Stained River (13 page)

Castelo Branco was an impatient man, never fully satisfied. De Santana could only mollify him at best
. Though he contributed substantially to his bosses’ wealth in the past, his recent performance was lacking. Equipment breakdowns and manpower problems had slowed production. Past accomplishments were history. His boss would always want more. If not more production, then something else, a favor perhaps.

De Santana
was a
garimpiero
, but somewhat elevated in class, since he conducted a larger operation than the many individuals sprinkled throughout the Amazon who mined gold illegally on their own. They were the true definition of
garimpiero.
Increasingly they came into conflict with the Indians who resented their intrusion and hostility. Living for extended periods on the fringe of the uncivilized world, they became uncivilized themselves in their behavior toward the tribes.

De Santana was much a part of their world
and he looked the part
;
swarthy complexion, thick black mustache just beginning to turn gray, head covered with a sweat stained broad brimmed hat. His pant legs were tucked into calf high rubber boots, needed to slog through the muck that seemed to be everywhere. Husky, eyes a little too close; an ever-present slim cigar chewed on, but rarely lit. A 357 magnum hung from his belt, he would sometimes startle his workers by firing over their heads and shouting in a loud voice.

“Acorda! Wake up! You fools!”

He
spent his days in a hacked out area of the rainforest, covering about two thousand acres on either side of a river turned muddy brown from mining. Large rafts pumped silt from the river bottom into sluices where workers extracted bits of gold in a closely monitored operation. Continuous pumping caused turbulence, which gave the water its murkiness and chocolate brown color. Beneath the raft, divers worked with inadequate equipment in water so thick with mud they could barely see.

That day, two came close to drowning. The barge boss shut the pump engines down
, stopping production long enough to draw De Santana’s attention. Now he was on his way in a boat with an outboard motor, to ‘
kick ass
.
Pontape bunda
!’

The small motor launch drew up to the side of the barge. The same man who ordered the pumps shut down until the turbulence subsided
, helped him from the boat. De Santana returned the gesture by violently shoving him backwards. The man’s head struck a metal drum. The crew stood silently and watched as the barge boss got up slowly, rubbing an egg sized lump that appeared suddenly. De Santana was on him as soon as he got to his feet.

“
Ouca! Listen! Shit for brains! If you shut those pumps down one more time, I will personally throw you overboard, and make you swim through those crocodiles. You hear me?”

The raft boss muttered a barely audible “
Sim, senhor.”

“
Por que? Why did you do it? Estupido?”

“Senhor, the men couldn't see.
What could I do? They were knocked down by the turbulence and lost their mouthpieces. They swallowed muddy water. We barely got them up before they drowned. We also had an accident and lost mercury. They may have swallowed that too. You must understand.”

T
he raft boss braced for another blow, but this time it didn't come. Instead, De Santana walked to where the divers stood, picked one worker up by the seat of his pants and threw him into the river. He did the same to the second diver, losing his cigar in the process.

“You don't like muddy water? Well drink until you piss brown!”

He turned to the raft boss.

“Let them stay there until they decide they want to work. In the meantime, get someone to take their place. Start the damned engines! Now!”

The raft boss watched helplessly as the divers tread water trying to stay afloat, then gave a nod to start the engines. He chose two inexperienced men as substitutes, knowing the same, or worse, awaited them. This time, he wouldn't stop the engines- no matter what. De Santana got into his boat, pulled the starter cord until the motor kicked on and steered for shore at high speed. Another matter needed his attention.

The “town
,” or settlement, consisted of ten rusting steel corrugated buildings, the largest, used to store mercury, diesel oil and gasoline. A second housed spare parts. A short distance away was the company store. This ugly place, once part of a magnificent rainforest, was now a mud hole littered with partially filled drums of diesel oil.

De Santana headed for the saloon, a seedy gathering place. Attached to it, in the back, was the bordello. A few Indians lay in makeshift hammocks, smoking and drinking cheap whiskey. Their culture
had changed significantly, and in a short time. The older ones remembered more pleasant times they had taken for granted; fresh fruit, cassava bread, garden vegetables, yopo and plenty of idle time to enjoy life. Then the miners came.

Not one among them could answer why they
had succumbed so easily, but the results were evident. The land was scarred, as well as their souls. Alcohol dependency, malaria, emerging birth defects, socially transmitted diseases, prostitution and a never-ending dependency on the company to provide things they had no use for in the past. Young people were leaving, their heads filled with ideas they never knew existed. Parts of their beloved forest, crisscrossed with paved roads, caused the soil to erode. Tribes, like the Machi-te, were forced to retreat deeper into the jungle to escape. For the Yanomami it was different. Whiskey felt good and erased thoughts of what once was.

De Santana reached the saloon, kicked a mongrel out of his way and walked through the open door. The building had no windows, save one that let a dust filtered, sepia light through. A few dim bulbs lit a bar covered with flies. In a corner by the window, two Indians played cards and sipped whiskey while two others slept at an adjoining table. He walked over to the card players, one rocking back on the hind legs of his chair. The mine boss kicked the chair from under the
man sending him sprawling to the floor. The whiskey bottle fell, spilling its amber content.

De Santana reached down with both hands and pulled
him to his feet. He used tribal names on purpose, knowing that doing so violated a taboo. Names were sacred to the Indians and uttered only under certain conditions. Names of dead relatives were never spoken, except at ceremonies to honor them. De Santana shouted using half Yanomami and half Portuguese:

“Yeharau, you've disappointed me. Did we have an agreement?”

The Indian didn't answer, only fixed his eyes with contempt.

