IN ORDER TO SURVIVE
“DESPERATE JOURNEY”
by
Joseph M. Kennedy
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
TLC Publishing on Smashwords
IN ORDER TO SURVIVE
“DESPERATE JOURNEY”
Copyright © Truman Kennedy Family Trust 2011
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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FOREWORD
by Truman Rock, Author
Now and Then a Hero
My first visit into the Andes was in 1980 and North of Bogotá, Colombia about 100 miles to a huge lake called “Laguna De Tota,” the Lake of the Frogs. Many things first occurred during this trip. My first ever hearing The Voice of the Andes – a radio station which played wonderful Andean flute music alongside European classical music. My first encounter with altitude sickness and my first exposure to pre-Colombian art, especially gold worked objects, to just mention a few.
Since then, 80 numerous trips South included being on the
Amazon River to its head waters, Cusco, Machu Picchu, Nazca in the desert and Lake Titicaca, at La Paz Bolivia. Stepping from the direct flight from Los Angeles, California to La Paz, Bolivia at 14,000 feet smacks one indeptly that easy going is in order
The other awareness just as mention getting as the thin air is the majestic Andes and how sharp everything is. Images that live with you forever.
It is unimaginable to think of being lost in such beautiful danger. In Order to Survive is such a story that when you’re finished reading it, you believe you’ve lived it, not read it and the ancient past is painted so clearly in the pictures of your mind. What a journey.
PART I
Bolivia
Thirty-Second Scenario
Joseph Morris Kennedy
This is a fictionalized account of survival and adventure in the high Cordillera Real Mountains between La Paz, Bolivia, and Peru following the crash of an uncharted single-engine plane.
It entails the hardships encountered by the two surviving passengers during their ordeal of walking more than 200 miles of unforgiving terrain with high altitudes and mountain passes, and dealing with their injuries along the way. Winter, with its heavy rains and colder weather, is fast approaching and time is limited. Due to the nature of the cargo generally carried by RAÚL on his wildcat flights, there is never a flight plan filed nor a passenger manifest created. No one is searching for the wrecked plane or its passengers.
JOHNNY INGRAM is an American journalist who writes for magazines in the United States and his fellow passenger is CHRISTAL, a Bolivian citizen. Except for a very few words, neither speaks the other’s language. During their weeks together it is absolutely critical for them to learn each other’s language to some extent IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. In the closeness together, they eventually fall in love and become lovers.
There are periods of extreme difficulties to overcome, much sadness tempered by the will to live, the occasional joys, sex, and near death episodes, and a genuine learning of companionship.
Along with the many useful items CHRIS and JOHNNY discover in the cargo hold of the plane, they also find a large chest containing a quantity of American cash. They feel it must be the proceeds from an illegal drug transaction or from political corruption of some sort. They decide to keep it ... if they can manage to live to walk out. Across the stream from their temporary base camp they discover the opening of a cave, which contains remnants and artifacts from an ancient Inca civilization, and they hide the bulk of the money there with the intention of returning.
Once they have finally made it back to civilization in Bolivia and have reached La Paz, they begin maneuvering to arrange for a clandestine helicopter search to recover the money they left behind. Once they have accomplished that and recover the money, their next journey begins in spiriting themselves out of the country to vanish and develop their new life elsewhere.
La Paz, Bolivia
The old mustard-colored, bag-of-bones dog was back again for the third day in a row. His rack of ribs barely moved as he breathed in the sun-heated yellow dust of the street. He lay with his body partially in the street where the cars parked, and his large head resting on the pillow of the curb between the sidewalk and the street. His well-scarred nose pointed toward the cantina where, on occasion, there was a smell of food.
It’s hot already, I thought to myself. And the sun isn’t fully up yet. Wiping a few beads of sweat off my forehead, I flicked them off with a finger, when the waiter showed up with my second bottle of beer—my breakfast would be here shortly. The waiter scooped up several coins from the table, and I moved my chair to get back into the shade of the overhead sun-bleached umbrella. The cantina boasted eight small sidewalk tables, and I preferred to sit outside in the heat rather than being inside with all the accumulated smells—not to mention the heat, which was nearly overpowering without even a hint of a breeze.
