A Horse Called El Dorado (4 page)

We had a long distance to travel – from where we were in the southeast of Colombia to a city many miles away, in the west of the country. It was possible to go by boat along the Río Putumayo but Mama was advised against it – it was too expensive for us and it would still leave us with a long journey by land to Cali. Boats could also be attacked along the river at docking stations and there would be other difficulties that the adults discussed with Mama.

Mama decided to wait for the ‘loner’ of the region, Jairo Alzate, a strange character who occasionally visited the commune. He usually stayed only one night before moving on. He always frightened us children a little with his stories of the ghosts and monsters of the mountains. But he was a good guide, as he knew every path and road for miles around.

Jairo came to the commune a few weeks later. He arrived late at night, so I did not see the ‘loner’ until the next morning. He was talking to the adults and smoking by the fire. He wore a
poncho
, a garment typical of my country that is like a sleeveless coat, made of one piece, with a hole to put your head through. His black hat had
feathers around the brim, his trousers were patched and his boots looked almost worn out. His two mules, which he looked after with great care, were tied up in the corral with our horses. He didn’t say very much, but gave Mama and me a weak smile and nodded. When he took off his
poncho
he had various necklaces on underneath,
including
an ivory rosary with a crucifix that looked as if it was made of gold.

Jairo seemed very vague about what we wanted to do and agreed to everything Mama asked him. He refused to stay another night at the commune though – we would have to leave with him that evening. Keeping his gaze fixed on the ground before him, he said something about the phases of the moon, then began to draw in the mud with a stick that he took from the fire. I could see Mama was annoyed, but she knew that we would need Jairo for the first part of our journey.

Mama hastily gave away her utensils, her pots and pans and much of her clothes, but kept her jewellery and shoes. My belongings included my knife, a collection of river stones, a slingshot and my straw hat, which had men on horses made out of coloured straw sewn around the outside like a cartoon strip. I was very proud of this. There was even a guitar man on a horse, which Mama had sewn on. This was a memento of my papa, wherever he was – the man who did not care for me, as father bird does not care for last year’s nest, Mama once said.

We put our possessions into an old carpet bag which
had been used by so many commune members that no-one knew who it belonged to, or where it came from. Whatever room was left in the bag we stuffed with food, and we brought a separate small crate of eatables for the journey. As evening came on I suddenly became very sad. My friends César, Jésus, Martha and little Jaime did not seem to know I was really leaving. They worked on with their parents, preparing food, as I rushed off to see El Dorado.

There he was with the other horses, eating from a wooden trough after a day of hard work. It wasn’t a good time to visit. Like the others, he was hungry, thirsty, tired and a bit cranky. I approached from the front and he gave great lurching shakes of his head. As I tried to stroke him, he carefully stepped away from me. Only when I spoke, telling him my sad news, did he seem to listen and
understand
. He kept chewing as he stared past my shoulder, away into the distance. I wanted to throw myself at him and cling on forever. It was bad enough leaving my friends, but this was awful.

None of the adults wanted to say goodbye. They wished us a safe journey but they did not want to say anything about our leaving. I went for the last time to the huts looking for César, Jésus, Martha and Jaime. Their parents called out to me, ‘
Adios
,’ while my friends walked out and broke into cracked smiles as they each gave me a hug. None of them said much; it was as if we had become strange to each other. They wanted to go
with me but, of course, they could not. I had to say
something
, because we had spent our childhood together and had recently survived the attacks and the destruction of the commune.

‘
Amigos
, we will meet again,’ I said. ‘
Vaya con Dios
,’ – which is the way we Colombians say goodbye.

‘Some day you will ride back here on a big horse with your princess,’ said Martha, teasing me because we had had many years of struggle together as boy and girl.

‘Don’t talk so crazy,’ I said. ‘The city will be noisy and dirty and the food will stink.’

‘Oh no,’ said César, ‘you will like it.’

‘Mama says I will have to go to school,’ I told them, my face becoming grim. At the commune we had no
schooling
, except what the adults taught us.

We hugged in a circle, then broke up, giving as loud a cheer as we could for the future. I began walking towards the tree house for a last look at it, when I heard Mama calling me. Little Jaime held one of my hands with his two hands and would not let go. At first he laughed as if he could stop my departure. Martha grabbed his arms and unlocked him from me, and then I saw a big tear roll down one of his cheeks.

