The cocalero novels bund.., p.17
The Cocalero Novels Bundle, page 17
Diego plucked a strand of long grass from the ground and started to pull it apart. It was the sort of grass Mrs. Ricardo turned into baskets.
“And then what happened?” he asked.
“Then it got nasty.”
It was time to get back. The children stood up, dusted the dirt and grass from their clothes and picked up their bundles.
“My father is so brave,” Emilio said as they started walking. “He’s so strong. I wish I wasn’t so weak.”
“You’ll do,” said Bonita, pushing past him and leading the way back down the hill.
“That’s probably the nicest thing she’s ever said to anybody,” Diego told Emilio. Then they had to run to keep up. Bonita liked to move fast.
CHAPTER TEN
“Scared?”
Bonita had something on Diego, more than she usually had, and she was enjoying it.
“Bet you can’t do it,” she said.
“Of course I can,” Diego said. “I’ve done it a hundred times.”
“Sure you have. Go ahead. Show me. Maybe I can learn something from you.” Bonita handed him the knife and the squealing guinea pig she’d taken from her sack.
Diego looked to Emilio and Martino for help, but they just grinned and settled down to watch on a rock by the side of the road.
The guinea pig was not used to being held. It squirmed and wriggled and peed all over Diego’s hand. Diego stuck the knife handle between his teeth so he could get a better grasp of the little creature. He finally got what he thought was a solid grip on it with both hands.
Then Martino said, “How are you going to do it? You need another hand for the knife.”
Diego tried clutching the animal against his chest, but it tucked its little face into his shirt.
By now Bonita, Emilio and Martino were falling over themselves laughing.
“Come on, Diego,” Bonita said. “There are hungry people here waiting to be fed.”
Diego finally admitted defeat. He handed the knife and the animal back to Bonita. He couldn’t watch while she made one quick cut across the guinea pig’s throat. In an instant it was over. She held the carcass over a pail so the blood would drain away. Another cut, straight down the belly, and the guts tumbled out into the bucket. Within moments she had the guinea pig skinned and skewered and ready to roast on the fire.
“Seven more to go,” she said. The other guinea pigs in the pen were still too young to eat.
Diego and Emilio left her to it and went looking for another chore to do. Any task would be better than that one, Diego thought.
There was a feast that evening. Candles and oil lanterns lit up the bridge. The little ones were allowed to stay up as late as they could manage, falling asleep among the dancers and in the laps of their mothers or fathers.
“It’s good to celebrate now while we can,” Mrs. Ricardo said. “Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Come, Diego. Dance with me.”
Diego had never danced before, but it was dark enough that he figured no one would see him. Besides, how could he refuse Mrs. Ricardo? He skipped and hopped and enjoyed feeling like a fool, breathing in the clean Bolivian air, surrounded by his new family and friends. The sound of zamponas, of charangos and drums was joined by clapping and foot stomping.
Diego laughed and laughed. He felt free and happy. It was a fine, fine night. He feasted on roasted rabbit and guinea pig — which tasted a lot like the rabbit — and empanadas and bananas. When he got tired of eating and dancing, he joined Emilio, who was playing one of the drums. Emilio made room on the log and they pounded away into the night.
Bonita was standing watch at the south end. Diego took her a plate of food and sat down beside her.
“Thank you,” she said, which surprised him, but he let it pass.
“I ate one of your guinea pigs,” he said, “or part of one. It was good.”
“That’s not the only way to prepare them,” she said. “Mama has this way she cooks them for special days like Christmas or Easter. She boils them first, takes the skin off, puts them in salt for a few hours, then fries them with a chili peanut sauce she makes. That’s the best way, but roasting is easiest for a big crowd.”
It was the most she’d ever said to him without sneering.
“Well, everybody seemed to like them,” Diego said. “Ever think of raising them for money?”
“We trade some for rice,” Bonita said. “We don’t grow rice.” He already knew that.
“People sell them in the market in Cochabamba,” Diego said. “Big sacks full. Maybe you could raise enough to sell, maybe make enough money for school.”
Bonita stopped eating and stared at him. He was afraid for a moment that the old Bonita had returned, but she just said, “There’s no more room under our stove.”
“Maybe,” Diego started, a plan taking shape in the notebook in his mind, “maybe we could build them a separate little house attached to the wall by the stove, so they’d get warmth from the fire but would have more room to grow. Maybe you could raise forty or fifty all at once.”
Bonita chewed thoughtfully on a potato.
“You talk as if you’re not leaving,” she said. “You talk as if you plan on staying here. Maybe you think you’ll just keep living on our farm.”
Diego didn’t know what to say, although there was some truth in Bonita’s words. He knew he needed to see his family, he needed to make things right, but he didn’t know whether he could live in the prison again without going crazy. He’d begun to daydream of having enough money to travel back and forth, to support his family, but also to spend most of his time with the Ricardos. He’d even started to think about bringing Corina back with him. Mrs. Ricardo would take good care of her, and farm work and space to play would take the whine out of her.