Lighting another cigarette and tipping up the beer bottle again, I watched my flop-eared dog flipping an ear at the stubborn flies that just settled right back again. The mozo brought my breakfast of three eggs, ham, tortillas, and a green sauce, and as he set the plates down my dog crinkled his black, wet nose at the nearness of food. The ham was good and thick and a good-sized slab, too. I tossed a small chunk toward the dog’s head and it landed close to his nose. One eye opened and his tongue lolled out and, expertly funneling the ham into his mouth without a chew, he swallowed it whole.
Down the street and past the corner, I watched as three men tending to a caravan of llamas went by—some had packs on their backs, but about half were without a load. I had been told that as pack animals, llamas aren’t like camels; they’ll carry a load just so far and then quit, and then their packs have to be transferred to the other llamas and they go on.
Only about a dozen people were out and about on this side street, but I expected Manuel to be arriving soon. He owned his own taxi, but fares were scarce of an early morning. He couldn’t afford to drive around looking for customers. I had hired him several times for short trips during my first two weeks in La Paz. Mostly for the repeated ride back to the airport, but now he was aware that my finances were on the rocks and knew not to expect much in the way of fares from me. He still came every day, though, to check me out and to pass the time practicing his English.
The sun was just right in the sky to illuminate me in the tarnished mirror-like cantina window, but it wouldn’t be right for long. I decided to take a good hard look at myself while I could. Raising my chin with its slight stubble of beard, I cocked my head to one side, then the other, and decided I had better shave when I got back to the hotel where I was holed up. Should try to keep up appearances, I thought to myself.
Here I am at thirty-two, wearing a rumpled shirt and a sport jacket, bottle of beer in my hand, sitting at a really rundown cantina and rapidly becoming dead broke in a side street that’s unpaved and full of blowing dust—in La Paz, of all places! I turned back again to see if the old dust-covered dog I’d been watching was still lying there. He was, and still flipping his ear at the same damned irritating flies bothering his ears and nose.
“Mozo! Another cerveza, por favor!” The waiter was sitting on a moderately high stool next to the cantina door, and seemed about as lively as the dog in the street. He managed somehow to get up and shuffled inside to get me another beer. I resumed looking at the rapidly disappearing reflection of myself. Thirty-two, I mused silently.
My hair had become a sun-bleached rusty-brown, but was still without any gray yet and while I wasn’t a Hollywood-handsome type, I didn’t feel that I was all that bad-looking. Six feet tall, straight, wide shoulders, and my 180 pounds suited me fairly well.
The mozo brought me another long-necked bottle of beer and picked up several coins from the table. “Gracias,” I said, thanking him. He moved slowly to his perch on the stool and I resumed thinking on my present dilemma.
Here I was in a country that spoke principally Spanish—of which I knew a couple hundred words at most—born in Southern California, still unmarried, a PhD in literature from UCLA, making my living writing human interest articles for magazines—which sure was not a hell of a good way to earn a livelihood. Four weeks ago, I was in Mexico City trying to find a niche in the society of that near-anthill busy city (at least it seemed that hectic where I was staying). I couldn’t get any sort of grasp on my current topic of family relations for my latest article. Disgusted, I’d caught a flight to La Paz and wouldn’t you know it, my most important suitcase went somewhere else! What a bummer! After two weeks of trying at the airport, I gave up on ever seeing it again. Someone, somewhere, had my best cameras, film, and worst of all—my credit cards. I had relied totally on traveler’s checks and left my own checkbook at home. When I had attempted to reach my agent by phone, the overseas operator kept getting a damned recording that he was out of his office.