‘He is so young,’ she said.

I found it difficult not to weep as I left them. There was very little time to spend with El Dorado. I was able to hug him and sniff the deep, dark scent of his skin one last time. He flicked his tail off my head a few times and
leaned against me, nearly knocking me over.

‘El Dorado,’ I whispered, ‘El Dorado, I will always remember you. I will ride with you in my dreams every night.’ Then I had to leave, because Mama was calling again, with greater impatience.

I helped Jairo to tie the carpet bag and the food crate onto the backs of his mules. Everyone had gathered around and was singing a chant to raise our spirits for the journey. My friends were at the front of the group, tracing bird flights with their hands. I looked beyond them to the horses in the corral. El Dorado made a dash for the gate and nearly crashed into it, stopping just in time. He kicked out his back legs, landing on them to hoist himself high on his hindquarters with a whinnying shriek through his nostrils and mouth.

‘Come,’ said Jairo gruffly, and we were off. I looked back a few times and Jaime was still waving. It was
heartbreaking
, so I did not look back any more. I had to walk fast to keep up with Mama as Jairo led the two laden mules off through the jungle.

‘Pepe, we must keep up,’ said Mama urgently. Of course, she was right. Without Jairo as a guide, we would get lost in the dense jungle.

It was a very hot and sticky journey, along an almost invisible path. Jairo was always ten paces ahead with the mules, disappearing amongst the trees and bushes as we stumbled along, tripping over roots and slipping on wet leaves on the forest floor. We carried on like this until nightfall. Then Jairo, who had said nothing for hours, finally spoke: ‘We will keep moving through the night, because we have the moon.’ He turned away as Mama complained and we had to hurry to keep up with him. It got very rough as the dark plants and foliage brushed our heads and faces. However much we complained, Jairo remained silent as he walked ahead. ‘He is more like a machine than a human,’ said Mama bitterly.

After hours of this trudging along, Jairo stopped and helped us up onto the backs of the mules. He grabbed the halters and led us onwards. The sure-footed mules kept their heads down and carried us steadily onwards. Jairo kept pushing forward, never stopping, as though the trees were signposts and the spaces between them wide pathways. I could barely make him out and
wondered
how it was possible for him to move so confidently at night. He looked up at the pale moon and the millions
of stars whenever the high canopy of trees was less dense. Once, a monkey shrieked far to our left, and Jairo chuckled as if it had told a great joke.

After a long time he spoke again: ‘Do not sleep or you might fall.’ This shook me out of my dozing. Later we stopped abruptly, making me toss backward, putting my hands on the flank of the mule to steady myself. ‘Do not move. Do not speak.’ Jairo’s voice was a sharp whisper. Up ahead we saw what looked like hooded beings of a low stature, a line of them, bent forward and barely visible in the shadows. I thought I must be dreaming. At one point they passed about five metres from us and we held our breath. I do not know if they were people or monkeys, or spirits of the forest.

Before dawn, Jairo asked us to dismount and walk. Mama got cross with him, but he turned to her face-on and said, ‘The mules have carried you for hours. They are carrying your belongings. You are carrying nothing but yourself.’ To this Mama could find no reply, so we
dismounted
and walked on.

Finally daylight began to light up the jungle. Birds and small animals woke up and moved about looking for their breakfast, some on trees, others running or flying away from us. As the sun’s beacon appeared at a low angle through the trees, Jairo found a cluster of low branches and grunted his approval. He unpacked the mules and they immediately lay down. We all fell into a deep sleep.

I woke in a warm sweat. It was some time in the afternoon, and teeming insects hissed and swarmed. Jairo’s rifle lay by his side as he tended a fire, making small cakes of bread from tree starch. He pointed to some guarana seeds, white with brown rims inside crimson husks, lying on a big, green leaf. We crunched them down and they helped us to come alive. The bread was nourishing and Mama got some water from our food crate.

We loaded up the mules once more and Jairo led the way, heading in a direction that seemed to me to be as good as any. I had lost interest in where we were going and had to place all my trust in Jairo. Mama seemed grumpy as she walked heavily behind me. I turned to her and grinned encouragement. She shook her head and looked at the ground. A minute later I felt her hand through my hair and she patted me on the back.

