Across the River

 

Priming the irrigation pump was 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 must 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 truck while his escort remained behind. 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 top 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 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. Could I enter and have a word with 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 him. "I would like to speak to you about a mutually convenient business proposition."

Ricardo’s curiosity grew. "Well, let’s go inside. 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.

"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 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 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 were 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 firing squad compelled the three remaining civilians to face the river. 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 current of the Zulia River. They would float downstream. A grim, unmistakable warning to anyone.

A local woman 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 now 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. This role will come 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 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."

Ricardo despised every moment of the meal at Major Morales’ “headquarters” The Major had seized the estate from a wealthy merchant who had fled to Colombia, and the air inside felt stifling. Two frightened maids, eyes fixed on the floor, served an abundant, varied meal. The lavish spread turned Ricardo’s stomach as he thought of the starving families nearby.

Throughout the evening, Morales was intensely obsequious toward Elsa. It was glaringly evident that he was attracted to her. He took it upon himself to give her a personal tour, showing her the various rooms of the house. To the quiet astonishment of both Ricardo and Paco, Elsa chatted amiably with him, playing the part of an interested guest with perfect poise. When the meal ended, Morales pressed them to remain longer, but Ricardo managed to weave together enough polite excuses to finally get his family home.

The next morning, the reality of Ricardo's new position arrived early. Morales' men began relocating heavy wooden crates from the riverbank to Ricardo’s storage shed.

Watching them stack the cargo, Ricardo mused darkly. It is a good thing a forest of tall trees covers the shed, hiding it from the Colombian army helicopters. He knew the math was simple: if the shed took a direct hit from a helicopter, the massive explosion would instantly obliterate the structure, along with his family home and everyone inside it.

As the administrator, he had to register the inventory. The crates contained shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles and their launchers, fragmentation grenades, 7.65 mm rifle ammunition, 9 mm machine pistol rounds, land mines, and commercial-grade explosives.

As he closed the ledger, a wave of nausea washed over him. He felt deeply sick. Was it the lingering horror of watching yesterday’s executions, he wondered, or was he feeling the first catastrophic symptoms of rabies?

Later that afternoon, Paco pulled him aside with an update from the riverbank. He reported that several large boats equipped with powerful outboard motors had just arrived at the new landing downstream. They were being prepped to carry supplies to the guerrillas' other areas of operation deep within the country. Ricardo began to develop a plan, but the timeline fell apart entirely when he came back home.

Elsa caught him in the kitchen and delivered a piece of surprising news.

"Last night, I invited Major Morales to dine with us here," she said quietly.

Ricardo stared at her, his voice rising in a panicked whisper. 

"Elsa, do you realize what you are doing? That man doesn't want a dinner companion. He wants you as his mistress."

Yes, brother, I know exactly what I am doing," Elsa replied, her eyes steady and fierce. "I am going to ask him to get us an anti-rabies vaccine for you. It is your life I want to save, and I will do whatever it takes."

That afternoon, Major Morales arrived accompanied by a large, dark-skinned soldier carrying a massive iron pot. Morales promptly dismissed the soldier, explaining with a polite smile that it was a special roast he had brought as a dinner contribution.

Ricardo asked the Major to wait in the main room while his mother and Elsa finished grinding corn in their pilón—a rustic, hollowed-tree trunk they used with a heavy wooden pestle. Freshly ground cornmeal was the essential ingredient for preparing arepas, the absolute staple of the local cuisine.

A short while later, Ricardo’s mother brought a steaming tray to the table. "Here are the arepas, Major."

Morales reached for one, but that was the last thing he ever did.

The heavy wooden pestle struck him squarely across the temple with a sickening crack, and he collapsed instantly to the floor. Before he could even register the blow, Elsa struck him again. The Major's legs stretched out and went limp.

Ricardo jumped to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Elsa, have you gone mad? In reprisal for this, they will kill us!"

"Dear brother, I had no choice," Elsa said, her voice trembling but resolute as she gripped the bloody pestle. "He had us completely at his mercy. We must escape right now. Our brother Carlos is already waiting for us across the river at Bochalema. There are only two sentries guarding the boat landing downstream, and they only have two boats with outboard engines."

Ricardo turned sharply to Paco. "See who is outside."

Paco peeked through the window slats. A single sentry was stationed near the weapons shed.