After a few days of pitying myself and my circumstances, I encountered an affable taxi driver, the aforementioned Manuel, whom I got to shepherd me around La Paz and its outskirts, and even act as my interpreter for interviews. We stopped at his home where I met his wife and two children, and in one brief moment we became good friends. Manuel’s wife was a smallish woman with the vigor and stamina of a mighty giant and yet so polite and gracious I felt like long-lost family.
My money was at rock bottom and I really needed to get the hell out of Bolivia quickly, and in answer to my silent prayers, yesterday after I had talked with Manuel about it, he told me about a one-man plane operation that made flights to Lima, Peru, on a weekly basis. Generally speaking, the plane carried a limited amount of cargo but also had seats for two passengers. Using Manuel as my spokesperson, on the telephone, he had arranged my passage on tomorrow’s flight. I just had to leave La Paz while I still had the money to go!
The Plane
Manuel maneuvered his taxi between the comings and goings of baggage handlers towing their small wagons of luggage to and from the various ports of entry at the La Paz International Airport. He skimmed by different groups of workers who just seemed to be wandering around aimlessly. After the zigzagging mess, we finally arrived at the lower end of the airfield where an unpretentious, smaller hangar sat. As we came to a stop, I sat looking at the hangar several seconds and decided that it had to be at least three or four times older than me at 32. The missing windows and peeling paint sort of went along with the double doors askew on their hinges.
Out in front sat a rather boxy, bulky-looking single-engine plane sporting a single radial engine and a heavy-looking top wing. Its faded blue paint job had seen much better days, but a long time ago, or so it appeared to me. The landing gear was mounted directly under the cockpit and centered on the single wing. There was a smaller wheel at the back of the fuselage. As it sat, with its nose tilted way far up above the body of the plane, I couldn’t imagine how anyone in the cockpit could ever see the runway—either taking off or landing. I got out of Manuel’s taxi and leaned against it, looking at the plane in utter disbelief. My first impression was, You got to be kidding! Go over the Andes in that?
I turned to look at Manuel and saw that he was grinning at my expression. “Just what the hell have you got me into, Manuel?” He shrugged and extended his hands in a show of helplessness. “Johnny, I swear that I never saw this plane before. I only heard about it, but it’s supposed to be a regular flight and it really goes and comes back okay.” I pushed myself away from the taxi and took a few steps toward the plane and stopped to think whether I had any options at all other than boarding this antique. The problem was that I couldn’t think of a single option left to me. My only experience with flying was confined to commercial aircraft with gobs of passengers and flight attendants to calm my fears, and this was a far cry from that. I heard a sound behind me and turned to see that Manuel had taken my two small suitcases out of the cab’s trunk and sat them on the ground. That struck me as being the final deciding factor—I was going. Further down the long runway, a commercial jetliner was taking off and the loud sound of its engines was comforting as its nose pointed toward the heavens and it began the rapid climb to its proper altitude. I envied the people on board who could afford that luxury. The simple fact remained that as far as my financial status was concerned, if I wanted to get out of La Paz, here sat my only chance. “Yep! A chance for sure.”
Raúl
There was a man standing on a short, A-frame ladder. He was inserted up past his shoulders, with his arms inside the engine cowling. Whatever he was doing didn’t make me feel any better, but he seemed to be oblivious to anything else. I looked back at my suitcases and watched Manuel shrug his shoulders again. Could I actually fly in this contraption over the Cordillera Real of South America to Peru? Better yet, could the plane fly over it?
Just then, Manuel leaned on the taxi’s horn and I jumped like someone had just screamed in my ear. I shot a nasty glance at Manuel and shook my head in displeasure while he laughed at me. “God damn, Manuel! You made me damn near rupture myself getting out of the way!” He only pointed toward the plane as he laughed.
With much effort, the man was managing to extricate himself from the cowling as he pulled backward out of the engine compartment. It was taking a lot of effort on his part so he was not smiling as he looked in our direction. I thought, Yep! He’s my god-damned pilot! I managed a rather weak, sour-grapes smile and waved at him. I still had that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Jesus Christ! Am I that much of a fool? I guess I am—I’ve already paid him for the trip,” I was muttering to myself.