We walked on through the rest of the day. As night was falling we were suddenly surrounded by a tribe I had never seen before. They were standing all around us, gazing intently. This shook us out of our thoughts and exhaustion. The men and women of the tribe wore beads and bracelets around the wrist and upper arm. Their clothes were simple loincloths, held with string at the waist.

Jairo made some hand signals and they lowered their spears as he moved towards them. ‘Stay with the mules,’ he said calmly under his breath, quickly covering the
rifle in its saddle holster on one of the mules by dragging a blanket over it. Jairo smoked with the men and talked. He examined some of their weapons, nodding and
smiling
once when a young warrior showed him a knife. He bade them goodbye by raising both his hands to their raised hands.

We passed slowly through the circle of tribespeople, who stared at us and mumbled in low voices. Mama looked at the ground and I kept my hands by my side, so as not to alarm them. I noticed a boy about my age and a little girl, but I did not look at them. I was not afraid; I just thought that Jairo would want us to keep quiet.

We walked all through the night again, sometimes stepping over roots and fallen branches as though along the rungs of a ladder laid along the ground. We walked across rocks, up hills and around the edges of bubbling swamps. The night seemed to last forever, but finally dawn broke and again we slumped into a deep sleep, only to be woken for a small meal and then more hours of trekking. It seemed to me that I had spent my whole life walking through this jungle.

On the fifth day, though I had almost lost track of time, Jairo stopped as dawn came on. ‘I will leave you here,’ he said. ‘I am going back.’ He looked anxious for the first time whereas we, seeing the edge of the jungle not too far off, had lost all our fears. Mama protested, saying she did not know where to go next. Jairo sighed deeply and,
without looking at us or saying anything, led on towards the edge of the trees.

We came out onto a broad hillside, a landscape
without
trees. The dim light of the jungle had suddenly opened into the splendour of a misty valley, a vast vista of horizon. It was as if we were about to enter another world. Mama began giving thanks to Jairo but he just nodded. ‘Over there is Araracuara?’ She pointed and he nodded again, taking our luggage off the mules’ backs. We felt so happy that we began hugging each other. When we came to our senses we looked around for Jairo, but he was gone. The carpet bag and the food crate were on the ground, but Jairo and his mules had disappeared.

Mama and I were exhausted, so we stayed in the shade of the edge of the jungle and slept for a short time. When we woke Mama seemed anxious about the journey ahead, but I did not ask her what she was thinking about. I did not want to know what we were facing, in case my stamina would run out. I would simply keep walking, I told myself, until Mama said it was time to stop.

But when we had walked for what seemed like hours down the hillside, my feet were hurting and I began to complain. Mama curtly told me to keep up. It was dangerous where we were, walking alone, and we had better hurry and get to Araracuara, she said. I kept whining until she got very annoyed and shouted at me. ‘You want us to go back?’ she asked, her face strange and angry. I did want to go back, but I simply said, ‘No,’
under my breath, thinking she was cruel and heartless. We could never find our way without Jairo. I wondered why the world was so endless and began to hate it. Why couldn’t Cali be closer?

We finally reached an uneven roadway and stopped, sheltering behind a large boulder to wait for the hottest part of the day to pass. Insects droned by as we slept
fitfully
in the heat. We woke, blinking up at the eternal canopy of the sky. Everywhere the long reaches of the horizon were shimmering in the heat of the afternoon sun. We were glad we had some water.

The road was badly levelled, stony and chalky, as we walked through the afternoon. Birds screeched as we passed groves of stunted trees. We came to a crossroads, where two skinny dogs lay panting. This was where we would catch the bus, and we sat and dozed off, taking turns to keep watch.

The bus came towards evening, tilting from side to side and raising clouds of dust. It stopped, letting off a noise like a gunshot as the suspension heaved and the engine throbbed. The bus was a
chiva
, the usual type of bus in that region of Colombia. It made me think of my papa, because we had travelled on a
chiva
when I was six, but I could not recall where we had gone.

This
chiva
was full, but an American backpacker gave Mama her seat. I sat on the wooden lid of the food crate, and leaned against the sloping back of a seat that faced in the opposite direction in which we were travelling.

I do not remember getting into Araracuara. I must have been asleep, because it was the middle of the night. An old man lifted me down onto the floor, away from his chickens that were in a suitcase with air holes. He was afraid I would fall asleep and keel over on top of them.

