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chapter 35
Despite our occasional hassles, I was glad to have MacClayne still with me on this quest. I'd expected him to take the easy way out and ride the bus from Aguililla to Apatzingán. In fact, I'd been almost certain of it. It seemed I didn't know MacClayne as well as I thought I did.
Having exchanged good-byes with Enrique, we set out across the airstrip and then down to the coastal road for Lázaro. Before we'd gotten far, we heard the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind us, and turned to see a yellow oil truck. It was the same one which had brought us here two days earlier, and it was as oily and greasy as before.
"Want a ride?" the driver called out.
I was about to say No, gracias. But MacClayne spoke first. "¡Sí! ¡Por favor!" he replied and climbed aboard. I groaned, but got on and perched Cuauhtémoc on the overhead rack, after first carefully wiping it clean of any oil.
The road deteriorated almost at once into a trail only jeeps and the hardiest of vehicles could travel on. Once again, I hung on with both hands as our greasy oil truck crashed along, bouncing and swaying from side to side. I silently cursed MacClayne for choosing to ride on this awful thing.
Until Maruata, this road had kept within a kilometer or two of the shore, sometimes traversing narrow bits of flat alluvial shelf, and sometimes cutting into the face of the mountain. But after Maruata the road left the ocean and we now found ourselves climbing into the uplands.
We were creeping along about five to ten kilometers per hour, but the way we swayed and bounced made me wish the driver would slow down even more. I saw little of anything other than thick brush as I clung to my unsteady perch, intent only on maintaining a precarious distance between me and the oil which covered almost everything. An hour seemed to pass. I lost track of time, mesmerized by the noise and movement, when suddenly the engine stopped. The quiet came rushing in to fill my ears; then I realized we'd come to a halt.
Then came the deep, rasping throb of another diesel. A bulldozer was creeping towards us, and halted only millimeters from our oil truck. As I watched curiously, the driver's assistant got out of the cab, unloosed a hose that was tied to a rack behind us, and put the nozzle in the bulldozer's fuel tank opening.
So this was what this oil truck was doing way out here in these woods. This segment of the road was under construction, but this one lone bulldozer was out here all by itself--a surprising contrast to road-building back in California where I was used to seeing huge fleets of earth-movers and construction vehicles on even the most minor project.
Refueling completed, we drove on. More kilometers. Then we stopped at a roadside restaurant, an outdoor table under the shade of a palm-leafed roof. There was a shed made of woven branches, and beside it stood a tall stack of cases of empty pop bottles and also a large ice chest.
By now I was used to seeing these tiny restaurants along the untrafficked back roads of Michoacán, but this one was more isolated than anything I'd seen yet--it was in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Even stranger was a huge loudspeaker blasting music out over the deserted mountainside.
The driver and his companion dismounted and went to the ice chest for sodas. Then we looked in. There was no ice, but it was fairly full of bottles. Among them were a few cans of beer, and I held one up and remarked to MacClayne, "That beer truck must have made it all the way out to here. That brave little beer truck!"
"That beer's probably lukewarm," remarked MacClayne.
We kept digging till we found a couple cans of apple juice, and joined the driver and his assistant at the table which was right under that blaring loudspeaker. It was worse than sitting in a discotheque.
"I wonder who that damn music is for?" MacClayne said, practically shouting into my ear.
Campesinos maybe. Perhaps there were people working their fields on the mountain-sides who had arranged with this restaurant to have the music. But I didn't see anybody except the proprietor.
On our way again, the music eventually faded into the distance, muffled by the brush, and became faint enough to be pleasant. One song being played was El Rey by José Alfredo Jiménez.
una piedra en el camino
me enseñó
que mi destino era rodar
rodar y rodar
rodar y rodar
A stone in the path
showed me that
my destiny was to roll along
roll along, roll along
Eventually we no longer heard it at all. Shortly afterwards we came to a bulldozer that was actually constructing the road right up there in front of us. This, the driver told us, was as far as he was going.
"The end of the road?" MacClayne said, as we dismounted and gazed at our new surroundings.
The hillside was steep here, and the bulldozer, now taking a break to refuel, was working high up at the top. Below was a trail that looked like the old road, and the operator seemed to be carving his way down towards it. I guessed the eventual new road would be a widened and paved version of the old.
We climbed down an embankment to get on the old road, but soon came to where it disappeared under the loose dirt, gravel and rocks which had been knocked down by the bulldozer working above. There was not even a narrow place left to walk, and if we tried it, we'd risk sliding down the hillside into a thicket of thorny bushes.
MacClayne eyed it skeptically, and said, "When we get through to the other side, I wonder if we're going to have to walk for twenty miles before we get to a town?"
Was he talking like that again? I'd thought that discussion was all behind us, and it irked me.
"Could be a hundred," I said. "But this is what we opted for when we broke the golden thread."
While we stood there talking, the bulldozer had finished refueling and went back to work. Now more gravel came sliding down. Then a rock about the size of a man's head hurtled past us, narrowly missing me.
We retreated a few steps, and glanced around to see if we were safe where we stood now. Rocks and debris kept tumbling down as we watched. Too late, we'd missed our chance to get across.
"The roadless road," I said, and couldn't help but smile. "The situation is almost poetic."
MacClayne didn't smile.
Maybe there was some other way around. We returned to where we'd gotten off the vehicle. Could we climb up the hill and go above the bulldozer? No, that way seemed blocked not only by the steepness of the slope, but also by the density of the thorn bushes.
The oil truck was gone. There were only us and the bulldozer. I heard the throaty bursts of its powerful engine as it cut away at the mountain, tearing loose the rocks and ripping out the vegetation.
Maybe the bulldozer would take another break before too long. We'd just have to wait. I turned to look at the woods. It was the same dense, thorny, impenetrable thicket we'd seen time and again on mountain slopes during this journey.
"This really must be a jungle," I said.
"Must be? Is there any reason we couldn't call it a jungle?"
"There's a question as to what defines a jungle," I said. "Abundant quantities of tall trees, for example."
"I don't think the height of the trees or their number has anything to do with the definition."
"No? Then what are the criteria?"
"I don't believe it's that precise a thing," he said. "It's from a Hindi word for wilderness. Any wilderness--even a treeless desert."
"I see," I said. Actually I felt a tinge of disappointment. When I was a little kid I'd read Kipling's Jungle Tales and other stories about remarkable things that happened in jungles. The very word had something of a mystical quality in my mind, and, in some irrational way, it seemed that a real jungle could exist only in fables or in exotic travelers' tales from distant lands.
