Ruthless River Read online

We found a small movie house, too. The whole town seemed to cram into the smoky theater that offered lawn chairs for seats; noisy fans pushed hot air from one corner to another. Fifteen cents bought admission for scratchy third-rate American films like What’s the Matter with Helen? and The Landlord, with Spanish subtitles. We didn’t care how bad they were; we went anyway. The cinema was the local social hour, where everyone chattered loudly over the barely audible English.

  Departure day came at last.

  We would fly to Puerto Maldonado, where we would catch a commercial riverboat across Bolivia to Riberalta and then hitch a ride into Brazil. From there we’d hang a hard left north by taking another commercial boat to Manaus, midpoint of the Amazon, “the River Sea.” With luck, we might make the coast in time for Carnaval on March 6.

  Or so we thought.

  Chapter 2

  The Plane

  FEBRUARY 7

  Early that morning, Fitz and I eagerly handed our tickets to the military airline clerk.

  “We have seats, right?” Fitz asked in rudimentary Spanish.

  “Maybe,” the man said.

  As we clasped the counter while people pushed against our backs, the clerk explained that the small twin-engine prop plane could take only thirteen passengers. There were at least twenty people waiting behind us with tickets in hand.

  “But we just gave you our tickets,” Fitz said.

  The clerk shook his head and told us to wait by the exit door. The crowd followed and began pushing us and each other.

  Through the window I caught a look at the ancient US army surplus DC-3 on the dirt runway. Officials were loading cargo. A bright red bull’s-eye was painted on the plane’s white side.

  “That doesn’t give me a lot of confidence,” I joked.

  Fitz told me it was the kind of plane he’d parachuted from while he was in the service.

  “Let’s hope we won’t be jumping out of this one,” I said. Fitz’s jaw tightened; we weren’t on the plane yet.

  Within a few minutes the clerk left his post and walked over to us. He told us the flight would make two stops in the jungle on its way to Puerto Maldonado. Then he opened the door. There was a rush of people around us.

  “Hold on!” Fitz seized my hand.

  We raced across the red dirt, bags banging against our sides. We were nearly last to board, but we made it.

  Fitz and I plunked down on a long army-green metal bench that was bolted to the side of the plane, our backs leaning against the bare metal fuselage, small windows to either side of us. We buckled in, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard seat. Ropes strapped down a pile of luggage and cargo toward the rear of the plane. On top of the pile a treadle sewing machine teetered despite the ropes.

  Seven of us passengers sat on one side of the aisle facing six on the other. Fitz and I were the only gringos. The plane filled with a lively combination of Spanish and Quechua, the indigenous language. Once the propellers started humming everyone fell silent.

  I squeezed Fitz’s hand. He leaned sideways and grazed my nose with a kiss.

  “Seeing the Amazon is a dream come true,” I said, watching the propellers spin. “This whole trip is!” I’d fantasized about it since I was a child.

  Fitz hugged me then adjusted the glasses that constantly slipped down his nose. The plane started along the dirt runway and accelerated to a lurching takeoff.

  We flew low, jouncing over the jungle. Out the window a dense canopy of lush vegetation reached to the horizon. This web of tightly knit tropical trees of varying heights and hues rolled and swelled under the plane like a green ocean. No open land, no farms, no roads, no huts, just vast verdant wilderness.

  From my subscription to National Geographic I knew that primitive tribes still inhabited Amazonia, some as yet untouched by Western society. What did they think of our plane speeding across the sky? Below us lived slithering boa constrictors and skulking jaguars. Caiman, the South American alligator, feasted in the rivers alongside piranha. Vampire bats, scorpions, monkeys, ocelots—all called this home. I couldn’t wait to experience the secrets of the jungle.

  Occasionally, the glint of a brown ribbon appeared and disappeared as if the rivers were winking at me. Lakes, too, swept by, jewels in the sun, breaking up the hypnotic landscape. Depending on the shadows and reflections of the sky, the rivers were chocolate, red-brown, blue, or green. Rarely we glimpsed small clearings like sandbars with huts. We were flying farther away from civilization, pushing deeper into the unknown, where even missionaries and oil rigs did not venture.