The man came walking over to me, wiping his hands on an oil rag, and I glanced at his hands—no sign of any oil or grease, and the rag was clean. I was imagining some sort of massive oil leak and a big puddle of it on the ground under the engine, as well as my pilot trying to twist a piece of wire around something to stop the leak.
His name was Raúl and he smilingly shook my hand and said, “Buenos dias.”
“Hi!” I’m Johnny Ingram. Good morning to you.”
He stepped back a bit and looked me over from head to foot. “You a tourist?”
“No. I was working on an article for an American magazine and just needed to go to Lima, Peru.”
“Well, you came to the right place. That’s where this plane is bound.”
Raúl was a thick-set, barrel-chested man with heavy forearms and no paunchy gut. He stood about five-foot-six and probably weighed something over two hundred pounds—an all-muscle-and-bone-type person. He had a quiet manner and grinned easily, and his dark eyes were intense. His hair was jet-black except for the light gray streaks over his ears from his sideburns. He was of what could be called olive complexion, and I judged him to be maybe fifty. It was hard to tell, really.
“What does our luggage look like?” I motioned over to the two cases by the taxi.
“That’s all?”
I nodded my head and he stepped past me and picked them up. “Carajo! Not more than seventy pounds! You travel light!” He headed back to the plane carrying my belongings, and I waved farewell to Manuel and followed my pilot.
The plane had a door on each side of the cockpit and a narrower door behind the crew seats, which was for passengers and to load cargo. Originally, this had all been cargo space but he had added the two bucket seats. All the cargo went in behind the two passenger seats and to me it already looked full, from top to bottom. Raúl squeezed my two suitcases in on top of the pile of other stuff and, satisfied with its placement, he turned back to me.
“Well, Señor, do you think you are ready? All I have to do is close the engine cowling and we will be off.” As I considered that momentarily, he reached up front and produced a liter bottle of brandy. “I believe you say, ‘One for the road?’” He laughed and handed me the bottle. It wasn’t really a bad brandy after all, and I downed two big drinks as he stood eyeing me. After he had taken the bottle and glurked down several swallows, he stood a moment to let it settle, and we were simply standing there as compadres.
“Where the hell did you get a plane like this?” I asked. He shrugged his heavy shoulders and waved the bottle at the plane.
“It’s Russian.”
“Christ! Where in the hell did you get a Russian plane?”
“You want the short story? I guess you do. I am Cuban. Well, now I am a Boliviano. But I was Cuban. Back then I was a teniente—a lieutenant—in the Cuban Air Force. I flew this plane in a patrol area of the beaches along the northwest coast of Cuba for Fidel. That was after the revolution, of course. Also, that was when there were many Russian troops in Cuba and such things as this airplane. After the Russians left, they also left lots of equipment for Fidel. Over a period of time, I decided it was best for me to take my wife and daughter and leave my homeland, Cuba. Things had become very bad there by that time.”
He took another big swig from the bottle and handed it back to me. “They didn’t allow us much gas back then, so I had my friend store up gas for me over a period of several weeks. We did this at the furthest part of Cuba—west of Pinar del Rio. Then on a particular day, my family was there. I gassed up and we flew to Tampico, Mexico.” I passed the bottle back to him. Hell, at this rate we were going to stand here and get drunk and never get off the ground.
“The rest was just logistics. It took me over a year to get my family and the plane from Mexico to Bolivia. Lots of red ink along the way but where La Paz finally gave me permission, we flew over from Lima, Peru—been here now in our own home ever since. I am a citizen now, you know?”
I declined another drink and Raúl said, “I guess you’re right! We had better go!”
The Flight
The engine cranked three or four times and backfired a loud pop that made me sit up straight in my seat. But it was okay. Raúl laughed loudly and yelled, “She’s just clearing her throat!” The motor caught just fine and we taxied over to a separate runway, and after clearance from the tower the plane begin lumbering down the pavement. After what I thought was an awfully long time, I felt the rear wheel lift off the ground and looking forward between the front seats, I could actually see the propeller and then we were airborne at last.