Cuauhtémoc was foraging for seeds among the legumes and MacClayne took out one of his books. I found an outcropping to investigate and noted my findings in my journal. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier we'd been soaring through the sky over the mountains, looking down at dense foliage like that which now surrounded us. From time to time I paused to listen to the sounds of the thicket and heard raspy snorts from the bulldozer as it carved out the road which would bring civilization and beer trucks to this world of pristine wilderness.
We'd been there for some time when I heard a vehicle coming up the road. A familiar maroon jeep appeared from around the bend and drove up.
"Hi Olaf!" said Wendy. "Hi MacClayne!" She got out of the passenger side of the vehicle, beer in hand. Jeff sat in the driver's seat. I was almost as surprised to see them together as I was to see them here.
Wendy asked about the road, and we told her the situation.
"Did you ask the bulldozer operator?" she said.
"About getting through, you mean?" I said. "No I didn't."
"Well, then let's ask him," Wendy said.
So we ascended the slope, and when the operator saw Wendy, golden haired and scantily clad as always, he stopped his machine and gave her his full attention. No problem, he told her, he'd open the road right now. And with that he drove his machine down towards the old road to begin clearing away the debris. From the huge size of it, this was going to take a while.
When we returned to where the jeep was parked, Jeff was sitting by the roadside, sipping his beer.
"I wonder how much of a delay this is going to be," he grumbled. It was the first thing I'd heard him say; he hadn't even said hello to us. Wendy didn't respond to his remark; she paused at the jeep long enough to open the rear hatch and reach into the ice chest for a cold beer, which she took over and gave to the equipment operator.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc, who could hear a beer can being opened a mile away, but to my relief, he just continued to scratch and peck at something in the gravel. The bird didn't seem inclined to drink when Jeff and Wendy were around.
Jeff looked as unfriendly as he had that evening back in Aquila, but it occurred to me that I might at least try to talk with him.
"You're a geologist?" I said.
Jeff nodded and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Some of the shale back there--"
"Look," he said. "I'm on vacation. If you don't mind."
"Sorry I mentioned it," I said, and went to join MacClayne and Wendy who were watching the bulldozer. It had gotten into position and was beginning to clear debris off the old road. The task looked even more formidable than I had at first thought.
"What did you call that place?" Wendy was asking MacClayne.
"Motín de Oro," he said. "It's on the Río Motín. But I don't think you'd see anything there now. It hasn't been worked since the 1600's."
"I didn't even know there was an old Spanish mine back there," she said. "How do you find out about such things?"
"From Olaf. He knows this country," MacClayne replied.
I smiled at MacClayne's exaggeration, but at the same time it made me feel good.
Wendy looked at me. "MacClayne's been telling me about your adventures since leaving Aquila," she said. "I was hoping so much to travel like that. You know, just take our time and camp on beaches and explore things like you're doing. That's why I'm on this trip." She sighed.
"Did you stop in Maruata?" I said.
"I haven't seen a god-damn, fucking thing!" she burst out. "We finally got out of Aquila this morning and came straight here. Couldn't get Jeff to stop and look at anything. We didn't even stop to pee!"
I winced at the outburst.
"Olaf, I'm sorry," Wendy said and put her hand on my arm. "I didn't mean to sound like I was mad at you. I--"
"It's okay," I said. "We all get upset at times."
There was a flutter of wings as Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my arm, as though to nudge Wendy's hand off.
"You're possessive, aren't you!" Wendy laughingly said to Cuauhtémoc.
"He also loves to be the center of attention," I said.
The bulldozer driver was having a slow job clearing the old road below. Each time he pushed off a bit of debris, more came sliding down from above with a seemingly endless reserve of dirt and rocks. At last the road was open, and Wendy graciously thanked the operator with a six-pack of beer and a US ten dollar bill.
The jeep we were about to get into was a recent model which differed from the original US Army jeeps of World War II mainly in that it had a metal canopy with glass windows and two doors. Wendy moved a pile of things off the back seat and rearranged them to make room for us. It was a tight fit, but we managed to squeeze in. MacClayne sat behind the driver's seat, and I on the right, with the bird on my lap. We then waited for Jeff and Wendy to get in.
The two of them were standing in front of the vehicle, a short distance up the road. They were glancing at us and seemed to be arguing. I strained to listen.
"So what's your problem?" said Wendy.
"I don't make it a practice to pick up hitchhikers," Jeff growled.
MacClayne and I exchanged glances, wondering if we should get out.
"It's my jeep. I can invite who I want," she told him and started walking towards the left side of the vehicle, apparently intending to drive. But Jeff pushed his way ahead of her and slid into the driver's seat.
"Do you think you're sober enough to drive?" she said acidly.
"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like that," he replied, and started the engine. "Well, are you just going to stand there all day?"
Wendy retraced her steps to the passenger side and got in. Jeff said nothing to us. The fight was between the two of them, but what was the proper thing to do in a situation like this? I wanted to excuse myself and just get out and walk, for the next twenty miles or whatever to the next settlement. I glanced at MacClayne. He silently shook his head. The jeep was moving now.
"Better take it easy here," Wendy said as we entered the construction zone, but Jeff gunned the motor and we shot ahead, skidding and slipping on the loose dirt. I held my breath for fear that we'd go off the narrow edge. The roadwork zone was only a hundred meters long, and we slowed down slightly when we reached the other side. This time Wendy said nothing.
From there on it was mountain trail; but not nearly as bad as the last few kilometers of what we'd come through.
These mountains, not yet crossed by a paved highway, still retained a sense of wild and pristine beauty. All of that seemed to be lost on Jeff. He drove fast, racing down one hill and charging up the next, spinning around hair pin curves as we bounced violently along on the horrible road surface. A deer appeared in front of us, then leapt aside as Jeff skidded past and drove on. He also paid no attention to intriguing-looking rock outcroppings; this guy was a geologist, but he didn't even slow down to look at rocks.
Despite his recklessness, Jeff seemed to be a competent driver, and his drinking didn't seem to affect his ability to handle the vehicle. Nevertheless, I was frightened, but not only frightened. I also hated missing all that we were passing up. I kept thinking that if I had such a vehicle I would have stopped every once in a while to soak up the uniqueness of this bit of paradise we were madly racing through.
Before long we descended from the mountains and were once again following the shore on a strip of flat alluvium. Then we came to a wide river, perhaps a hundred meters across. Jeff skidded to a halt just short of the water's edge and reached for his beer.
Wendy turned in her seat to look at me. "What do you think?" she said.