The next morning as I woke up, the bus was even more full of passengers. The noise of the people was awful as the sun rose again. Many were drinking wine, eating and singing to greet the sun. There was a guitar player. He was good, but I thought of my papa and felt glum. The driver was out of sight in his bay. The bus sometimes made sharp turns and some of the drunken passengers bumped over and back, bursting into loud laughter as their singing voices changed to weird tones.

After much twisting and turning, up and down
hillsides
, the driver stopped the bus and stood up to address the passengers. One of the men went up to him, putting his arm over the driver’s shoulder and poking him, asking him drunkenly to join in with the singing. The driver was bleary eyed from steering us along the narrow road. He raised his hands and the women called for silence. He said that he would curl up in his bay and get a few hours’ sleep, because it was too hot for driving. He promised to get us to the next town – I did not hear the name clearly – by nightfall.

‘That will give us a good view of the mountains,’ one of the men joked.

‘The hungry mountains,’ shouted a woman from the back of the bus.

The windows were all open, but the air in the bus was stifling as we took our
siesta
. There was silence except for people stumbling in and out to relieve themselves under the trees. The driver slept for hours. He woke, went to relieve himself and then started the engine again. As he shifted the bus noisily into gear, some passengers moaned and snuggled up as comfortably as possible to keep snoozing. Hens and chickens crooned and clucked. I looked up at those who faced me, who were happily tucking into their picnic lunch.

We chugged steadily along the road until the bus came to a sudden halt. The driver shouted back to us not to move or say a word. There was a thudding on the door of the bus, and then some glass broke and fell onto the floor. What kind of passenger was this? Some adults started standing up but the driver bellowed at them to sit down on their fat bums and shut up!

In seconds, everyone knew what was happening. Nobody looked very afraid, just annoyed, as three armed guerrillas came on board. At first their faces were stern, but seeing us grow tense they began to smile.

‘Greetings, friends and supporters of LOR,’ shouted one with a black beard, dark eyes and a wide-brimmed hat.

‘Ah, to be among our
amigos
is pleasant,’ said another, who wore a red scarf around his forehead.

LOR
(Las Okupas Revolucionarias)
were a guerrilla group with less supporters than AGRA, as Mama told me later, but this only made them more dangerous – because they were a small group, they had to work harder to instil fear in people. We were certainly growing afraid on the bus, as they waved their battered-looking guns around. The driver was made to introduce the passengers to one of the thugs, and told to call him ‘Captain’. Passengers had to give their names, and the ‘captain’ would greet them as if with respect and then look back to his comrades with an evil grin.

‘Have you a small donation for LOR today, my fellow Colombians?’ asked the ‘captain’. ‘We are working for your freedom,’ he grinned, showing off his yellow teeth.

I had half-believed that they were actually friendly, but now I knew that they were not really working for us.
Las Okupas
, those blackguards, took so much from us poor people. Mama was frightened. They tore through the clothes in the carpet bag, grabbing a comb and a denim shirt. They forced two passengers to help them unload what they took from us all.

Next, everyone was ordered off the
chiva
. At first the driver refused to get off, shouting that he was responsible for the safety of his vehicle. The ‘captain’ persuaded him with a gun barrel, poking it against his ear so that the driver cried out in pain. We stood on the road, squinting against the fierce sun.

The roadblock was made up of their old, white Renault
car, along with some wood with barbed wire hammered into it and a stack of old tyres. I watched one of the
guerrillas
sorting the items stolen from us, as if he had been to the market. The ‘captain’ instructed the driver to open the gasoline tank of the
chiva
, and he stuffed in a cloth until it held tight. There was a piece still sticking out and to this he held a lit match. I was fascinated watching the flame flicker, until there was a small exploding sound. A bright sheet of flame leaped out from the petrol tank, lighting up one side of the bus. Everyone moved back.

The flames made their way inside the bus, and the seats caught fire. There were groaning and crackling noises, a stench of burning rubber and tin, and finally a loud explosion as the engine caught fire. Flames shot out from under the roof and the engine. The glass windows turned black and cracked in the intense heat. When the panes had shattered, the bus seemed to have shrunk inside the flames. There was smoke everywhere and a horrible stink of burning.

We watched as the ‘freedom fighters’ packed up their loot and put the roadblock materials into the boot of the Renault. They hooted and honked as they drove away from the burning wreck.