Raúl yelled something back over his shoulder at me but the engine noise was so loud I couldn’t hear what he had said. I scooted forward and tapped him on the shoulder, putting my head close to his. He turned, grinning. “Noisy! Can’t hear a damn thing,” he yelled.
The brandy was making my chest feel all warm and cozy and my thoughts were having a tendency to wander. I was rethinking the three interviews I had outside La Paz with families on the brink of their existence, and how they were managing to cope, living on practically no money and still feed the rafts of children. It was a desperate life just trying to stay together.
Raúl and I couldn’t talk without yelling at each other, so I got myself comfortable and let my head bobble with the motion of the plane. I felt us banking to the left at some point, but so what? It didn’t bother me all that much. After nearly an hour of foggy brain limbo and being nearly asleep, the plane suddenly did a wing-over, banking again to the left and into a tight U-turn. With the nose down, it felt as if we were dropping out of the sky. My eyes popped open wide and my hands were pressing against the seat in front of me. I had the fleeting thought that my feet might poke a hole through the floor of the plane. I became so wide-eyed I couldn’t even blink as I watched the ground coming up to meet us through the windshield. In a low tone of voice I found myself repeating, “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” over and over again. The sensation was far worse than an extremely fast elevator speeding upward, leaving your stomach behind—or in your mouth. My stomach was churning and I tasted the bile of the stomach acids that was making me swallow repeatedly just to hold down my breakfast and the brandy I had shared with Raúl.
Just as suddenly, the plane began to level out and I watched as Raúl cranked a lever above the windshield to lower the flaps. Seconds later, the tires touched the ground. We bounced twice and the air outside became a solid brown dust. Raúl throttled the engine back and we seemed to taxi along through the choking dust. As the plane finally came to a stop, I jerked the door open and practically fell out to vomit my gut out—or so it felt. I just happened to be puking upwind, and most of it came right back to splatter on my pants and shirt, and especially on my shoes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they were flooded with tears. As I gagged on my own vomit, I dropped to my hands and knees, in terrible shape.
Raúl came up from behind me and began pushing down hard on my back with his hand. “Try to stand up!” he commanded. “It’s an old parachute trick!”
The harder I tried to stand up, the more pressure he applied to keep me down. Gradually, the nausea passed and I stood up. He handed me the brandy bottle and I took a big drink that hit my stomach like a double-bladed axe and more vomit shot out of my mouth. I coughed and gagged and the brandy coming out of my nose burned like pure hell.
“God damn! Hombre, you were not supposed to swallow it! Just rinse your mouth and spit it out!”
It took me several minutes but I finally recovered enough to ask, “What the hell happened?”
“Oh, nothing. Short landing strip and we have to pick up another passenger here.”
As the dust settled and blew away, I could see a conglomeration of small buildings that formed a pueblo. There was a weathered sign that read “Cantina,” so I made my way over to it. I stunk with the smell of vomit, so I had dug out of my suitcase a fresh change of clothing. After washing up, I simply abandoned the stinky clothes with the idea that probably someone would come along and find a good use for them. Inside the cantina, I got a type of beer similar to Mexican pulque and slugged that down. The Bolivian pulque wasn’t any better than the Mexican variety and left my stomach churning slightly.
Christal
An old, decrepit-looking gas truck had finished topping off the plane’s fuel tanks, and there was a lovely, slight-built woman standing alongside the passenger door. As I came closer she nodded her head in a slight hello and looked away. The fuel truck pulled away and Raúl approached, eating a big burrito and carrying a new bottle of brandy and a paper sack. He and the woman had a quick, rapid exchange together in Spanish and after that he turned to me saying, “She says it stinks in there and that you do, too. I told her that you have been air-sick, but that you are better now. Are you?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a shot of that brandy and I’ll be fine.” He gave a huge grin, and for the first time he showed me his stainless steel tooth. He passed the bottle over to me and said, “Let’s go!” After helping the woman get into the plane, I also took another shot of the brandy and then climbed in.