I was disconcerted. Why was she asking me? Jeff was at the wheel and didn't seem at all likely to listen to any opinion I might offer. What's more, he apparently had years of experience in engineering geology and probably knew a lot more about the nature of watercourses than I did. I suspected that Wendy was asking me in order to humiliate Jeff, and I tried to think of some innocuous reply.
"I believe we're at the Río Cachán. It's the largest waterway of this region," I said, with a tone of calm assurance I didn't know I possessed. Enrique had told me of a large river by that name.
"Río Cachán?" Wendy repeated, then reached for her map and glanced sideways at Jeff who was tilting his beer can almost vertically, sucking out the last drop. "You might as well get yourself another," she said sarcastically.
He gave her a sullen look and got out, taking the keys with him, and walked around to the rear of the vehicle where the ice chest had been put.
"Get me one too," she called after him.
I looked out the window. There were tire tracks in the mud around us. Several sets led into the water, and on the distant bank the road seemed to continue, just to the left of a huge symmetrical tree that I guessed to be a ceiba. This had to be the fording place used by pickups. We could cross here as well. Despite the formidable appearance, the water shouldn't be more than axle deep--but I wasn't absolutely sure.
"There was a major storm that ended only a few days ago," I said. "The water may still be high."
"Dare we risk it?" she said.
"I think we can," I said. "But I think it'd be wise if I first waded across to see how deep the water is."
"Would you do that?"
"Sure," I said. "I need to stretch my legs a bit."
"You will be careful, won't you?"
"Of course. I won't go beyond anything the vehicle can't handle. If it gets deep, I'll come back. So, if you'll just let me out," I said, and passed Cuauhtémoc to MacClayne. Wendy turned back around in her seat and opened the door. Since this was a two-door vehicle, she would have to get out first.
At that moment Jeff returned with his beer and got in. Wendy was still inside the jeep with her hand on the open door. "I asked you to get me one too," she complained to Jeff.
Without replying, Jeff put the key in the ignition and started the engine. Seconds later we were moving down the bank towards the water. Had the brake slipped? Or was Jeff . . .
"Asshole!" Wendy shouted. "Watch out!"
We entered the water and I gasped. Jeff gunned the engine.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Wendy demanded.
Jeff drove on, deeper into the water, still saying nothing.
"This is my jeep! You know that?"
Still no reply from Jeff.
The tires splashed loudly in the water, and I could feel them grinding on the gravely bottom. Wendy still had her door halfway open, and I looked down through the opening and watched the current as it formed an eddy off to the right of the front tire. The water wasn't deep, not yet anyway, but the current was strong and it was pulling us downstream towards the ocean. The foamy surf were a kilometer away--a reasonably safe distance, if the river stayed shallow and our engine kept running.
"You asshole! You fucking jerk!" Wendy was shouting one obscenity after another.
The distant bank seemed awfully far away. I glanced back at the shore we'd left; it was now well behind us. This river was even wider than I had at first thought.
"Alcoholic bastard!"
Jeff was looking straight ahead and grasping the wheel with both hands. His knuckles were white, and the muscles of his neck and jaw tightened into knots. I looked to see where he set his beer. Strange how such an insignificant detail could enter my mind at such a moment. At last I saw the beer. He was holding it between his legs.
Then I noticed that he hadn't shifted to compound low. This was a four-wheel-drive vehicle, but here he was using it as only a two-wheel-drive. Insane! I thought to myself, absolutely insane!
"You crazy son-of-a-bitch!" Wendy groaned. She was no longer shouting, just shaking her head and cursing under her breath. The current swirling around us seemed louder now. Wendy's open door touched the water once, then again. The motor coughed, then faltered. I held my breath. An instant later the motor came back to life and droned on.
Neither MacClayne nor I said anything. Nor did Cuauhtémoc. He was back in my lap, standing with wings slightly spread for balance. He retained his composure. "You're a brave bird," I wanted to tell him, but I felt it important that I keep silent.
We were near the middle now, still heading towards the ceiba tree where the road continued. But the current had dragged us downstream far enough that we were heading almost upstream, at 45 degrees to our intended course. This suggested another danger, that even if the ford itself were shallow, we might get pulled off into a deeper area. Then what? Would we be overturned, trapped to drown like rats, swept out to sea?
I remembered the hatch behind me and reached around to find the handle. I unlocked it and pushed it open. We could squeeze out and tumble into the river if we had to. It'd be risky, especially for my bird who couldn't swim. For the moment it seemed better to remain seated. "Poor bird!" I gasped aloud and hugged him to my chest. "Forgive me for what I've gotten you into!" Then I looked up at Jeff, and I wanted to wring the bastard's neck. But here in the middle of the river was not an appropriate place.
Through the windshield I suddenly glimpsed the giant ceiba tree that grew on the far shore. It was now so close that I couldn't see the top of it. A moment later we were out of the water and driving up onto the bank.
"Now you stop right here and let me drive!" Wendy demanded. "Stop! You hear me? Stop!"
Jeff's only response was to gun the motor. The rear tires spun beneath me and I could hear gravel flying out from under them as we crawled towards the top of the bank.
"¡Párate cabrón!" I shouted. In the excitement of the moment I forgot that I should have said it in English. Not that it mattered; this guy wasn't listening to anybody in any language.
"Hey! Let me out!"
"Stop! You bastard!"
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!"
Cuauhtémoc clucked angrily.
At the top of the bank a stretch of dirt road appeared in front of us. Jeff was still floorboarding it, and we began to pick up speed. Soon we were shooting ahead like an aircraft on takeoff.
During the entire crossing of the river, MacClayne and I had held our breath in silence. Now we were shouting and cursing and demanding that Jeff halt and let us out. He just continued to accelerate.
Trees whizzed by, then a cornfield where a few cattle were grazing. Suddenly a right-angle turn appeared in front of us. We spun out.
The whole event went into slow motion, as in a movie. The brush in front began to revolve around us. A split second later, I was looking at the road up ahead. We'd made the turn, but we continued to rotate. And the view in front of us kept revolving. Another 90 degrees, and now we were looking back the way we'd come. Our spin continued. Our vehicle was pinned to its spot on the road like an insect on a board. We weren't even standing on edge; g-forces didn't seem to be in action.
But what could I do? Then I realized that we were no longer spinning. Our vehicle was now pointing in the right direction. We'd done a 450 degree spin, a full circle and a quarter, and had come out of it okay.
Our vehicle sat motionless, but only for an instant. Jeff was again gunning the motor, and the tires beneath me were whirling fiercely and spitting gravel. The next moment we were again moving ahead.
"No!" I reached ahead for the gearshift and gave a yank. The gears ground angrily, and Jeff grabbed my wrist. Cuauhtémoc leaped onto Jeff's shoulder and seized an ear with his beak. Jeff released my wrist and reached for the bird, but I caught his arm and wrenched it back towards me.