They dragged the Major’s heavy body into the back room, and Ricardo called out to the lone guard, inventing an excuse to bring him inside. The moment the soldier stepped across the threshold, Ricardo pressed the Major’s own pistol tightly against the man's head. Paco leaped forward, wresting the soldier's rifle away. Together, they bound and gagged him tightly. The captive guard's eyes bulged with sheer terror as he caught sight of the Major’s bloody head in the corner.

In the front room, Elsa was packing a small suitcase, crying with fright as she tried to console their terrified mother. Paco slipped outside to scout and came back running.

"Ricardo, let’s hurry! We have about twenty minutes before the guard rotation."

The sprint to the boat landing was a desperate race against the clock. Navigating the dark, uneven path, Ricardo’s mother stumbled, but Elsa caught her by the arm.

"It is too dark, dear children," she whispered in a panic.

Ahead, the two remaining sentries were chatting and smoking cigarettes near the water's edge. Ricardo took a deep breath and walked straight up to them out of the shadows, while Paco quietly circled behind.

To distract them, Ricardo called out, "Is Julio with you?"

"What Julio?" one of the guards asked, frowning.

The distraction was all Paco needed. He clubbed the first guard from behind. As the second sentry whirled around in surprise, Ricardo punched him squarely in the jaw, tearing the rifle from his grip. They threw one of the confiscated rifles deep into the rushing river and tied the two dazed soldiers back-to-back around a thick tree trunk.

Before Elsa and their mother boarded the first boat, Paco stepped over to the second vessel. He sliced its mooring lines and pushed it out into the current, letting it drift helplessly downstream to ensure no one could follow them.

Ricardo and Paco pushed their own boat into the river. Ricardo yanked the start lanyard, but the motor only sputtered and died. As the canoe began to drift downstream with the current, he gave the cord two more frantic pulls. Nothing happened.

Shouts suddenly echoed from the landing behind them, and the bright beam of a flashlight began sweeping across the dark water.

Ricardo gave the lanyard one final, desperate pull. The engine coughed, roaring to life with a deafening howl. Paco instantly raised his rifle and fired a wild burst toward the holder of the flashlight. The light went out, plunging the riverbank back into darkness.

Ricardo slammed the throttle forward. The canoe surged ahead, carving a violent wake of foamy white water through the river. A frantic fusillade of gunfire resounded from the shore, but the pitch-black night rendered the guerrillas' aim inaccurate.

Then, an unexpected, thunderous blast shattered the night.

A massive orange fireball erupted into the sky, illuminating the waters for miles around. A rapid crackling of secondary explosions followed immediately, raining flaming debris down into the river and igniting the thick jungle foliage along the banks. The boat, its engine screaming at top speed, flew toward Puerto Santander and the safety of the Colombian shore.

Behind them, there was nothing left but the flaming, apocalyptic ruins of the weapons shed and their childhood home.

Ricardo looked back at the inferno, then turned to his brother. "Was that your handiwork, Paco?"

"Yes," Paco replied with a grim grin over the roar of the motor. "Don’t you remember that old trick with the matchbook and the cigarette? I rigged it to a string holding down the safety lever of a grenade inside the ammo crates."

By the time they reached a brightly lit boat landing in Puerto Santander, Paco had already discarded the automatic rifle into the depths of the river. The Colombian border guards found no weapons on them. What followed was a grueling interrogation at a Colombian army post, followed immediately by the administration of Ricardo's life-saving anti-rabies vaccine.

Carlos arrived the following afternoon.

His grueling work at Bochalema had visibly aged him, and his somber demeanor stood in stark contrast to Ricardo’s immense sense of relief. Carlos lowered his head as they sat together, his voice heavy with cynicism. He told his brothers that Colombia held the same seeds of disaster—the very same madness they had just fled in Venezuela.

"How so, dear brother?" Ricardo asked, his brow furrowing.

With immense sadness in his eyes, Carlos replied, "Poverty, and an entrenched landowning class completely indifferent to the true causes of misery, facing a small cadre of well-intentioned intellectuals who compose the government. Democracy is applicable only to them, entirely excluding us—the current perioikoi. The country is revolution-ripe, Ricardo. It will eventually cause the same disaster you just escaped."

"Perioikoi? What language is that? Chinese?" Paco asked, teasingly mocking his older brother's academic tone.

"No," Carlos replied smoothly, looking at his younger brother with a tired, knowing smile. "Look it up in Greek history."