She was smoothing her skirt around her, getting ready for a long, uncomfortable trip. Her bolero jacket was quite fancy with all its ornate decorations of flowers and birds, and it sure fit snugly. I admired her quite lovely facial features, and the fleeting thought of royalty in her bearing. While Raúl was busying himself up front with whatever, I asked the woman if she spoke English. What I got in answer was, “I to ess-peek Anglis liddle bit? No mucho.” She had an inflection in her voice so that when she raised her answer to me it sounded more like a question, but what she was asking was whether the word “bit” was the proper word. She had a nice mellow tone to her voice that was very pleasant to listen to, but I wondered about any further conversation over the noise of the plane. Her eyes were soft and large and looked a bit worried. I figured this might be her first plane trip. But then, she may have had reason to be worried—I had. The engine fired up and we started rolling, and presently we were off the ground again.
It was still early morning and the sun was behind us as we started passing over the semi-arid desert lands. Off in the distance I could make out mountains—the really high ones would be coming up pretty soon.
Raúl was scrambling one hand around in the sack he had brought, and presently handed back two huge burritos. They were all wet with cooking oil and the smell made me a little queasy, so I put mine away and watched the woman devour hers with pure gusto. She had a plastic bottle of water, too, and with a gesture of her hand offered me a drink. I waved it off and settled for another nip at the brandy bottle instead. Since we couldn’t converse because of the engine noise, I settled back down again and closed my eyes.
The air turbulence rocking the plane awakened me abruptly. It wasn’t all that bad, but through the windshield I could see monster mountains coming up. We were evidently following a canyon that was quite a bit below us. The woman showed pure fright at what she was seeing. She had a tight grip on both armrests and her cheeks were wet from tears. She noticed that I was awake and turned her wide-open, terrified eyes on me. Her mouth was open like she was gasping for air in a silent scream of near panic.
I patted her hand, wondering how to say, “It’s okay” in Spanish, but I didn’t have a clue. I should learn that some day, I thought. Our seats were close enough together that I fumbled with the closest strap of her safety belt that was lying across her leg. After getting that freed, I practically had to squash her in her seat to find her other strap. She was no help at all, but I finally jerked it free. She’d been sitting on it. It buckled together easily and I cinched her down tightly to the seat. I really didn’t think it would be worth a damn if the plane crashed, but it might help to allay her anguish.
When I was back in my own seat I discovered that my seat only had one strap and the other side had been removed. I thought, Oh fuck it! I reached for the woman’s right hand and nearly had to pry her fingers open to get her to release the armrest. She had one hell of a grip on my hand for such a demure little gal. I yelled at her, “Mirame!” That was as close as I could get to “Look at me!” She swiveled her head in my direction and fastened her frightened eyes on my face. I stuck my tongue out at her and she damn near smiled, but I did see a lessening of tension in her, and that was a good thing.
The plane continued flying level at the same altitude, but when I looked out the window in the cargo door, it seemed to me we were much closer to the ground. We were not going lower, but the canyon was coming up higher to meet us. I figured that at this rate if we didn’t gain more altitude soon, we would be skimming the bottom of the gorge-like canyon presently. Even the canyon walls were encroaching on us—and rapidly.
I had just taken the cap off the brandy bottle and raised it to my lips when Raúl swerved the plane into a tight left bank and we entered a wider, deeper canyon. I spilled nearly a third of a cup of brandy in my lap and it trickled down between my legs, wetting the seat. “Oh, hell!”
Raúl turned his head slightly and yelled, “Okay!”
“Hell, that guy’s my pilot!” I yelled back. We were still at the same altitude, but the canyon floor was falling away now and getting deeper.