"Let go, damn it!" Jeff screamed in a high-pitched voice, but kept his free hand on the steering wheel. Wendy grabbed both the wheel and the gear lever. Branches scraped one side of the vehicle, then the other, as the two of them fought over the controls while the bird tore away at Jeff's ear and I pinned his arm behind the seat.
MacClayne seized his left arm and jerked it back, loose from the wheel. The vehicle was now out of gear and Jeff screamed in pain as the bird gave a final wrench at his ear, shredding it. Blood spattered in my face, on the windshield and on Wendy who was struggling to keep the vehicle on the road as it coasted to a halt.
The bird bounced back onto my lap, and MacClayne shoved the driver's seat forward, slamming Jeff into the wheel. MacClayne then opened the door, and squeezed his way out. The bird and I followed. For a few seconds the earth seemed to whirl beneath me and I nearly fell over before I recovered myself.
"You okay?" said Wendy, and began wiping my face with a handkerchief. She'd apparently exited in the same instant we had. Cuauhtémoc was prancing about on the road beside us, as if ready to continue the action.
"I wonder if Jeff's hurt badly?" MacClayne was looking at the driver who sat slumped over the wheel.
"He'll live," said Wendy. "But look what he did to my jeep! The asshole."
The shiny maroon paint had been badly scraped by tree limbs. Wendy touched the damaged paint with her hand, a nurse gently feeling a wound, while Jeff emitted low groans and wheezed for breath. The wheel must have caught him in the solar plexus. His shirt was soaked with blood, apparently from his ear.
Wendy walked around the vehicle, inspecting it for damage. It sat on the trail where it had come to a stop without crashing into anything. Apparently satisfied that nothing was smashed, she returned to the driver's side.
By now Jeff was sitting up and cradling his ear, face contorted with pain. His eyes rolled around in their sockets and finally fixed on me. "I'll have you arrested!" he hissed in a voice barely above a whisper. "You are going to jail. Both of you."
"On what charges?" I said.
"Assault and battery," he managed to wheeze out.
"Assaulted by a chicken," MacClayne quipped, ostensibly for the record. He stood behind me and Jeff didn't seem to hear him.
"Any witnesses?" I said.
"My wife. She saw everything."
Wendy looked at him scornfully. "I saw you fall and cut yourself on a broken tequila bottle. And you were shit-faced drunk. As usual."
"Lying bitch!" he gasped, then emitted another groan.
"You really want the truth?"
Jeff glared at her.
"Well then," she said. "You stole my jeep. Kidnapped my guests. Terrorized everyone with your driving." She shook her head. The hot sun beat down on us while a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a tree that rose above. Wendy sighed, and the hard, furious look on her face began to soften.
"My poor Jeff," she said at last, now in a very different tone of voce that was sympathetic and even sad. "I guess you were just trying to prove something."
He just looked at her, angry or perhaps beaten. I couldn't tell which, but I suddenly felt sorry for him. Only minutes before, I'd been wanting to thrash him to within a millimeter of his life.
"I'll get you a drink." Wendy pulled a bottle of brandy from under the seat and poured some into an aluminum cup which she held it up to his lips. As Jeff sipped the brandy, Wendy glanced back over her shoulder and said, "I know you guys don't normally drink, but maybe you could use one right now. Help yourselves. Please excuse me while I care for my husband."
Jeff emptied the cup; Wendy poured him another. Then she dug into a first-aid kit and began attending to his damaged ear. She did this with a forgiving kindness that I could hardly believe came from the enraged woman I'd seen only minutes before. She hadn't even gotten herself a drink; this was the first time I'd seen her without one.
"Is there anything we can help with?" MacClayne said.
"No. I'm trained in first aid. The beer's in the ice chest. Or you can have tequila. There's also vodka."
MacClayne went to the rear of the vehicle, looked at the ice chest and perhaps thought of his promise not to drink on this trip. He glanced at me. "I think I'll have a beer," he said at last, and reached into the chest. "You might try one too," he said to me. "It would help you relieve the tension."
"It would?"
"Well, you have to decide for yourself. I'm not going to pour it down your throat."
Cuauhtémoc was standing next to me and I wondered if he were also going to demand a drink. He'd certainly earned one, but it just wasn't good for him. Strangely, he didn't seem to want any. Maybe he considered it necessary to remain sober at a time like this, like a soldier on duty.
"Mi pajarito," I said, lifting him up in my arms and hugging him. "¡Me defendiste!"
"Olaf," said Wendy, some minutes later. "I really think you need a drink." She poured some tequila in a cup and gave it to me. Her blood-spattered face was now clean, and so was her shirt. She'd apparently changed to a different one. "Try to drink it. It'll help."
It tasted awful. I could only down a few sips. I passed it back to her.
"Like this," she laughed, and finished it at a single gulp.
MacClayne grinned, and I could guess he was amused at my inability to swallow the stuff. I tried to hide my embarrassment.
"Have another," Wendy said to MacClayne, who'd apparently finished his beer.
"One's enough for me. Thank you."
Really? I thought to myself. I was a bit surprised; maybe his drinking problem wasn't as severe as I'd thought. Wendy was sucking in her breath like she was going to say something important.
"I realize it's a major inconvenience to you," she said. "But I need to ask you people a really big favor."
"Not a problem," said MacClayne, guessing her intention. "We can walk from here."
MacClayne, so ready to give up a ride? This was new.
"Could you?" she said. "Is that okay with both of you?"
"We're hikers," I said, and the truth is I did want to walk. Most of all, I wanted to be away from Jeff, even now that he wasn't going to be driving. He was sitting quietly over on the passenger's side, all bandaged up. I could imagine the psychological pain and humiliation he must've been going through, and I didn't want to be around it.
"Thank you both. You're so sweet. Both of you. I'm sorry for what happened."
"It wasn't your fault," MacClayne said. "I hope Jeff'll be okay."
"He will. It's just his ear. I'll get him to a doctor," she said. "Where do you think we can find one? Will we have to go all the way to Lázaro?"
"You might try in Caleta," I said, and pointed it out on her map. Caleta was sixty kilometers from here, about halfway to Lázaro. "I'm told it's a fair-sized village and that there's also a hotel."
