.

  Some of the stones landed on people, and Diego saw protesters with blood running down their faces. The medical team hustled them off to the side to be bandaged.

  A few of the men managed to make it across the first barricade and were hitting out at the protesters with metal pipes and baseball bats.

  ‘All together!’ Diego yelled at Bonita and Emilio and the other kids their age. They swarmed the two men, taking them by surprise and knocking them down to the pavement. Diego and the others kicked at them until one of the protesters pulled them off.

  ‘Let them go,’ they were told.

  ‘You’re all crazy!’ the pipe-man yelled. ‘Let’s get out of here. They’re all crazy!’

  The blockaders kept up the rain of stones until all the people on the highway retreated back up the hill and around the bend to the town, and the clearing became quiet again.

  ‘Did you really think you could break us?’ Dario shouted. He leaned against the barricade next to Diego, sweaty and bloody, a black eye already starting to swell and discolour his face. ‘Did you really think we’d be afraid of you?’

  He kept yelling and hooting until Diego’s tugs on his arm finally calmed him down.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Diego said. ‘You need the medical committee.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Dario pulled his arm away. ‘They didn’t hurt me.’

  But he allowed Diego to take him to the south end of the bridge where the medical team was giving out bandages and cups of hot coca tea.

  ‘Maybe we should sneak into town and blow up a few of their cars,’ Dario said.

  ‘Maybe you should drink your tea and not talk like a fool,’ said a woman on the medical committee.

  All over the bridge, people were gathering in committees, discussing what had just happened and what they needed to do next.

  There was everything to do. Diego zoomed through the day at top speed, gathering food from the farms, hauling water up from the river, helping to reinforce the barricades, and gathering more and more stones.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ someone said, and they were, later that day.

  The battles raged off and on all day long. Watches were doubled on the barricades and switched every two hours so that everyone would

  have fresh eyes.
People ate standing up and on the run.

  One of the protesters had a radio that didn’t need batteries. He just cranked the handle and it played.

  ‘The cities are running out of food,’ he announced after listening to the news report. ‘All of Bolivia is shut down. The government will have to act soon. We’d better be ready.’

  Diego didn’t know how much more ready they could be. He gathered stones, helped build up their store of food, helped the medical committee cut up bedsheets for bandages and helped the security committee cut up other old cloth for bandanas, tying one around his own neck, even though he didn’t really know what it was for.

  Someone suggested the women and children leave. It was a suggestion the women ignored.

  The day drew to a close, with the sky shifting from evening glow to starry darkness just like every other day. Everyone settled in, tense, and got each other through the night.

  TWELVE

  Diego and Emilio were on watch at the north end of the bridge when they spotted a lone figure walking toward them down the hill in the middle of the highway.

  Emilio gave three short blasts on the whistle that hung around his neck – a gift from one of the little kids on the blockade. Diego ran back to report to the security committee, and to tell Bonita to run to the south end with the information. After so many days on the blockade, they had their procedures down pat.

  Diego ran back to Emilio, and they were soon joined by others.

  The lone man was getting closer. He walked with his arms out from his sides, and his fingers spread wide to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He raised one arm in a wave.

  ‘It’s the captain,’ Diego said.

  ‘Pass the word,’ someone said, and Diego started running again.

  A lot of the protesters were gathered by the north barricade by the time Diego got back there. They all wanted to hear what the captain had to say.

  ‘Is someone in charge here?’ the captain asked.

  ‘We’re all in charge,’ Mr Ricardo called back. ‘We’re all cocaleros. We all had our crops stolen, and we all choose to be here.’

  ‘Then I will talk with all of you,’ the captain said. ‘I am here to ask you to reconsider what you are doing. I am here to show you my willingness to talk.’

  ‘Are you willing to give us back our coca?’ someone shouted. ‘Are you willing to leave us alone to run our farms?’

  ‘You can’t stay on the bridge forever,’ the captain said. ‘You know the government won’t allow the highways to remain shut.’

  ‘We don’t want to stay here forever,’ Mrs Ricardo called out. ‘We only want to stay until we get our coca back. You took it from us, you can return it.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that,’ the captain said. He spotted Diego sitting on one of the logs at the side of the barricade and gave him a nod.

  ‘Is everything all right, Diego? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘What do you care?’ Diego asked. ‘You were going to shoot us.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you need anything,’ the captain said.

  ‘We take care of each other,’ Diego told him.

  The captain spoke again to the whole crowd. ‘We are not enemies. We are all Bolivian. I am of Aymara blood. Most of my men are Aymara or Quechua. We are the working people, just like you are. We can work together to find a solution to this.’

  ‘What we want is justice,’ another woman said. ‘You seem like a good man, but you cannot give us what we want. We both have our jobs to do. Our job is to fight for our rights. Yours is to threaten people who are no threat to you.’

  ‘For now I am in charge of the army here,’ the captain said, ‘but I have to answer to my superiors. If they are not happy with me, they will put someone else in charge and bring in soldiers who are not from here, who have no connection to you and who will not care about you. Please keep that in mind and help me find a solution.’

  ‘You say that we are not enemies,’ Mr Ricardo said. ‘We extend to you our friendship and say that you are welcome to put down your guns and join our blockade at any time.’