“It’s not your farm,” she said. “I’m the oldest. That should count for something, even though I’m a girl. I do as much work on the farm as a boy would do. Twice as much.”
Diego had a feeling the conversation had switched into something else, but he wasn’t sure what. Then Bonita switched it back to him.
“I’m glad that we helped you out when you needed it, but now there are a lot of other families you can turn to. We didn’t have enough to go around before they stole our coca. Don’t think you’re moving in.”
“I’m not. I don’t!”
“You don’t even need to stay on the blockade, do you? You’re not really one of us. You don’t need to stay.”
It was a mean thing to say. Diego didn’t even bother to ask her why she said it. He just got up off the log and walked away.
He walked through the party to the north end of the bridge, as far away from Bonita as he could get without leaving the blockade. He leaned against one of the tree branches that made up part of the barrier.
“What’s the matter, Bug?” Dario was there, drinking chicha with his buddies. “Girl troubles? They only get worse, my friend, but oh, is it worth it!”
Dario started to brag. From Diego’s experience, the more bragging, the less there was to tell. He turned his ears off and stared out from the north end of the bridge, then found Emilio for a few games of chess.
His mind wasn’t on the game, though, and Emilio beat him easily, twice.
“Go to bed,” Emilio said. “I’d rather play with Santo.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Good morning, campesinos!”
A woman’s voice boomed out from a mega-phone, making Diego jump right out of his sleep.
A couple of the little kids started to cry at being woken up suddenly. That didn’t stop the old woman holding the megaphone.
Diego propped himself up on his elbows and nudged Emilio, who was sleeping beside him. They watched the old woman move closer and closer to where Dario, Leon and the other men of the chicha party were sprawled together on a mat, moaning and groaning about the loud noise.
“We are here for a purpose,” the old woman announced, the megaphone making the sound of her voice echo down the river. “Some of you seem to think that purpose is to drink chicha. Maybe we should have a meeting to see if everybody feels that way.”
Anybody could call a meeting at any time about anything that was bothering them. You didn’t have to be a union official. Even Martino called a meeting one afternoon to complain that the young men kept borrowing the children’s ball to play soccer on the bridge but wouldn’t let the little kids join in. The meeting decided that the young men had to get their own ball or play only under the direction of the little kids.
“I am calling a meeting this morning, right now, to discuss the banning of chicha from the blockade,” the old woman continued.
Diego was all in favor of banning the homemade corn beer. He didn’t like the taste anyway, and it might mean Dario and Leon would do more work instead of just giving orders.
It was a good-natured meeting. Those with the morning-after heads grumbled, but they were clearly outnumbered.
“Let’s put it to a vote, then,” Mrs. Ricardo said. “All those in favor of banning the drinking of chicha — and any other alcohol — on the blockade...”
“Someone’s coming!” came a yell from the north end of the bridge.
It wasn’t just someone. It was a whole lot of someones. Down the highway came a big group of people armed with sticks, and they were heading toward the blockade.
The protesters scrambled into action. The young children and old people ducked under a tarp in the center of the bridge. Everyone else went to the barricades.
The little kids Martino’s age had been given the job of collecting stones, and now Diego saw what they were for, as protesters picked them up, ready to throw.
“Wait until they come close enough!” someone shouted.
“Who are they?” Diego asked.
“Probably the people we turned back on the bus,” the man next to him said. “The food and beer have probably run out at the village, and now they think they have a right to come through here.”
Diego picked up a stone.
“Get ready,” said the man. The crowd was coming closer. “Wait.” Diego felt his muscles tense up, and then, “Now!”
Diego threw as hard as he could — not aiming, just throwing. There was yelling all around. Some of the people picked up the stones as they landed and threw them back at the cocaleros. Others got right up to the barricade and started to dismantle it.
“Get them!” the man beside Diego yelled, and they hurled their stones at the barricade busters until they backed away.
Some of the stones landed on people, and Diego saw protesters with blood running down their faces. The medical team hustled them off to the side to be bandaged.
A few of the men managed to make it across the first barricade and were hitting out at the protesters with metal pipes and baseball bats.
“All together!” Diego yelled at Bonita and Emilio and the other kids their age. They swarmed the two men, taking them by surprise and knocking them down to the pavement. Diego and the others kicked at them until one of the protesters pulled them off.
“Let them go,” they were told.
“You’re all crazy!” the pipe-man yelled. “Let’s get out of here. They’re all crazy!”
The blockaders kept up the rain of stones until all the people on the highway retreated back up the hill and around the bend to the town, and the clearing became quiet again.
“Did you really think you could break us?” Dario shouted. He leaned against the barricade next to Diego, sweaty and bloody, a black eye already starting to swell and discolor his face. “Did you really think we’d be afraid of you?”
He kept yelling and hooting until Diego’s tugs on his arm finally calmed him down.
“You’re bleeding,” Diego said. “You need the medical committee.”
“I’m fine.” Dario pulled his arm away. “They didn’t hurt me.”