  The plane dipped below the trees, landing shakily on a grass runway to drop cargo near a village. The takeoff was rocky, the plane leaning to the side, one wheel off the ground before the other. Once fully in the air it jerked up and down, and so did my stomach. No one from home knew exactly where we were going or how long we would be there. I almost wished that I hadn’t prepared my parents to expect no word from us for quite a while. Our travels along the Madre de Dios River would take us even deeper into the jungle, beyond the reach of communication. My chest constricted at the thought of our being so out of touch.

  A little boy sat across from me. He had a bowl-shaped haircut and wore oddly formal trousers, a button-down shirt, and plastic sandals. He looked shyly down at his comic book, avoiding my smile. His parents and an older boy were next to him.

  In the seat across from Fitz sat a heavy middle-aged woman wearing a tight, shiny polka-dot dress with a scooped neckline. Four strands of faux pearls and a gold cross hung around her neck. Black Grecian-style curls were pinned high on her head and toppled down around her ears. Although she looked out of place, I was encouraged that she appeared to be dressed for a party. Perhaps there was civilization where we were headed.

  Several young men wore straw hats and short-sleeved shirts of subdued shades, a stark contrast to the brilliantly colorful clothing of the women whose tied bundles of food and gifts sat at their bare feet. Clearly, this was not a tourist route.

  A few more minutes of turbulence and the little boy retched. His mother leaned over him with her purse so he could vomit into it. She wiped his face with a handkerchief and stuffed it into the bag.

  The plane bounced and rattled then began to turn, shuddering as the engines roared louder. Peering through the window I saw that we were circling above trees and a brown river. I didn’t see a town.

  The wobbly plane began to descend very fast, pushing me sideways, causing me to grasp the bench. I looked at Fitz, who was studying the National Geographic map he’d marked with the route we’d taken through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and now again in Peru. He didn’t seem to notice our rapid descent. Across the aisle the young boy clutched his mother. His brother clutched his dad. The woman with the polka-dot dress held her gold cross close to her chest. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving.

  Below us the jungle opened up to reveal a field. It looked like the grassy runway we’d landed on earlier, with no airport building. The river curved around two sides of this field, making it a near-peninsula adjacent to the trees. We flew through unsettling winds, crossed the river, then nose-dived toward one end of the field.

  “We’re coming in pretty fast, aren’t we?” I asked. My stomach heaved as we dropped below the canopy, emerald jungle slashing past us on the left. The river was to the right; its bend must be in front of us now.

  Fitz raised his head to look out the window between us.

  “Fitz, what’s happening?” I yelled above the machine-gun roar of the engines.

  “What the hell’s going on?” He grabbed my hand.

  We swooped down to just feet above the field, flying parallel to the river. As the water whizzed by us I saw small whitecaps. The engines screamed in my ears. Bags piled in the aisle shifted, loosening. The plane was flying way too fast to land safely. I assumed the pilot would pull up and circle again, but the plane’s landing gear hit the ground hard, bouncing the plane, still speeding, toward the river bend.
/>   “He’s not braking!” Fitz squeezed my hand tighter.

  I pressed my feet into the floor as if to help the pilot. A sharp, metallic zing seared the air.

  “Was that a wheel?” I yelped.

  Fitz’s eyes darted left and right. “We’re going too damned fast.”

  Passengers screamed as the plane skidded toward the river. The two boys started to cry. Green jungle whipped by, then water, then jungle again. The smell of vomit hit my nostrils. I gripped Fitz’s arm, pulling us together.

  Suddenly the plane pitched left into the forest. We were thrown back and forth, held by our wide seat belts; a sharp, metallic sound coincided with the one wing and propeller dropping from view; the remaining propeller screeched like ice in a blender until we slammed to a hard stop. On impact, the sewing machine burst its ropes and shot past our heads, like a missile, bashing into the cabin door. A man was flung from his seat and landed facedown in the aisle.

  Everyone’s eyes and mouths opened wide. The boys clung to their parents, sobbing.