She nodded, then thanked us and apologized again, the way someone might apologize for spilling coffee on your best shirt. There was a tone of sincere gratitude in her voice--a sincerity that could sell houses, I thought to myself. She pressed a couple cans of beer and a bottle of tequila into MacClayne's hands. "For the road," she said. "And let me give you some lunch." She gave us a large bag of burritos, then got into her jeep, started it up, and drove off.
continued in Chapter 36
Having exchanged good-byes with Enrique, we set out across the airstrip and then down to the coastal road for Lázaro. Before we'd gotten far, we heard the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind us, and turned to see a yellow oil truck. It was the same one which had brought us here two days earlier, and it was as oily and greasy as before.
"Want a ride?" the driver called out.
I was about to say No, gracias. But MacClayne spoke first. "¡Sí! ¡Por favor!" he replied and climbed aboard. I groaned, but got on and perched Cuauhtémoc on the overhead rack, after first carefully wiping it clean of any oil.
The road deteriorated almost at once into a trail only jeeps and the hardiest of vehicles could travel on. Once again, I hung on with both hands as our greasy oil truck crashed along, bouncing and swaying from side to side. I silently cursed MacClayne for choosing to ride on this awful thing.
Until Maruata, this road had kept within a kilometer or two of the shore, sometimes traversing narrow bits of flat alluvial shelf, and sometimes cutting into the face of the mountain. But after Maruata the road left the ocean and we now found ourselves climbing into the uplands.
We were creeping along about five to ten kilometers per hour, but the way we swayed and bounced made me wish the driver would slow down even more. I saw little of anything other than thick brush as I clung to my unsteady perch, intent only on maintaining a precarious distance between me and the oil which covered almost everything. An hour seemed to pass. I lost track of time, mesmerized by the noise and movement, when suddenly the engine stopped. The quiet came rushing in to fill my ears; then I realized we'd come to a halt.
Then came the deep, rasping throb of another diesel. A bulldozer was creeping towards us, and halted only millimeters from our oil truck. As I watched curiously, the driver's assistant got out of the cab, unloosed a hose that was tied to a rack behind us, and put the nozzle in the bulldozer's fuel tank opening.
So this was what this oil truck was doing way out here in these woods. This segment of the road was under construction, but this one lone bulldozer was out here all by itself--a surprising contrast to road-building back in California where I was used to seeing huge fleets of earth-movers and construction vehicles on even the most minor project.
Refueling completed, we drove on. More kilometers. Then we stopped at a roadside restaurant, an outdoor table under the shade of a palm-leafed roof. There was a shed made of woven branches, and beside it stood a tall stack of cases of empty pop bottles and also a large ice chest.
By now I was used to seeing these tiny restaurants along the untrafficked back roads of Michoacán, but this one was more isolated than anything I'd seen yet--it was in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Even stranger was a huge loudspeaker blasting music out over the deserted mountainside.
The driver and his companion dismounted and went to the ice chest for sodas. Then we looked in. There was no ice, but it was fairly full of bottles. Among them were a few cans of beer, and I held one up and remarked to MacClayne, "That beer truck must have made it all the way out to here. That brave little beer truck!"
"That beer's probably lukewarm," remarked MacClayne.
We kept digging till we found a couple cans of apple juice, and joined the driver and his assistant at the table which was right under that blaring loudspeaker. It was worse than sitting in a discotheque.
"I wonder who that damn music is for?" MacClayne said, practically shouting into my ear.
Campesinos maybe. Perhaps there were people working their fields on the mountain-sides who had arranged with this restaurant to have the music. But I didn't see anybody except the proprietor.
On our way again, the music eventually faded into the distance, muffled by the brush, and became faint enough to be pleasant. One song being played was El Rey by José Alfredo Jiménez.
una piedra en el camino
me enseñó
que mi destino era rodar
rodar y rodar
rodar y rodar
A stone in the path
showed me that
my destiny was to roll along
roll along, roll along
Eventually we no longer heard it at all. Shortly afterwards we came to a bulldozer that was actually constructing the road right up there in front of us. This, the driver told us, was as far as he was going.
"The end of the road?" MacClayne said, as we dismounted and gazed at our new surroundings.
The hillside was steep here, and the bulldozer, now taking a break to refuel, was working high up at the top. Below was a trail that looked like the old road, and the operator seemed to be carving his way down towards it. I guessed the eventual new road would be a widened and paved version of the old.
We climbed down an embankment to get on the old road, but soon came to where it disappeared under the loose dirt, gravel and rocks which had been knocked down by the bulldozer working above. There was not even a narrow place left to walk, and if we tried it, we'd risk sliding down the hillside into a thicket of thorny bushes.
MacClayne eyed it skeptically, and said, "When we get through to the other side, I wonder if we're going to have to walk for twenty miles before we get to a town?"
Was he talking like that again? I'd thought that discussion was all behind us, and it irked me.
"Could be a hundred," I said. "But this is what we opted for when we broke the golden thread."
While we stood there talking, the bulldozer had finished refueling and went back to work. Now more gravel came sliding down. Then a rock about the size of a man's head hurtled past us, narrowly missing me.
We retreated a few steps, and glanced around to see if we were safe where we stood now. Rocks and debris kept tumbling down as we watched. Too late, we'd missed our chance to get across.
"The roadless road," I said, and couldn't help but smile. "The situation is almost poetic."
MacClayne didn't smile.
Maybe there was some other way around. We returned to where we'd gotten off the vehicle. Could we climb up the hill and go above the bulldozer? No, that way seemed blocked not only by the steepness of the slope, but also by the density of the thorn bushes.
The oil truck was gone. There were only us and the bulldozer. I heard the throaty bursts of its powerful engine as it cut away at the mountain, tearing loose the rocks and ripping out the vegetation.
Maybe the bulldozer would take another break before too long. We'd just have to wait. I turned to look at the woods. It was the same dense, thorny, impenetrable thicket we'd seen time and again on mountain slopes during this journey.
"This really must be a jungle," I said.
"Must be? Is there any reason we couldn't call it a jungle?"
"There's a question as to what defines a jungle," I said. "Abundant quantities of tall trees, for example."
"I don't think the height of the trees or their number has anything to do with the definition."
"No? Then what are the criteria?"
"I don't believe it's that precise a thing," he said. "It's from a Hindi word for wilderness. Any wilderness--even a treeless desert."
"I see," I said. Actually I felt a tinge of disappointment. When I was a little kid I'd read Kipling's Jungle Tales and other stories about remarkable things that happened in jungles. The very word had something of a mystical quality in my mind, and, in some irrational way, it seemed that a real jungle could exist only in fables or in exotic travelers' tales from distant lands.