“
Onde ella esta? Where is the little bitch?”

In three days, some of De Santana's friends, and a few traders, were coming to the outpost. He knew one of them liked young girls, the younger the better. They'd
be needing entertainment after a night of drinking, and there were only a few young girls that he managed to snare, but he knew where to look.

Yeharau had a
sixteen-year-old daughter. He cared for her deeply and tried to shield her from outside influences. Her name was Lateri. Like her mother, she was lovely. It made him proud. From the time she was a small child, he spent hours playing games she enjoyed and could always make her laugh. One day, she would grow to be one of the most desired women in the village and bear sons he could brag about. But she was young, there was time. He had seen what became of other girls who came under the influence of De Santana. He couldn’t allow that to happen to his daughter.

But
Yeharau was possessed by a demon. He had a drinking problem. One that grew worse as months wore on. Moreover, he owed two month's pay to the store. This provided the opportunity De Santana sought. He could add Lateri to the roster of his bordello very easily. Three weeks before, he had cut off Yeharau's store credit, preventing him from buying whiskey, then  waited a day, two days.

As he suspected, the Indian approached asking to buy whiskey
on his store account.

“Can't do it, Yeharau. You owe me too much.”

“I will work harder to pay you.”

“Can't do it
.  Entendeu?”  De Santana put his arm around the tribesman’s shoulder, tobacco breath only inches away from his face. He lowered his voice.

“But there is a way, if you want to listen. I can get you three bottles of whiskey
. You can have two more next week, plus some tobacco.”

Yeharau’s
eyes brightened.

“What do I have to do?”

“Lateri, your daughter...”

He
immediately recoiled, knowing exactly what the mine boss had in mind.

“
Do as you please. But you may regret it.”

Yeharau walked away. De Santana knew it was only a matter of time.

As he suspected, Yeharau sought him out a few days later, craving alcohol. He accepted the three bottles of whiskey and tobacco, promising that Lateri would be at the bordello the next evening. De Santana smiled, and lifted the tumbler of whiskey to his mouth. Yeharau was ashamed. His only daughter, and he had sacrificed her for whiskey and rum.

The problem arose when Lateri never showed up
at the bordello as her father had promised. De Santana’s guests were more than annoyed. He lost face, something he never allowed.

Later
at the saloon, he grabbed Yeharau by the throat, the 357 pointed at his head.

“Make sure she is there tonight.”

It had the intended effect.

That night, Lateri said goodbye to her mother who was in tears
. She went to the bordello. A drunken Yeharau lay in the corner of his hut, weeping.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Pelting rain. Three straight days with no end in sight. Periodically, the sun broke through long enough to create a steamy caldron of humid air. Once again, the jungle would become awash. Teman-e knew what to expect, but Connery never guessed that torrential downpours like these existed anywhere. In the rainforest there were only two seasons, dry and wet. They measured the passage of time. Subtle changes in the sky, the leaves, the behavior of animals, gave warning to Teman-e. He sensed the coming rains would be unusually harsh.

Over the weeks to come, water would pour into the world's largest basin. Small tributaries would grow into raging rivers, feeding into the mighty Amazon then flowing to the Atlantic on a course more than four thousand miles long. Since prehistoric times, the river basin redistributed tropical heat from the equator and remained a driving force in determining climate around the world. The rain, the river, the trees, and thousands of plant and animal species formed a huge eco-system essential to the planet's health. Something that large and diverse, subject to nature's whims on a grand scale, could turn the rainforest into one of the most dangerous places in the world, particularly during wet season.

Teman-e
and Connery, both mud covered, walked, slithered, and crawled for more than a week since the night of their escape. The incessant rain slowed their progress. They continued in an easterly direction to lead the Wakawakatieri away from Teman-e’s village, hoping the weather was as much of a hindrance to the dogged tribe. Eventually, they too would have to cross one of the larger tributaries. There were no signs of Uxhomeb's men, but they sensed their presence. If they could cross soon, there was a good chance they would evade capture and disappear into an extremely treacherous part of the Amazon.

Connery
found it increasingly difficult to keep up. Teman-e slackened the pace, knowing he was hurting. The running shoes he found the day after the crash were continuously wet, waterlogged- beginning to fall apart. The tropical climate caused his foot condition to worsen. By the eighth day, he could hardly walk and fell to the ground unable to continue.

Teman-e
saw that Connery had removed his shoes, rubbing his jungle rotted feet, obviously in pain.  He spoke no words but lifted one of Connery's calves, examined his foot, then disappeared into the bush. Connery, stretched to his limit, drank the last bottle of water. Now that it was gone, he would avoid drinking from streams and try to rely solely on rainwater. His leg wound was healing except for a large boil near the stitches. His ribs were improved, but his feet had become practically useless. Once more, his mood darkened.
Maybe I should have died in the plane crash.
This was a test, the biggest of his life. So far, he wasn't cutting it, at least in his own mind. He felt despair and some guilt as he looked to Teman-e for everything. Never had he needed to depend on anyone to that extent.

When
Teman-e didn't return, Connery thought that maybe he had given up on him, struck out on his own. He couldn't blame him. A whole hour passed before he appeared carrying a type of aloe leaf; the exact medicinal plant needed to cure the condition. Within minutes, he had Connery's feet bound. When he finished, he took the shoes and threw them deep into the jungle, shouting what could have been a curse. Connery said nothing. Teman-e then cut
mamure
fiber and proceeded to weave a primitive hammock, attaching it to two trees in a place well hidden. It took more than three hours before everything was to his liking. He helped Connery into the hammock.