  The plane slumped to the right, turning its interior into a slide. The polka-dot lady and the family with two kids were on the bottom of the chute. Fitz and I were on the top. I caught sight of the plane’s right wing and engine out the window. They’d snapped off entirely. Nobody moved. Then, like a flock of swallows, the thirteen of us leapt up as one and rushed toward the exit.

  Fitz grabbed our basket with the handloomed Indian blanket ponchos and slung both backpacks onto his right shoulder. I seized the camera bag and Fitz’s typewriter.

  “Stay in front of me so I can see you,” Fitz urged, keeping a hand on my back. Everyone shoved like they had in the airport. As we reached the door, there was no ladder; we had about five feet to drop. A uniformed man called up to us, “Vamos.”

  “I’ll go first and then catch you,” Fitz said. He landed squarely then stood to lift me down.

  We paused ten feet from the plane to get our bearings. Four or five khaki-uniformed men in dark green legionnaire-type hats were running around, intently examining the plane. Fitz took my hand. He seemed dazed and overburdened by the two packs and the ponchos. One side of his shirt collar was flipped over his lapel. His gray suit jacket looked odd against the backdrop of the steamy jungle, but it was the only jacket he’d brought on the trip.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I think so.” I was shaken, but more concerned for him and the startled look in his eyes. “Here, let me help. I’ll take my backpack.”

  “No way, Hol. You already have the other stuff. Let’s just get out of here. This thing could blow anytime.”

  We stumbled away from the plane and across the mucky field, the odor of fuel and burnt rubber overpowering the dank smell of mud and rain forest.

  Finding strength, I bounded forward, but within fifty feet I was panting, slowed by the camera bag and typewriter. Twenty yards ahead, passengers were walking through the cropped field. I didn’t know where we were going, just that it was away from the plane, in the direction of the river.

  When I turned to Fitz behind me, I caught full view of the aircraft. The right wheel had, indeed, snapped off. The rear landing gear, twisted sideways, was bent nearly perpendicular to the ground. The entire right wing, with engine, had sheared off when the plane smashed into the forest, chewing trees like celery. It lay on the ground, an amputated limb.

  The river ran along the right side of the grass strip then curled in front of it. The pilot must have been traveling too fast to stop without hitting the river and too slowly to try a second pass. It looked like he’d cut the gas and hung a hard left into the trees. I pulled out my camera.

  “They’ll never believe this at home. Stand right there, Fitz.”

  “Jesus, Holly, this isn’t a time for pictures. The plane could blow!”

  But Fitz did pose for me. As recording photographer for our journey I couldn’t resist a couple of action shots.

  We trudged on, following the others. Wondering where we’d landed, I asked a fellow passenger walking near us, “¿Esto es Puerto Maldonado?”

  “No, no hay,” he replied.

  I couldn’t tell who was leading us. No one had seen the pilot since he’d rushed into the thicket beyond the nose of the plane. We’d all escaped; the plane hadn’t exploded. “Wow, we were lucky, Fitz,” I said. “I can’t believe we all made it.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sweat pouring from his brow.

  “Do you want to take that jacket off? You must be dying.”

  “Nice choice of words.” His ear for wit was quick, even now, which told me he was all right. Then his manner shifted, his voice edgy. “I’m fine, Holly. Let’s just get to wherever the hell they’re going. I really don’t feel like getting lost out here.”

  Up ahead, people were crossing the grass landing strip to the river. The scrub was so soggy that when my sandals slapped the ground mud splashed up my legs and squished under my toes. As we got closer to the river, the mud was calf deep. I didn’t want to go barefoot for fear of ringworm, so I continued gripping the wooden soles hard with my toes, making little progress.

  “Come on, Holly,” Fitz called. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the sandals.”

  “Again? What’s with those damn things?”

  “They’re not the right shoes for mud.”

  “Don’t you have something else?” Fitz asked, starting back toward me.

  “Heels.”

  “Jesus!”

  I couldn’t have agreed with him more, but I was too tired to say so.

