“In case someone needs to go looking for a body?” Alex said.
“We try to think of everything,” he said in Spanish.
Then they were ready and began their ascent.
They crossed a barbed wire fence that belonged to a local rancher. Then they trudged several hundred yards through a half-shaded path through the jungle. The DEET worked and kept the biting flies at bay. Above them was a canopy of leaves, which provided some shade but also held the humidity across the floor of the jungle.
The hike was steep, like a march through a giant terrarium. Sweat rolled off her. They stopped for water after a quarter mile and had all the water they wanted when they came to a wide stream with a hard rushing current.
They picked up sturdy fallen branches from the zimba trees and fashioned walking sticks out of them. The path across the first stream was across a series of rocks that some Good Samaritan had put in place but which the force of the current had loosened.
Some of the rocks were submerged. Manuel crossed first and offered a hand back to Alex. There were fifteen steps, then they were at a soggy little island in the middle of the stream. The ground below their feet was soft like quicksand, so they kept moving.
The other side was a deeper ford. There was no choice but to wade through it. Manuel led the way. The water was past her ankles, then up to her knees, then almost touching the hem of her hiking shorts. Then they came up to the other side. They dried off as much as they could, re-applied the insecticides and continued. Alex felt as if her boots would be wet for days, but forged ahead. Fortunately, she had two pairs.
This was like a different planet.
Twenty minutes later, before her was another makeshift bridge of stepping stones, twice as wide and perilous as the first set. The stick was useless now, the water was too deep and the stream swelled into a small unfriendly river right before her eyes.
Manuel, becoming unsteady, crossed ten feet ahead of her. She was on her own. She kept the stick and used it as a balance, as a tightrope walker might.
An insect hit her in the throat and she slapped at it, hitting herself hard on the neck. The rocks below her left foot wobbled and she fought wildly to retain her balance, waving her arms, trying to keep the stick centered. She managed.
Manuel arrived on the other side. She stayed focused. Nine more stones. Then eight. She counted them down. The river narrowed and became shallower. Her confidence swelled. She had made it. Two more steps. Then one.
Manuel extended a hand. “¡Aquí, señorita, aquí!” he said, above the rustle of the current. She grasped his hand and he pulled. She took the final step with a neat jump and landed on the soft riverbank.
“That was the toughest part,” he said.
They stopped to drink, catch their breath, and gather themselves. They found some shade and stopped again where the path was halfway up the mountain. At one point, Manuel took out a pair of binoculars and scanned downward to an area where they could see part of the path they had taken. “What are you watching?” she asked.
“¡Mira! Three men with rifles,” he said.
Her heart jumped. She said nothing. Manuel handed her the field glasses and showed her.
She trained the glasses on them and felt her heart leap a second time. There were indeed three strong dark-skinned men in jungle pants and T-shirts. All three were armed with rifles. The guns were old but could kill nonetheless. One of them also had a sidearm. She scanned all parts of the path to see if there were any more than three, but those were the only ones she saw.
They were following them up the same path about half a mile below. Startled and fearful, she handed the glasses back to Manuel. Obviously, he read the anxiety on her face because he laughed.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “About two miles from here there’s a rancher. His livestock escapes sometimes, and he sends out his hombres to bring back what is his.”
“They need all that artillery to track down goats?” she asked.
“The region is peaceful these days,” Manuel said, “but it is still too dangerous to wander around by oneself or unarmed. About a year ago, a man named Luis was upset because his wife had fled his village. He sat around drinking all day, then attacked some friends for no reason with his machete. He killed a child. The people in his village had to take things into their own hands.”
“What did they do?”
Manuel wouldn’t say.
“Please tell me,” she pressed.
“It was not pleasant. And it is not good to speak of it to outsiders,” he said.
“I want to know,” she said. “There is no one else here. You can say it aloud to the mountain, as if I’m not listening.”
He paused, then spoke slowly.
“They attacked him with heavy hammers and clubs,” he said. “They broke his legs. Then they the tied him to a tree and left him for three days. By the time they returned, he was dead. Wild animals had feasted on the body, perhaps when he was still alive.”
At length, she said, “I see.”
“There is no justice out here other than what people make for themselves,” he said. Luis’s remains had received a proper burial under four feet of dirt, a pile of stones, and a primitive wooden cross on a remote part of the mountain.
“God will be his judge, as he will judge all of us,” the guide said.
Alex nodded and asked nothing further about the incident. Her gaze drifted back down the mountain. Manuel’s eyes followed her gaze.
“Anyway, there is no reason to be alarmed right now,” he said, looking back down the mountain. “Those men down there are looking for the pigs and goats that belong to su jefe. I know those men. They are friends. Let’s continue.”
“Good idea,” she said.
They rose and continued their hike. The path narrowed again and headed into heavy brush under a stand of trees. It continued that way for another few hundred yards, then came to a clearing and began to wind steeply through a rocky area that required climbing.
She was thankful she’d worn good footwear, solid mountain hiking stuff. The gun and the machete hung heavily at her side and reminded her constantly of the extra danger from wildlife.
Then she was out of breath. They stopped. She found a rock and she sat, panting to get her wind back. Manuel seemed midway between concerned and amused.
The time passed slowly and heavily. There was a rustle in the underbrush. Alex’s hand went for her weapon as she thought of the jaguars. But when a beast emerged it was only a wild pig, a descendant of an escapee from a nearby ranch. Future prey for los tigritos. The animal gave them a curiously indignant look and scooted off into the heavy brush.
“¿Está bien?
” Manuel asked.
“Estoy bien,” she answered. “I’m okay.”
“One more push to Barranco Lajoya,” he said.
She nodded and stood. He led the way after a final warning to look out for snakes, which could be up to six feet long. “The rattlers are the worst,” he said. “And you don’t always hear the rattle before they strike.”
The last part was free of rocks. From somewhere there was even a breeze. A hot breeze, but a breeze nonetheless. She became short of breath again, but Manuel urged her on, promising that the rest of the way was short and if she stopped at this altitude it could sometimes prove impossible to get back into gear.
Then, up ahead, she heard an incongruous sound.
Chickens.
When you heard the chickens you were close to the village, Manuel said. A final few hundred feet and she came to a clearing. The contours of a wood and plaster roof came into view, and then there was the sound of children shouting. Manuel walked ahead of her a few more strides, and a minute later a clearing opened before them. When they stepped out of it, there was the village of Barranco Lajoya.