But he allowed Diego to take him to the south end of the bridge where the medical team was giving out bandages and cups of hot coca tea.
“Maybe we should sneak into town and blow up a few of their cars,” Dario said.
“Maybe you should drink your tea and not talk like a fool,” said a woman on the medical committee.
All over the bridge, people were gathering in committees, discussing what had just happened and what they needed to do next.
There was everything to do. Diego zoomed through the day at top speed, gathering food from the farms, hauling water up from the river, helping to reinforce the barricades, and gathering more and more stones.
“They’ll be back,” someone said, and they were, later that day.
The battles raged off and on all day long. Watches were doubled on the barricades and switched every two hours so that everyone would have fresh eyes. People ate standing up and on the run.
One of the protesters had a radio that didn’t need batteries. He just cranked the handle and it played.
“The cities are running out of food,” he announced after listening to the news report. “All of Bolivia is shut down. The government will have to act soon. We’d better be ready.”
Diego didn’t know how much more ready they could be. He gathered stones, helped build up their store of food, helped the medical committee cut up bedsheets for bandages and helped the security committee cut up other old cloth for bandanas, tying one around his own neck, even though he didn’t really know what it was for.
Someone suggested the women and children leave. It was a suggestion the women ignored.
The day drew to a close, with the sky shifting from evening glow to starry darkness just like every other day. Everyone settled in, tense, and got each other through the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Diego and Emilio were on watch at the north end of the bridge when they spotted a lone figure walking toward them down the hill in the middle of the highway.
Emilio gave three short blasts on the whistle that hung around his neck — a gift from one of the little kids on the blockade. Diego ran back to report to the security committee, and to tell Bonita to run to the south end with the information. After so many days on the blockade, they had their procedures down pat.
Diego ran back to Emilio, and they were soon joined by others.
The lone man was getting closer. He walked with his arms out from his sides, and his fingers spread wide to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He raised one arm in a wave.
“It’s the captain,” Diego said.
“Pass the word,” someone said, and Diego started running again.
A lot of the protesters were gathered by the north barricade by the time Diego got back there. They all wanted to hear what the captain had to say.
“Is someone in charge here?” the captain asked.
“We’re all in charge,” Mr. Ricardo called back. “We’re all cocaleros. We all had our crops stolen, and we all choose to be here.”
“Then I will talk with all of you,” the captain said. “I am here to ask you to reconsider what you are doing. I am here to show you my willingness to talk.”
“Are you willing to give us back our coca?” someone shouted. “Are you willing to leave us alone to run our farms?”
“You can’t stay on the bridge forever,” the captain said. “You know the government won’t allow the highways to remain shut.”
“We don’t want to stay here forever,” Mrs. Ricardo called out. “We only want to stay until we get our coca back. You took it from us, you can return it.”
“You know I can’t do that,” the captain said. He spotted Diego sitting on one of the logs at the side of the barricade and gave him a nod.
“Is everything all right, Diego? Is there anything you need?”
“What do you care?” Diego asked. “You were going to shoot us.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything,” the captain said.
“We take care of each other,” Diego told him.
The captain spoke again to the whole crowd. “We are not enemies. We are all Bolivian. I am of Aymara blood. Most of my men are Aymara or Quechua. We are the working people, just like you are. We can work together to find a solution to this.”
“What we want is justice,” another woman said. “You seem like a good man, but you cannot give us what we want. We both have our jobs to do. Our job is to fight for our rights. Yours is to threaten people who are no threat to you.”
“For now I am in charge of the army here,” the captain said, “but I have to answer to my superiors. If they are not happy with me, they will put someone else in charge and bring in soldiers who are not from here, who have no connection to you and who will not care about you. Please keep that in mind and help me find a solution.”
“You say that we are not enemies,” Mr. Ricardo said. “We extend to you our friendship and say that you are welcome to put down your guns and join our blockade at any time.”
After the captain left, there were no more attacks by travelers. Everything was quiet.
This was the first day on the blockade that seemed long to Diego. Emilio was feeling tired and weak, and he slept on and off. He was able to play a bit of chess when he woke up, but weakness would overtake him again in the middle of a game and he would have to lie down.
Diego left the bridge briefly to join groups foraging for firewood, and to join another rock-snake from the river, but for most of the day, time just dragged.
People on the bridge started to annoy him for stupid reasons, and he knew the reasons were stupid. Why should it matter to him if Leon lifted stones as if they were barbells and then felt his arm muscles to see if they’d grown? Why should he care if the guy with the wind-up radio wouldn’t find one station and then leave it there, instead of flipping around and around the dial? And he should be grateful that the two gringo backpackers had joined them in the blockade, even with their annoying habits, including playing a game they called hackysack and making horrible noises on their little tin flutes. They spoke in bad Spanish about how their parents back in Chicago would have a fit if they found out that this was where they were spending their vacation, and they kept asking if there was anywhere they could check their email. Diego wanted to throw them off the bridge.