  We at last arrived at the river—not a big one, perhaps only twenty yards across. The parents of the two boys along with three women stood at the muddy edge mumbling a little and shaking their heads. The two children were quiet.

  We dropped what we carried onto the ground. I stretched my arms. It felt good to be free of the weight. A few passengers were struggling behind us, lugging heavy bags, wilting from the midafternoon sun and the humidity. We were all mud splattered and wet with sweat, but there was no shade or breeze to cool us.

  The heavyset woman in the polka-dot dress dragged a huge suitcase behind her. Her once lightly bobbing curls were flopping heavily at her neck. Her white pumps sank into the mud with each step as she approached the riverbank. With a small cotton handkerchief she wiped perspiration from her face. She was muttering loudly to herself and to a teenage boy who was walking with her. The teenager rolled his eyes, saying nothing.

  The man who’d been flung forward when the plane crashed hobbled up next and dropped his luggage. He was about nineteen or twenty. When he swept off his straw hat I noticed he’d been scratched up pretty badly on his cheeks. He slumped down, rubbing his swollen right ankle. I searched in my bag for a compress. Another man, huge sunglasses on his smooth, wide face, came to his side, peered at the ankle, and admonished him, probably for not wearing a seat belt.

  I offered him an ACE bandage I’d found at the bottom of my backpack.

  He said, “Gracias,” and wrapped it around his foot.

  When he began to rise, part of the bank, saturated with rain, collapsed under him, toppling him into the water. His friend grabbed his hands and pulled him back onto land. They shook their heads, laughed a little. We all gave a collective sigh, backing away from the bank.

  Turning around, I stared again at the plane that lay like a broken bird, its beak pressed into the jungle. I caught myself jabbing my nails into my palms. How easily we all might have been killed by the crash, the hurtling sewing machine, the leaking fuel lines of the lost wing, the gas tanks that could have exploded.

  My mind flashed back to the packed buses traveling steep, narrow roads without guardrails in the Andes and to the frequent crosses marking places where vehicles had gone over cliffs. On one leg of our trip Fitz and I had stood together, looking into a ravine at the carcass of a bus a thousand feet below. Was it all random? Sudden death seemed prevalent here.

  I turned from the plane back to the swollen r
iver.

  “Fitz, where’s your hand?” I asked. Fitz placed his hand in mine. It felt warm and firm. As I looked up at his wan face our eyes met. Mine glazed with tears. He wrapped his arms around me. I leaned into his chest and shuddered at what might have been.

  Like statues, we stood staring at the river, wondering what to do next.

  Chapter 3

  Jungle Trail

  I don’t know exactly how long we stood there, nor did I notice the man steering a small motorboat until it was practically under our feet. He told us to get in, four at a time, so he could take us across the river. Seeing no one else in charge, we stepped on board, hoping to meet an airline official on the other side.

  Clambering up the opposite steep bank, Fitz and I followed the others along a mud path into the jungle. We entered a dark tunnel of long, drooping leaves and hanging vines. Birds were calling loudly to each other overhead.

  At a curve, we came across a man dressed in ragged clothes, too big for his thin frame, hacking at the thicket with a machete. The others had walked by him without noticing, but we nodded hola. He beckoned to us, asking in Spanish if we’d like to put our bags in his wheelbarrow. His wide smile revealed missing teeth.

  “Sí, gracias,” we said, relieved to plop our luggage down.

  “What a nice man,” I said to Fitz. “Maybe he came to help when he saw the plane go down.”

  “Yeah, he probably farms around here since he’s cutting brush.”

  The man didn’t appear strong enough to be a farmer. His back was too bent and he looked emaciated. I felt perhaps we should be pushing the wheelbarrow. Before I could suggest that, the man lifted the handles and took off down the path with our luggage. Fitz and I stumbled behind him. Other passengers were no longer in sight.

  “What’s the name of this place?” Fitz called out in Spanish.

  “Sepa,” the man called back without turning his head.

  “Is it far?” I asked. “I didn’t see it from the air.” The man didn’t seem to understand the question, probably because of my rudimentary Spanish.