Across the river (first post - beginning)

 

Priming the irrigation pump could be a nuisance. After many unsuccessful tries, he finally achieved the desired effect. With suction restored, a torrent of brown water from the Zulia River rushed from the outlet, flowing through the loose furrows and toward the waiting seeds.

He would harvest in three months, but storing the grain would require dozens of steel barrels—and barrels were in short supply. Ever since the government had ousted the foreign oil companies, smuggling Colombian gasoline had become a thriving business. Empty barrels were at a premium. The value of a single empty container surpassed that of three barrels of maize, and they could be re-used indefinitely.

"By harvest time, I will have no barrels left; they will steal or seize the few I have," Ricardo reflected silently.

The government's desertion had created a lawless void, quickly filled by sullen-faced Colombian guerrillas. They protected the small farmers, providing them with food and shelter. However, large to medium-scale farmers like Ricardo—suspected of being “exploiters of the poor”—became targets of continuous harassment. The political and social landscape had completely shifted.

Even finding diesel for the pump engine had become an unpredictable adventure. Avid to exploit how desperate the farmers were, suppliers charged according to the perceived wealth of the buyers. No wholesalers remained to buy his maize; they had all fled across the river.

It had been six months since his brother Carlos had abandoned his farm to work as a hired hand across the river in Bochalema, and a year had elapsed since Ricardo had sent his wife and children to his father-in-law’s home in Bucaramanga.

I am no longer a youngster, thought Ricardo.

He was near fifty. Though he was strong and possessed a solid build, he felt the crushing weight of their new circumstances, and his forehead furrowed with anxiety. Trudging home, he mused on how drastically life had changed. His mother desperately needed arthritis painkillers, but the village drugstore had closed. His sister, Elsa, avoided running errands to the village entirely; the lustful ogling of the roaming guerrilleros terrified her.

On the edge of the path home, the fly-ridden carcass of the rabid dog that had bitten him still lay where it had died. He desperately needed an anti-rabies vaccine, but going to the hospital in San Antonio meant a full day's journey on foot; the small village bus had long since disappeared. The importation and production of all basic goods had ceased since the revolution had seized control of the government.

Puerto Santander, just across the river in Colombia, had a well-equipped medical post. However, reaching it required a canoe, invisibility, and great courage—a commodity currently in scarce supply.

A party of five guerrilleros was waiting when he finally reached the house. An old truck, painted in an amateurish military green, stood on the dirt road leading to San Antonio. His mother stood at the front door, her face lined with worry.

"Hello, Mr. Rodriguez. Are you acquainted with Antonio Rubio?" asked the leader of the men.

"No. Should I be?"

"Mr. Rubio implied you were hoarding maize."

Ricardo suppressed his rising anger and replied calmly, "Hoarding? No. I only keep some replanting maize. Come, I will show you."

The men followed him. He led them to a large shed, where one-third of the space was occupied by empty barrels and others filled with replanting grain.

"This is all I have, please check for yourselves. I have ten full barrels and twenty empty ones."

The men exchanged meaningful looks and inspected the containers.

"Sorry, Mr. Rodriguez, but some of the poor people need maize," the leader said. "We will take half of the full barrels you have here. The remainder will be ample for your replanting."

Ricardo remained silent, powerless to argue.

Elsa joined their mother at the door as the men began moving the cargo. Ricardo overheard one of the guerrilleros address his sister.

"Ms. Rodriguez, aren’t you going to the dance this coming Saturday night? We would love to see you there."

"Thank you, but my mother needs me at home," Elsa replied, forcing a polite smile. The men left, casting lingering glances back at her as they drove away.

Paco, Ricardo’s younger brother, returned home late that evening.

"Hello, Mom. Are you feeling any better?" he inquired, setting a small package down. "I managed to bring you some aspirin."

"Thank you, dear. I will feel much better with these," she said gratefully.

Paco turned to his sister. "And you, Elsa? Why the long face?"

She grimaced with open disgust. "It’s those guerrilleros. They want me to go to one of those parties they organize."

Paco's smile faded, and he turned to Ricardo, gesturing for his older brother to step outside. Once on the porch, he spoke in a low, urgent tone.

"Ricardo, why that worried look? You must to go to San Antonio. You need that rabies vaccine before it's too late."

"Paco, you know medical supplies in San Antonio have completely vanished. Going there would be a waste of time, and I don't want to leave Elsa and Mother by themselves. We have to think of something else."

Paco replied with sharp annoyance, "Something else? What, like magic?"

Ricardo offered his younger brother a faint, tired smile. "No, but a canoe with a reliable outboard motor would help. It is what I want most right now. We have to get to Colombia. Where exactly have you been working, Paco?"

"It’s about a kilometer downriver," Paco replied. "We are building a better boat landing to receive and ship supplies."

That night, Ricardo dreamt of magic and canoes flying effortlessly across the river. When he woke up, the cold awareness of his deadly quandary assailed him once more.

The next morning, the green truck returned.

This time, an officer stepped out of the cabin while his escort remained in the back. He was tall, with the light complexion of a city-bred man—a sharp contrast to his shorter, darker-skinned soldiers. His pressed, clean uniform, polished leather holster, and organized magazine pouches clearly displayed his high official rank. Yet, his square face, angular jaw, narrow eyes, and scarred cheeks revealed a violent undertone. Ricardo estimated him to be around forty-five years old.

With a relaxed, easy gait, the officer approached.

