Diego's Pride

by Deborah Ellis

  Families found each other and sat together. The Ricardos found Diego. They sat and dozed and watched the cars and trucks and buses go by. Diego slept. Every now and then he woke with a jolt, sure he was supposed to be doing something, but there was nothing to do.

  In the middle of the day, the major came to the fence and asked to speak to Vargas. The two men talked for awhile. Then Vargas called a meeting.

  ‘The major is prepared to release us if we promise not to reblockade the highway.’

  ‘For how long must we hold this promise?’ someone asked.

  ‘He did not say. All over Bolivia, traffic is moving again. The blockades have all been lifted, but that does not mean people have given up. Some are marching to La Paz. Some are getting back their strength so they can be ready the next time they are called. It is a decision that affects us all. If we agree to it, we must keep our word. The government lies, but we don’t have to.’

  People talked and argued and had their say, but the outcome was clear. There was a time to protest and a time to go back to their farms and try to build their lives again. The cocaleros vowed not to reblockade the road today. The major hadn’t really asked for anything else.

  They were let out of the pen a few at a time.

  ‘Go back to your homes,’ they were ordered. ‘If you linger here, you will be arrested.’ People were tired. It was time to go home.

  Finally, toward the end of the afternoon, the Ricardos were allowed to leave, Diego with them.

  ‘Diego,’ called Vargas from inside the pen. He had declared he would stay inside until everyone else had been released.

  Diego went over to the fence. Vargas slipped a piece of paper through the opening.

  ‘Here is the address of the union headquarters in Cochabamba. We could use a good runner like you to run errands for us. For pay,’ he said. ‘And after school.’

  Diego thanked him and shook his hand as best as he could through the wires.

  ‘Tell Emilio goodbye for me,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll see him soon,’ said Vargas. ‘He’ll stop being mad. You two will become good, good friends.’

  Diego rejoined the Ricardos.

  ‘Come back to the farm with us,’ Mr Ricardo urged him. ‘Rest there for awhile.’

  ‘And work,’ said Bonita.

  ‘I’m going home,’ Diego said. There were cars and trucks rolling on the highway now. One of them might give him a ride.

  They didn’t say goodbye. He just hugged them – even Bonita – and headed to the bridge.

  Soldiers were directing the one lane of traffic that was open. Diego walked through them and crossed the bridge one last time. When he got to the north end, he looked back once, then kept going. His family was waiting.

  He would walk to the village and try to get a ride, even part way. He’d get as far as he could before dark, then start again in the morning. He wasn’t afraid to sleep outside by himself. At the moment, he wasn’t afraid of anything.

  He kept walking and could soon see the top of the little village church peeking out through the trees. He thought about the bald priest going without his lunch, and he laughed.

  He had just rounded the bend when he saw a man sitting on the hood of a jeep, leaning against the windshield.

  It was the captain.

  ‘I’d almost given up,’ the captain said.

  ‘Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘Unless you want to walk back to Cochabamba. Are you all right?’

  Diego felt the bandage on his chest.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’ He climbed into the jeep. There was food and water in the back seat. The captain started the engine, and they were soon moving down the highway.

  The sun was up and Cochabamba was awake by the time the captain steered the jeep into San Sebastian Square.

  It was all as Diego remembered it. The park in the center with the gardens and fountains, the stray dogs sleeping in the sun, the Aymara woman selling biscuits and candies from the sidewalk stand, the ugly stone women’s prison and the ugly stone men’s prison, with the furniture and dog houses the prisoners made stacked out front.

  ‘I’ll come around in a few days,’ the captain said. ‘Do you want me to go in with you?’

  Diego shook his head.

  ‘They’ll be glad to see you,’ the captain said. ‘They’ll be overjoyed.’

  And then Diego was alone in the square, at the corner across from the two prisons. Behind the walls of one was his mother, who would hug him and kiss him and cry.

  But first he would go to see his father. And Mando’s.

  Diego took a deep breath, crossed the street, and went through the doors of the men’s prison.

  NINETEEN

  Diego lay in the sun on the grass of the Plaza Colón, on the edge of a group of glue-sniffing boys who lived on the streets. This was his third day in the park, and he was beginning to wonder if the plan would work.

  Across the footpath, sitting on a park bench by the fountain and pretending to read a newspaper sat the captain. He wore dark glasses and day-off-work clothes. Every now and then he would get up and go for a stroll, or switch benches, or put on a cap to try to change his appearance a bit.

  Diego’s part was easier. All he had to do was lie on the grass and look stupid.

  Diego’s parents had taken some convincing to give their permission. Diego had been back for a week, and he had spent most of that time inside the prisons with his family. Now that he was back, his parents didn’t want to let him out of their sight again.

  But the captain went to see them and promised to look out for Diego every single minute. They finally relented when Diego told them it was his way to do something about Mando’s death.

  The captain was working on getting Diego’s parents out of prison.

  ‘It won’t happen overnight,’ he told Diego. ‘The legal system hates to admit it made a mistake. But I won’t give up.’

  Diego knew that the captain would have a lot more power if he could break up a drug ring. So they spent their days in the park, the captain keeping watch on Diego, and Diego keeping watch for someone looking to hire street boys to work in the pits where coca leaves were turned into the paste that would be made into cocaine.

