Across the river (first post - beginning)

 

Priming the irrigation pump could be a nuisance.  After many unsuccessful ties, finally he achieved the desired effect. Suction restored, a torrent of brown water from the river Zulia issued the outlet flowing among the loose furrows, and the waiting seeds.

He would harvest in three months and storing the grain would require many steel barrels, but barrels were in short supply. 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 surpassed that of three barrels of maize, and they could be re-used as needed.

— By harvest time, I will have no barrels; they will steal or seize the few I have.  — He reflected.

Desertion by the government caused a lawless void filled by sullen faced Colombian guerrillas; they protected the small farmers providing them with food and shelter. Large to medium scale farmers like him, suspected of being “exploiters of the poor people”; became targets of continuous harassment. The political and social environment had changed.

Trying to find diesel for the pump engine had become an adventure; avid to know how bad the need was; suppliers charged according to the perceived wealth of the buyers. No wholesalers to buy his maize remained; 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 at Bochalema and a year had elapsed since Ricardo had sent his wife and children to Bucaramanga to his father-in-law’s home.

I am no longer a youngster— thought Ricardo.

He was nearing fifty and though he was strong and had a solid build, he felt the weight of the new circumstances and his forehead furrowed with anxiety. Trudging home, he mused on how their life had changed; his mother needed arthritis pain killers, but the village drugstore had closed; Elsa, his sister, avoided going on errands to the village; the lustful ogling of the roaming guerrilleros frightened her.

On the edge of his path home, the fly-ridden carcass of the rabid dog that had bitten him still laid where it died; he needed an anti-rabies vaccine; but going to the San Antonio's hospital meant a day's journey walking; the small village bus had disappeared; the importation and production of all goods had ceased since the revolution had seized the government.

Puerto Santander, across the river, in Colombia, had a good medical post; however, reaching it required a canoe, invisibility and great courage, a scarce quality.

A party of five guerrilleros was waiting when he got home; An old truck painted in amateurish fashion with military green stood on the dirt road leading to San Antonio; his mother was at their home's door; she looked worried.

— Hello, Mr. Rodriguez, are you acquainted with Antonio Rubio? - asked the leader of the men.

—No, should I?

 – Mr. Rubio implied you were hoarding maize.

Ricardo suppressed his anger and replied

—- Hoarding? No, I keep some replanting maize; come, I will show you.

They followed him.

He had a large shed, one third of its space contained the barrels with replanting grain and empties.

— This is all I have, please check; I have ten full barrels and twenty empty barrels.

The men exchanged meaningful looks and checked the barrels.

— Sorry, Mr. Rodriguez, some poor people need maize; we will take half of the barrels you have here; the remainder will be ample replanting grain.

He remained silent.

Elsa joined their mother at the door.

Ricardo overheard one of the men, addressing Elsa.

—Ms. Rodriguez, aren’t you going to the dance this next Saturday night? We would like to see you there.

— Thank you, my mother needs me - replied Elsa forcing a smile; they left glancing back at her.

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

— Hello, mom; are you feeling better? — He inquired —I brought you some aspirins

—Thank you, dear; I will feel better with those aspirins.

Paco turned to Elsa.

—And you, Elsa? You have a long face.

She grimaced with disgust.

— It’s those guerrilleros, they want me to go to one of those orgies they organize.

He turned to Ricardo.

— Ricardo, why that worried look?

He gestured Ricardo to come outside and spoke in a low tone.

— You have to go to San Antonio; you need the rabies vaccine.

—Paco, you know medical supplies in San Antonio have disappeared; 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 annoyance.

—Something else? You mean magic?

Ricardo smiled at his younger brother and replied:

—No, but a canoe with a reliable outboard motor would help; it is what I want most at this time; we have to go to Colombia; where have you been working, Paco?

 — It is a kilometer distant; we are building a better boat landing to receive and ship supplies.

That night, Ricardo dreamt of magic and canoes flying across the river.

When he woke up, the awareness of his quandary assailed him.

The next morning, the green truck returned.

This time an officer got off while his escort remained in the truck.