"Hello, Mr. Rodriguez. I am Major Morales. I would like to apologize for my men’s behavior yesterday."

Ricardo watched as the soldiers began offloading the stolen property. "I am returning the barrels my men took. Can I come in and talk to you?"

The man’s sudden shift in attitude was intriguing. Ricardo welcomed him. "Please, do come in."

The Major looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, his eyes assessing. "I would like to speak to you about a mutually convenient business proposition."

Ricardo’s curiosity grew. "Well, let’s go inside. If you like, we can have a cup of coffee."

They stepped through the threshold, and the Major immediately addressed Ricardo's mother with formal politeness. "Good morning, Mrs. Rodriguez. May I come in?"

"Yes, you are welcome... Mr.?"

Ricardo’s mother was just as surprised by this sudden display of manners as her son was.

"I am Francisco Morales, Mrs. Rodriguez. I have come to speak with your son."

"You are welcome, Major. Excuse me, I have some chores to attend to in my room." She withdrew quietly, catching Elsa’s eye and gesturing for her to brew a fresh pot of coffee.

Elsa was a handsome woman, possessing the mellow, ripe, bronze skin characteristic of the most beautiful women along the border. Major Morales smiled warmly as she served the coffee, thanking her politely.

"The coffee is delicious," he noted.

She nodded and returned to the kitchen, but Morales’s eyes followed her until she disappeared behind the curtain.

Turning back to the table, he looked at Ricardo. "Is your brother Paco working for us down at the river?"

"Yes, that's correct," Ricardo said, his posture tensing. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, no, not at all. He is a fine worker. In fact, I am going to promote him to foreman. But that is not the main reason I wanted to speak with you. We are expanding our operations, and we need an intelligent manager. We also need a proper storage shed."

"An intelligent manager, Major?"

"Do not be modest with me, Mr. Rodriguez," Morales said, leaning forward. "I know all about your record. I know you distinguished yourself as an excellent administrator and an officer within the Venezuelan army."

Ricardo waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that? Many years have passed, Major. I am a completely different man now. Just a farmer."

"Well, let me be the judge of that," Morales replied smoothly. "I think we can reach an agreement that will be highly satisfactory to both of us. This afternoon, I will send my driver. I want to show you the scope of what we are dealing with."

True to his word, the Major’s driver arrived that afternoon and took Ricardo down to an improvised boat landing on the riverbank. Two hundred meters inland, hidden poorly beneath a makeshift, threadbare tarpaulin, lay a massive, disordered pile of crates and ammunition boxes. Men were sweating in the heat, unloading and moving heavy cargo from the water.

Ricardo felt a knot form in his stomach. He knew that Colombian armed helicopters regularly surveyed this side of the border; the current site was entirely open and visible from the air.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rodriguez," Major Morales said, appearing from the shade of the trees. "As you can see, our current storage is entirely inadequate. We need a secure, hidden place. Your shed is perfect."

Before Ricardo could answer, a sudden commotion drew their attention to the river's edge. A group of heavily armed soldiers was holding four civilians at gunpoint.

"I regret that during your visit you have to witness the harsher side of revolutionary justice," Morales said casually, his voice dropping to a cool, detached register. "Do you recognize any of these men?"

Ricardo looked closely at the terrified prisoners. His heart stopped. He recognized the man on the far left. "Yes... that man there. His name is Marco. He is a distant cousin of mine."

Major Morales turned to the sergeant in charge of the detail and gave a brief nod. "Untie that one and separate him."

The soldier cut Marco's bonds and shoved him forward. The man fell to his knees in the dirt, weeping hysterically in relief.

Morales turned back to the sergeant, his face turning to stone. "Proceed, Sergeant."

The three remaining civilians were forced to face the river, their backs to the firing squad. The sergeant drew back the bolt of his automatic rifle and fired a devastating burst, spraying the men. As they collapsed, he walked calmly to each body, delivering a final coup de grâce to the head.

With practiced efficiency, the other soldiers stepped forward and pushed the bleeding bodies into the rushing currents of the Zulia River. They would float downstream—a grim, unmistakable warning to anyone watching.

A local woman quickly stepped forward, helping the trembling Marco to his feet. She supported his weight as they hurriedly abandoned the site.

Ricardo flinched internally at the sound of the shots. The execution was a brutal revelation of his own reality; the line between being a partner and being a target had just vanished.

"Those men were conniving with the Colombian army," Morales explained smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "Our meeting here at this moment was a sad coincidence. Tell your cousin to choose his acquaintances more carefully in the future."

The Major placed a heavy, paternal hand on Ricardo's shoulder.

"As I mentioned, we need your shed, Mr. Rodriguez. And we need an administrator of your caliber to handle the logistics of these supplies. It will be a position with an exceptionally good salary. To celebrate our new partnership, I am hosting a special supper at my headquarters tonight at 8:00. Please, bring your entire family."

When Ricardo returned home and shared the news of the job and the invitation, Paco smiled broadly, completely missing the terror beneath his brother's eyes.

"This is incredible, Ricardo! You will be able to ask the Major directly for your rabies vaccine. It's fantastic news!"

"Yes, Paco," Ricardo replied, his voice hollow as he stared out the window toward the river. "But we are selling our souls to the devil."

"Come on, brother, don’t exaggerate," Paco laughed, clapping him on the back. "Let's just enjoy his supper invitation."

MY NEXT POST WILL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO RICARDO, PACO AND THEIR KIN.