Cuauhtémoc was foraging for seeds among the legumes and MacClayne took out one of his books. I found an outcropping to investigate and noted my findings in my journal. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier we'd been soaring through the sky over the mountains, looking down at dense foliage like that which now surrounded us. From time to time I paused to listen to the sounds of the thicket and heard raspy snorts from the bulldozer as it carved out the road which would bring civilization and beer trucks to this world of pristine wilderness.
We'd been there for some time when I heard a vehicle coming up the road. A familiar maroon jeep appeared from around the bend and drove up.
"Hi Olaf!" said Wendy. "Hi MacClayne!" She got out of the passenger side of the vehicle, beer in hand. Jeff sat in the driver's seat. I was almost as surprised to see them together as I was to see them here.
Wendy asked about the road, and we told her the situation.
"Did you ask the bulldozer operator?" she said.
"About getting through, you mean?" I said. "No I didn't."
"Well, then let's ask him," Wendy said.
So we ascended the slope, and when the operator saw Wendy, golden haired and scantily clad as always, he stopped his machine and gave her his full attention. No problem, he told her, he'd open the road right now. And with that he drove his machine down towards the old road to begin clearing away the debris. From the huge size of it, this was going to take a while.
When we returned to where the jeep was parked, Jeff was sitting by the roadside, sipping his beer.
"I wonder how much of a delay this is going to be," he grumbled. It was the first thing I'd heard him say; he hadn't even said hello to us. Wendy didn't respond to his remark; she paused at the jeep long enough to open the rear hatch and reach into the ice chest for a cold beer, which she took over and gave to the equipment operator.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc, who could hear a beer can being opened a mile away, but to my relief, he just continued to scratch and peck at something in the gravel. The bird didn't seem inclined to drink when Jeff and Wendy were around.
Jeff looked as unfriendly as he had that evening back in Aquila, but it occurred to me that I might at least try to talk with him.
"You're a geologist?" I said.
Jeff nodded and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Some of the shale back there--"
"Look," he said. "I'm on vacation. If you don't mind."
"Sorry I mentioned it," I said, and went to join MacClayne and Wendy who were watching the bulldozer. It had gotten into position and was beginning to clear debris off the old road. The task looked even more formidable than I had at first thought.
"What did you call that place?" Wendy was asking MacClayne.
"Motín de Oro," he said. "It's on the Río Motín. But I don't think you'd see anything there now. It hasn't been worked since the 1600's."
"I didn't even know there was an old Spanish mine back there," she said. "How do you find out about such things?"
"From Olaf. He knows this country," MacClayne replied.
I smiled at MacClayne's exaggeration, but at the same time it made me feel good.
Wendy looked at me. "MacClayne's been telling me about your adventures since leaving Aquila," she said. "I was hoping so much to travel like that. You know, just take our time and camp on beaches and explore things like you're doing. That's why I'm on this trip." She sighed.
"Did you stop in Maruata?" I said.
"I haven't seen a god-damn, fucking thing!" she burst out. "We finally got out of Aquila this morning and came straight here. Couldn't get Jeff to stop and look at anything. We didn't even stop to pee!"
I winced at the outburst.
"Olaf, I'm sorry," Wendy said and put her hand on my arm. "I didn't mean to sound like I was mad at you. I--"
"It's okay," I said. "We all get upset at times."
There was a flutter of wings as Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my arm, as though to nudge Wendy's hand off.
"You're possessive, aren't you!" Wendy laughingly said to Cuauhtémoc.
"He also loves to be the center of attention," I said.
The bulldozer driver was having a slow job clearing the old road below. Each time he pushed off a bit of debris, more came sliding down from above with a seemingly endless reserve of dirt and rocks. At last the road was open, and Wendy graciously thanked the operator with a six-pack of beer and a US ten dollar bill.
The jeep we were about to get into was a recent model which differed from the original US Army jeeps of World War II mainly in that it had a metal canopy with glass windows and two doors. Wendy moved a pile of things off the back seat and rearranged them to make room for us. It was a tight fit, but we managed to squeeze in. MacClayne sat behind the driver's seat, and I on the right, with the bird on my lap. We then waited for Jeff and Wendy to get in.
The two of them were standing in front of the vehicle, a short distance up the road. They were glancing at us and seemed to be arguing. I strained to listen.
"So what's your problem?" said Wendy.
"I don't make it a practice to pick up hitchhikers," Jeff growled.
MacClayne and I exchanged glances, wondering if we should get out.
"It's my jeep. I can invite who I want," she told him and started walking towards the left side of the vehicle, apparently intending to drive. But Jeff pushed his way ahead of her and slid into the driver's seat.
"Do you think you're sober enough to drive?" she said acidly.
"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like that," he replied, and started the engine. "Well, are you just going to stand there all day?"
Wendy retraced her steps to the passenger side and got in. Jeff said nothing to us. The fight was between the two of them, but what was the proper thing to do in a situation like this? I wanted to excuse myself and just get out and walk, for the next twenty miles or whatever to the next settlement. I glanced at MacClayne. He silently shook his head. The jeep was moving now.
"Better take it easy here," Wendy said as we entered the construction zone, but Jeff gunned the motor and we shot ahead, skidding and slipping on the loose dirt. I held my breath for fear that we'd go off the narrow edge. The roadwork zone was only a hundred meters long, and we slowed down slightly when we reached the other side. This time Wendy said nothing.
From there on it was mountain trail; but not nearly as bad as the last few kilometers of what we'd come through.
These mountains, not yet crossed by a paved highway, still retained a sense of wild and pristine beauty. All of that seemed to be lost on Jeff. He drove fast, racing down one hill and charging up the next, spinning around hair pin curves as we bounced violently along on the horrible road surface. A deer appeared in front of us, then leapt aside as Jeff skidded past and drove on. He also paid no attention to intriguing-looking rock outcroppings; this guy was a geologist, but he didn't even slow down to look at rocks.
Despite his recklessness, Jeff seemed to be a competent driver, and his drinking didn't seem to affect his ability to handle the vehicle. Nevertheless, I was frightened, but not only frightened. I also hated missing all that we were passing up. I kept thinking that if I had such a vehicle I would have stopped every once in a while to soak up the uniqueness of this bit of paradise we were madly racing through.
Before long we descended from the mountains and were once again following the shore on a strip of flat alluvium. Then we came to a wide river, perhaps a hundred meters across. Jeff skidded to a halt just short of the water's edge and reached for his beer.
Wendy turned in her seat to look at me. "What do you think?" she said.
I was disconcerted. Why was she asking me? Jeff was at the wheel and didn't seem at all likely to listen to any opinion I might offer. What's more, he apparently had years of experience in engineering geology and probably knew a lot more about the nature of watercourses than I did. I suspected that Wendy was asking me in order to humiliate Jeff, and I tried to think of some innocuous reply.