  Keeping watch over both of them were a few plainclothes officers under the captain’s command, ready to move in when they got the signal.

  The square was getting crowded with people coming out of shops and offices to take their lunch breaks under the trees. Ice-cream and orange-juice sellers were busy, and the bells were ringing in the cathedral to call people in to mid-day mass.

  Diego was close to drifting off in the hot sun when he thought he saw someone he recognised. He wanted to jump up and look closer, but he forced himself to keep still and keep watching.

  With a small nod of his head, he signaled to the captain to follow his gaze. A small nod told him the captain understood. They both waited until the man got closer, heading straight for the glue-sniffing boys and for Diego.

  Diego tucked his face into the crook of his arm so it would be hidden except for his eyes.

  Maybe, for once, something would be easy. Maybe, for once, something would work.

  The man was who was walking through the square was Rock, the thug who had taken Diego and Mando into the coca pits.

  And he was heading straight into their trap.

  Diego allowed himself a small smile.

  ‘For you, Mando,’ he whispered. Then he got ready to enjoy himself.

  Justice was about to happen in Cochabamba.

  ‘People lost their fear of bullets; they lost their fear of repression. The ghosts of past times of terror were defeated on the blockades.’

  Oscar Olivera, organiser of the water protests in Cochabamba, Bolivia, 2000

  (Quoted in ¡Cochabamba! Water War in Bolivia by Oscar Olivera and Tom Lewis, South End Press, 2004)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Coca is a sacred plant to the indigenous people o
f Bolivia – one of the poorest countries in the Western hemisphere. The native people chew the leaves and make them into a tea to ease living and working at high altitudes. But coca can also be mixed with chemicals and turned into a paste that can be made into cocaine, a drug that is smuggled into North America and sold illegally. If North Americans and others did not buy cocaine in large quantities, this drug trade would not exist.

  During the past three decades, with the backing of the United States, the Bolivian government has used special police units to destroy the country’s coca crops, bringing economic hardship to the already poor cocaleros (coca growers). The cocaleros organised themselves into a union and, in the fall of 2000, Bolivia was shut down by massive protests by cocaleros, farmers and other workers such as teachers. More than ten thousand cocaleros blockaded highways all over the country, stopping traffic and bringing the day-to-day functioning of the country to a standstill. Both protesters and police were killed in the clashes, and many were injured.

  As a result of negotiations to end the road blocks, cocaleros were allowed a voice on the committee that made decisions about programs to encourage alternative crops to coca, but coca crop eradication continued.

  Road blockades continued, off and on, over the next few years, as the Bolivian people tried to claim some control over their country’s vast natural resources, such as oil and natural gas. In 2005, the people elected Evo Morales, the former head of the coca growers’ union, as their president. He ran on promises to regain control of those resources, to rewrite the constitution to ensure greater rights for indigenous Bolivians, and to legalise the growing of coca.

  Bolivia now has a new constitution, and work is underway to find new, legal uses and markets for the sacred coca leaf.

  GLOSSARY

  Aguayo – A large square piece of cloth used to carry things on a person’s back.

  Anu – A root vegetable grown in Bolivia.

  Aymara – A group of indigenous people who live in the Andean region of South America, mainly in Bolivia. Also the traditional language of the Aymara.

  Boliviano – Bolivian money.

  Campesino – A farmer; peasant; working person.

  Centavo – Bolivian money; there are one hundred centavos in a boliviano.

  Chagas – A disease spread by the vinchuca beetle, which often lives in clay walls and thatched roofs. It kills thousands of people each year in South America and makes millions more ill.

  Charango – A small guitar.

  Chicha – Corn beer, sometimes also made from sweet potatoes.

  Chicheria – A place that makes and sells chicha.

  Chupe – A thick soup containing grains, vegetables and meat.

  Coca – A small shrub grown in the Andes. Its leaves have been used by the indigenous people of the Andes for centuries for food, medicine and religious rituals.

  Cocaine – An illegal drug made from coca leaves that have been processed into a paste.

  Cocalero – A coca farmer.

  Empanada – A pastry filled with meat or cheese.

  Gringo – Slang for a citizen of the United States.

  Holy Week – The time around Good Friday and Easter in the Christian calendar.

  Pollera skirts – Short skirts with many layers.

  Quechua – Language spoken by people who live in certain parts of the Andean region, including Bolivia. People who speak Quechua are often called Quechua.

  Rubber bullets – Bullets encased in rubber, used for crowd control.

  Tostada – A non-alcoholic drink made from barley, honey and cinnamon.

  Zampona – A flute made of reeds.

  Deborah Ellis has achieved international acclaim with her courageous, sensitive and dramatic books that give Western readers a glimpse into the plight of children in developing countries. She has won the Governor General’s Award, Sweden’s Peter Pan Prize, the Ruth Schwartz Award, the University of California’s Middle East Book Award, the Jane Addams Children’s Book Award and the Vicky Metcalf Award. A long-time feminist and anti-war activist, she is perhaps best known for the Breadwinner trilogy, which has been published around the world in seventeen languages, with more than half a million dollars of royalties donated to Street Kids International and to Women for Women, an organization that supports education projects for Afghan girls in refugee camps in Pakistan. Deb lives in Simcoe, Ontario.