He was tall and had the light complexion of a city bred man, distinct among his shorter and darker skinned soldiers.

His pressed, clean uniform, the polished leather pistol holster and pistol magazine belt pouches displayed his official rank.

A square face, an angular jaw, narrow eyes, and scarred cheeks revealed a possible violent character.

Ricardo estimated his age at 45.

With a relaxed, easy gait, he approached Ricardo.

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

I am returning the barrels my men took; can I come in and talk to you?

Ricardo welcomed him.

— Please do come in — The man’s attitude was intriguing.

He looked at Ricardo a few seconds and added:

— I would like to speak to you of a convenient business.

Ricardo’s curiosity grew.

—Well, let’s go inside and if you like, we can have a cup of coffee.

They went in, and the Major addressed Ricardo's mother.

—Good morning, Mrs. Rodriguez, can I come in?

— Yes, you are welcome, — Mr.?

 —Ricardo’s mother was as surprised at this show of politeness as Ricardo.

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

— You are welcome Major; excuse me, I have something to do in my room.

She withdrew to her room and asked Elsa to brew them a couple of cups of coffee.

Elsa was a handsome woman with that mellow brown, ripe skin that was the characteristic of the best-looking women in the border.

Major Morales smiled and thanked her

— The coffee was delicious.

She went back to the kitchen. Morales gazed at her as she disappeared.

—Is your brother Paco working for us? — He asked Ricardo

—Yes, that's correct; Is there anything wrong with him?

— No, no, he is a fine worker; I will promote him to foreman; but that is not what I wanted to discuss with you; we need an intelligent manager and a storage shed.

—An intelligent manager, Major?

—Do not be modest with me, Mr. Rodriguez; I know you distinguished yourself as an administrator and a soldier with the Venezuelan army.

—Oh, that? Many years have passed Major, I am another man, a farmer.

—Well, let me be a judge of that; I think we can reach an agreement that will be mutually satisfactory; this afternoon I will send my driver; I want to show you something.

That afternoon, the Major’s driver took him to an improvised boat landing on the river.

Two hundred meters inland, with a makeshift threadbare tarpaulin cover, was a disordered pile of crates and boxes.

Some men were still carrying unloading and moving cargo.

Ricardo knew that Colombian armed helicopters surveyed this side of the border, and the site was open and visible.

—Good afternoon, Mr. Rodriguez, as you can see, our storage is inadequate; we need a better place.

On the river's edge, a group of soldiers held four civilians.

— I regret that in coming here you have to witness revolutionary justice; do you know any of these men brought here?

Ricardo looked at the civilian prisoners; he recognized a distant cousin among the prisoners.

—Yes, that man there; his name is Marco, he is a cousin of mine.

 

Major Morales instructed the soldier in charge of the prisoners.

The soldier untied the man and separated him; the man fell on his knees weeping.

Morales turned to the soldier in charge and ordered him:

—Proceed sergeant.

The three remaining men were with their backs to the river.

The sergeant drew back the bolt of his automatic rifle and sprayed the men; he walked close to the bodies and shot each in the head.

Some other men pushed the bodies into the river; they would be a floating warning.

A woman made Ricardo's cousin get up and walked supporting him as he abandoned the site.

Ricardo flinched with the shots; they were a revelation of his own situation.

Morales explained —These men were conniving with the Colombian army; our meeting here was a sad coincidence; tell your cousin to choose better his acquaintances.

— I wanted to tell you that we need your shed, Mr. Rodriguez, and we need a good administrator to handle the management of these supplies; it will be a job with a good salary.

I am holding a special supper to celebrate this at my headquarters tonight at 8:00, please bring your family.

Paco smiled at the news.

—You will be able to request the Major your vaccine brother, that is good news!

— Yes, Paco, but we are selling our souls to the devil.

—C’mon, brother, don’t exaggerate; let's enjoy his supper invitation.

that is good news!

— Yes, Paco, — Ricardo repeated,— but we are selling our souls to the devil. 

—C’mon, brother, don’t exaggerate; let's enjoy his supper invitation.

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