  After the captain left, there were no more attacks by travellers. Everything was quiet.

  This was the first day on the blockade that seemed long to Diego. Emilio was feeling tired and weak, and he slept on and off. He was able to play a bit of chess when he woke up, but weakness would overtake him again in the middle of a game and he would have to lie down.

  Diego left the bridge briefly to join groups foraging for firewood, and to join another rock-snake from the river, but for most of the day, time just dragged.

  People on the bridge started to annoy him for stupid reasons, and he knew the reasons were stupid. Why should it matter to him if Leon lifted stones as if they were barbells and then felt his arm muscles to see if they’d grown? Why should he care if the guy with the wind-up radio wouldn’t find one station and then leave it there, instead of flipping around and around the dial? And he should be grateful that the two gringo backpackers had joined them in the blockade, even with their annoying habits, including playing a game they called hackysack and making horrible noises on their little tin flutes. They spoke in bad Spanish about how their parents back in Chicago would have a fit if they found out that this was where they were spending their vacation, and they kept asking if there was anywhere they could check their email. Diego wanted to throw them off the bridge.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Bonita asked him as the sun was going down. She joined him as he sat with his back against the railing of the bridge. ‘You’ve been grouchy all day.’

  ‘Don’t act like you care,’ responded Diego.

  ‘I’m not. I don’t.’

  They looked across the lanes of the bridge to where the two annoying gringos were playing a game of cards while the little kids looked on.

  ‘They have food in their packs,’ Bonita said. ‘I saw it. They think their food belongs to them, and they think that our food belongs to them. They eat and they don’t share.’

  ‘They’re on holiday,’ Diego said with a sneer.

  ‘Well, I wish they’d holiday somewhere else. If anything bad happens here, they’ll just make it worse.’

  ‘They’ll be in the way.’

  ‘They won’t just be in the way,’ Bonita said. ‘If anything happens to them, the world will come crashing down on us. A bunch of Bolivians can get hurt or killed, who cares, but let one gringo get a scratch or hurt his toe, and the blame will fall on us.’

  ‘Maybe Vargas can ask them to leave when he gets back.’

  ‘He only sees the best in people.’

  ‘You ask, then,’ Diego suggested. ‘You have no trouble seeing the worst.’

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said,’ Bonita told him, ‘about you not belonging here. It’s not true, and I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘It’s partly true,’ Diego said. ‘I’ve been thinking of leaving. I need to earn money, and I need to get home.’

  ‘So go, then. No one will stop you.’

  It was a simple statement, but it made Diego feel very lonely, as though no one would care enough to stop him from leaving.

  ‘Let’s get rid of them,’ Bonita said, standing up and glaring at the gringos. ‘They either help with food and chores, or they get lost.’

  Surprised and happy to be included in her plan, Diego got up and together they started to cross the lanes of the bridge.

  A low rumbling sound made them stop and listen. It got louder. All over the bridge, people stood up and looked around, trying to see what was causing the noise.

  Diego saw lights before he saw anything else. Bright beams cast strange shadows on the bridge and forced him to shield his eyes. He was able to make out the shape of a tank.

  At the same moment, he heard the slap-slap of propellers, and a helicopter rose up from the river bed, shining another spotlight down on the protesters.

  The army had arrived.

  THIRTEEN

  The lights sta
yed on all night, and the helicopter never really went away. The noise and wind from the propellers terrified the little ones. Nobody was able to sleep. All the shelters they had constructed with their blankets and tarps and any supplies that weren’t weighted down flew up and away.

  Diego spent most of the night right up against the north barricade. The army lights made the bridge look as bright as day. He passed the hours breathing in diesel fumes and trying to help where he could.

  One of the gringo backpackers lost his lucky hat in the river, and he wailed as if he’d lost a child. His buddy calmed him down, and they picked up their packs to go. They shoved past Diego on the north barricade, but were met by the army.

  ‘We need to pass,’ the gringo who’d lost his cap shouted. ‘Americanos! We’re Americanos!’

  ‘This end is closed. Leave by the other end.’

  ‘But our bus is at this end, in the village. You have to let us through. We’re Americans! This has nothing to do with us!’

  Diego would have found it funny if they weren’t so annoying. The army refused to let them pass, and they had to go back to the bridge.

  ‘We’re calling our embassy!’ they screamed.

  ‘Next time we’re going to Australia,’ one of them shouted at the other. ‘I told you we should have gone to Australia!’

  ‘Share your food,’ Bonita said, stepping out in front of them. ‘We’ve shared with you. If you want to stay here, you have to share with us. Otherwise keep walking off the south end of the bridge.’

  Diego couldn’t stay to watch the outcome of the confrontation – someone was yelling for a runner – but the gringos were no match for Bonita.

  The army didn’t try to move on to the bridge that night. They stayed outside the barricade, lights on, helicopter hovering above.

  All night long the air stank of tank diesel and helicopter fuel. The little village they’d set up was being polluted by sights, sounds and smells that Diego hated.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ Diego asked.

  ‘They’re trying to show us how much stronger they are,’ Bonita guessed. ‘They’re trying to make us afraid.’