"I believe we're at the Río Cachán. It's the largest waterway of this region," I said, with a tone of calm assurance I didn't know I possessed. Enrique had told me of a large river by that name.
"Río Cachán?" Wendy repeated, then reached for her map and glanced sideways at Jeff who was tilting his beer can almost vertically, sucking out the last drop. "You might as well get yourself another," she said sarcastically.
He gave her a sullen look and got out, taking the keys with him, and walked around to the rear of the vehicle where the ice chest had been put.
"Get me one too," she called after him.
I looked out the window. There were tire tracks in the mud around us. Several sets led into the water, and on the distant bank the road seemed to continue, just to the left of a huge symmetrical tree that I guessed to be a ceiba. This had to be the fording place used by pickups. We could cross here as well. Despite the formidable appearance, the water shouldn't be more than axle deep--but I wasn't absolutely sure.
"There was a major storm that ended only a few days ago," I said. "The water may still be high."
"Dare we risk it?" she said.
"I think we can," I said. "But I think it'd be wise if I first waded across to see how deep the water is."
"Would you do that?"
"Sure," I said. "I need to stretch my legs a bit."
"You will be careful, won't you?"
"Of course. I won't go beyond anything the vehicle can't handle. If it gets deep, I'll come back. So, if you'll just let me out," I said, and passed Cuauhtémoc to MacClayne. Wendy turned back around in her seat and opened the door. Since this was a two-door vehicle, she would have to get out first.
At that moment Jeff returned with his beer and got in. Wendy was still inside the jeep with her hand on the open door. "I asked you to get me one too," she complained to Jeff.
Without replying, Jeff put the key in the ignition and started the engine. Seconds later we were moving down the bank towards the water. Had the brake slipped? Or was Jeff . . .
"Asshole!" Wendy shouted. "Watch out!"
We entered the water and I gasped. Jeff gunned the engine.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Wendy demanded.
Jeff drove on, deeper into the water, still saying nothing.
"This is my jeep! You know that?"
Still no reply from Jeff.
The tires splashed loudly in the water, and I could feel them grinding on the gravely bottom. Wendy still had her door halfway open, and I looked down through the opening and watched the current as it formed an eddy off to the right of the front tire. The water wasn't deep, not yet anyway, but the current was strong and it was pulling us downstream towards the ocean. The foamy surf were a kilometer away--a reasonably safe distance, if the river stayed shallow and our engine kept running.
"You asshole! You fucking jerk!" Wendy was shouting one obscenity after another.
The distant bank seemed awfully far away. I glanced back at the shore we'd left; it was now well behind us. This river was even wider than I had at first thought.
"Alcoholic bastard!"
Jeff was looking straight ahead and grasping the wheel with both hands. His knuckles were white, and the muscles of his neck and jaw tightened into knots. I looked to see where he set his beer. Strange how such an insignificant detail could enter my mind at such a moment. At last I saw the beer. He was holding it between his legs.
Then I noticed that he hadn't shifted to compound low. This was a four-wheel-drive vehicle, but here he was using it as only a two-wheel-drive. Insane! I thought to myself, absolutely insane!
"You crazy son-of-a-bitch!" Wendy groaned. She was no longer shouting, just shaking her head and cursing under her breath. The current swirling around us seemed louder now. Wendy's open door touched the water once, then again. The motor coughed, then faltered. I held my breath. An instant later the motor came back to life and droned on.
Neither MacClayne nor I said anything. Nor did Cuauhtémoc. He was back in my lap, standing with wings slightly spread for balance. He retained his composure. "You're a brave bird," I wanted to tell him, but I felt it important that I keep silent.
We were near the middle now, still heading towards the ceiba tree where the road continued. But the current had dragged us downstream far enough that we were heading almost upstream, at 45 degrees to our intended course. This suggested another danger, that even if the ford itself were shallow, we might get pulled off into a deeper area. Then what? Would we be overturned, trapped to drown like rats, swept out to sea?
I remembered the hatch behind me and reached around to find the handle. I unlocked it and pushed it open. We could squeeze out and tumble into the river if we had to. It'd be risky, especially for my bird who couldn't swim. For the moment it seemed better to remain seated. "Poor bird!" I gasped aloud and hugged him to my chest. "Forgive me for what I've gotten you into!" Then I looked up at Jeff, and I wanted to wring the bastard's neck. But here in the middle of the river was not an appropriate place.
Through the windshield I suddenly glimpsed the giant ceiba tree that grew on the far shore. It was now so close that I couldn't see the top of it. A moment later we were out of the water and driving up onto the bank.
"Now you stop right here and let me drive!" Wendy demanded. "Stop! You hear me? Stop!"
Jeff's only response was to gun the motor. The rear tires spun beneath me and I could hear gravel flying out from under them as we crawled towards the top of the bank.
"¡Párate cabrón!" I shouted. In the excitement of the moment I forgot that I should have said it in English. Not that it mattered; this guy wasn't listening to anybody in any language.
"Hey! Let me out!"
"Stop! You bastard!"
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!"
Cuauhtémoc clucked angrily.
At the top of the bank a stretch of dirt road appeared in front of us. Jeff was still floorboarding it, and we began to pick up speed. Soon we were shooting ahead like an aircraft on takeoff.
During the entire crossing of the river, MacClayne and I had held our breath in silence. Now we were shouting and cursing and demanding that Jeff halt and let us out. He just continued to accelerate.
Trees whizzed by, then a cornfield where a few cattle were grazing. Suddenly a right-angle turn appeared in front of us. We spun out.
The whole event went into slow motion, as in a movie. The brush in front began to revolve around us. A split second later, I was looking at the road up ahead. We'd made the turn, but we continued to rotate. And the view in front of us kept revolving. Another 90 degrees, and now we were looking back the way we'd come. Our spin continued. Our vehicle was pinned to its spot on the road like an insect on a board. We weren't even standing on edge; g-forces didn't seem to be in action.
But what could I do? Then I realized that we were no longer spinning. Our vehicle was now pointing in the right direction. We'd done a 450 degree spin, a full circle and a quarter, and had come out of it okay.
Our vehicle sat motionless, but only for an instant. Jeff was again gunning the motor, and the tires beneath me were whirling fiercely and spitting gravel. The next moment we were again moving ahead.
"No!" I reached ahead for the gearshift and gave a yank. The gears ground angrily, and Jeff grabbed my wrist. Cuauhtémoc leaped onto Jeff's shoulder and seized an ear with his beak. Jeff released my wrist and reached for the bird, but I caught his arm and wrenched it back towards me.
"Let go, damn it!" Jeff screamed in a high-pitched voice, but kept his free hand on the steering wheel. Wendy grabbed both the wheel and the gear lever. Branches scraped one side of the vehicle, then the other, as the two of them fought over the controls while the bird tore away at Jeff's ear and I pinned his arm behind the seat.
MacClayne seized his left arm and jerked it back, loose from the wheel. The vehicle was now out of gear and Jeff screamed in pain as the bird gave a final wrench at his ear, shredding it. Blood spattered in my face, on the windshield and on Wendy who was struggling to keep the vehicle on the road as it coasted to a halt.
The bird bounced back onto my lap, and MacClayne shoved the driver's seat forward, slamming Jeff into the wheel. MacClayne then opened the door, and squeezed his way out. The bird and I followed. For a few seconds the earth seemed to whirl beneath me and I nearly fell over before I recovered myself.
"You okay?" said Wendy, and began wiping my face with a handkerchief. She'd apparently exited in the same instant we had. Cuauhtémoc was prancing about on the road beside us, as if ready to continue the action.
"I wonder if Jeff's hurt badly?" MacClayne was looking at the driver who sat slumped over the wheel.
"He'll live," said Wendy. "But look what he did to my jeep! The asshole."
The shiny maroon paint had been badly scraped by tree limbs. Wendy touched the damaged paint with her hand, a nurse gently feeling a wound, while Jeff emitted low groans and wheezed for breath. The wheel must have caught him in the solar plexus. His shirt was soaked with blood, apparently from his ear.
Wendy walked around the vehicle, inspecting it for damage. It sat on the trail where it had come to a stop without crashing into anything. Apparently satisfied that nothing was smashed, she returned to the driver's side.
By now Jeff was sitting up and cradling his ear, face contorted with pain. His eyes rolled around in their sockets and finally fixed on me. "I'll have you arrested!" he hissed in a voice barely above a whisper. "You are going to jail. Both of you."
"On what charges?" I said.
"Assault and battery," he managed to wheeze out.
"Assaulted by a chicken," MacClayne quipped, ostensibly for the record. He stood behind me and Jeff didn't seem to hear him.
"Any witnesses?" I said.
"My wife. She saw everything."
Wendy looked at him scornfully. "I saw you fall and cut yourself on a broken tequila bottle. And you were shit-faced drunk. As usual."
"Lying bitch!" he gasped, then emitted another groan.
"You really want the truth?"
Jeff glared at her.
"Well then," she said. "You stole my jeep. Kidnapped my guests. Terrorized everyone with your driving." She shook her head. The hot sun beat down on us while a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a tree that rose above. Wendy sighed, and the hard, furious look on her face began to soften.
"My poor Jeff," she said at last, now in a very different tone of voce that was sympathetic and even sad. "I guess you were just trying to prove something."
He just looked at her, angry or perhaps beaten. I couldn't tell which, but I suddenly felt sorry for him. Only minutes before, I'd been wanting to thrash him to within a millimeter of his life.
"I'll get you a drink." Wendy pulled a bottle of brandy from under the seat and poured some into an aluminum cup which she held it up to his lips. As Jeff sipped the brandy, Wendy glanced back over her shoulder and said, "I know you guys don't normally drink, but maybe you could use one right now. Help yourselves. Please excuse me while I care for my husband."
Jeff emptied the cup; Wendy poured him another. Then she dug into a first-aid kit and began attending to his damaged ear. She did this with a forgiving kindness that I could hardly believe came from the enraged woman I'd seen only minutes before. She hadn't even gotten herself a drink; this was the first time I'd seen her without one.
"Is there anything we can help with?" MacClayne said.
"No. I'm trained in first aid. The beer's in the ice chest. Or you can have tequila. There's also vodka."
MacClayne went to the rear of the vehicle, looked at the ice chest and perhaps thought of his promise not to drink on this trip. He glanced at me. "I think I'll have a beer," he said at last, and reached into the chest. "You might try one too," he said to me. "It would help you relieve the tension."
"It would?"
"Well, you have to decide for yourself. I'm not going to pour it down your throat."
Cuauhtémoc was standing next to me and I wondered if he were also going to demand a drink. He'd certainly earned one, but it just wasn't good for him. Strangely, he didn't seem to want any. Maybe he considered it necessary to remain sober at a time like this, like a soldier on duty.
"Mi pajarito," I said, lifting him up in my arms and hugging him. "¡Me defendiste!"
"Olaf," said Wendy, some minutes later. "I really think you need a drink." She poured some tequila in a cup and gave it to me. Her blood-spattered face was now clean, and so was her shirt. She'd apparently changed to a different one. "Try to drink it. It'll help."
It tasted awful. I could only down a few sips. I passed it back to her.
"Like this," she laughed, and finished it at a single gulp.
MacClayne grinned, and I could guess he was amused at my inability to swallow the stuff. I tried to hide my embarrassment.
"Have another," Wendy said to MacClayne, who'd apparently finished his beer.
"One's enough for me. Thank you."
Really? I thought to myself. I was a bit surprised; maybe his drinking problem wasn't as severe as I'd thought. Wendy was sucking in her breath like she was going to say something important.
"I realize it's a major inconvenience to you," she said. "But I need to ask you people a really big favor."
"Not a problem," said MacClayne, guessing her intention. "We can walk from here."
MacClayne, so ready to give up a ride? This was new.
"Could you?" she said. "Is that okay with both of you?"
"We're hikers," I said, and the truth is I did want to walk. Most of all, I wanted to be away from Jeff, even now that he wasn't going to be driving. He was sitting quietly over on the passenger's side, all bandaged up. I could imagine the psychological pain and humiliation he must've been going through, and I didn't want to be around it.
"Thank you both. You're so sweet. Both of you. I'm sorry for what happened."
"It wasn't your fault," MacClayne said. "I hope Jeff'll be okay."
"He will. It's just his ear. I'll get him to a doctor," she said. "Where do you think we can find one? Will we have to go all the way to Lázaro?"
"You might try in Caleta," I said, and pointed it out on her map. Caleta was sixty kilometers from here, about halfway to Lázaro. "I'm told it's a fair-sized village and that there's also a hotel."
She nodded, then thanked us and apologized again, the way someone might apologize for spilling coffee on your best shirt. There was a tone of sincere gratitude in her voice--a sincerity that could sell houses, I thought to myself. She pressed a couple cans of beer and a bottle of tequila into MacClayne's hands. "For the road," she said. "And let me give you some lunch." She gave us a large bag of burritos, then got into her jeep, started it up, and drove off.
continued in Chapter 36
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