As Raúl pulled back on the yoke, we gradually climbed maybe another two hundred feet, so I got my shot of brandy drunk anyway. The woman pulled at my hand and shook it, pointing at the bottle and motioning to her mouth. When she had the bottle in both hands, she up-ended it and downed three big swallows. She barely coughed. It was more like clearing her throat. “That’s my gal!” I yelled to her, grinning. She didn’t understand what I said but returned the smile.
Our Condor
Raúl kept the plane gaining altitude for nearly ten minutes by my watch, and it was because the canyon’s walls were closing in around us. He motioned for me to move up closer to him, and through the roar of the engine he yelled, “Now we go up and over! Then we will be back in the canyons again!” I nodded my understanding and patted his shoulder, and settled back in my seat.
As Raúl said, we went up and over what he called the top, but actually it was nothing compared to what lay in front of us. It was only a gateway to other, higher canyons. I had my head tilted back slightly again for another sip of brandy when there was an extremely loud thump up front. The windshield caved in and came back through the cabin like shrapnel. Worse yet, the engine stopped. The cold air rushing back into the plane through the now totally empty windshield space helped to clear my head in an instant. It was almost frighteningly quiet, in a noisy sort of way, without the engine’s noise. As the cold air rushed in, I realized that we had had a mid-air collision with something.
I scrambled up behind Raúl as best as I could and grabbed his shoulder. His face was all bloody from a gash over his left eye and the hard, direct wind was blowing the blood and making a red mask of his face. He struggled with the yoke and dorsal-fin controls and he very audibly said, “Condor! We hit a condor!” Even the blade of the propeller seemed to be bent. I shook his shoulder again and he said, “I can’t see out of my left eye and the right one is fuzzy.”
“Its blood, Raúl—blood in your eyes.”
“Oh?” His voice seemed distant. “There’s a canyon up here soon to our left and we have to make it into that canyon! Stay with me—okay?”
“Sure thing, buddy! You bet! I’m right on your shoulder.” Before I knew what to look for, he spotted the canyon and managed a forty-five-degree turn into a wider canyon. Its walls were more sloping, yet still fairly steep, but the canyon we had just pulled out of had had walls nearly straight up and down.
Raúl was flying dead-stick using the plane like a glider, but was going down fast. He selected the left side of the canyon and tilted the wing slightly, trying to conform to the slope of the hillside. He quickly cranked down the flaps and lowered the plane’s nose. It was a brief glide and just before we hit, he yelled, “Get in your seat!”
The wheels ripped off first, and then the left wing folded back against the fuselage where the woman sat. The bottom scraped along the rock-strewn grade for a good fifty yards before the engine piled into a huge boulder straight on. The sudden stop threw me against the front seat and something put a gash on my left cheek. I lay nearly upside down, crumpled between the seats, and wasn’t sure I could move anything.
“Señor?” It was the woman’s voice. I wiggled around and twisted my head to see her. Her hand was outstretched toward me but her safety belt was holding her tightly in her seat. I fumbled with the clasp on it, but it was jammed shut. My mind told me, Raúl has a sheath knife. I found him jammed between his seat and the broken yoke. The yoke had crushed his chest. Just in case, I checked his pulse. No luck—he was dead.
The smell of gasoline fumes was nearly overpowering. We either had to get out of the plane or die. One single spark and the plane would surely explode in flames. A panel of the fuselage’s aluminum skin had been torn away next to where the woman’s seat was—where she still was sitting. I cut her seat belt with Raúl’s sheath knife and held her back in her seat as I squeezed over and past her to practically fall out through the torn opening. Mostly. I fell, with my entire body hurting. Trying to ignore how bad I hurt, I turned back and straightened up feeling like I had been clubbed with a baseball bat from top to bottom. Just as I started to reach for her, she threw her big shoulder-strap handbag out through the hole and it slammed into my face, nearly knocking me back to the ground. I kicked it out of the way to do my rescue mission. I rammed both arms through the opening and she immediately grabbed my hands. I literally pulled her out head first, and she plopped down on the ground with a loud grunt. She wanted to either sit or just collapse where she was, but I pulled her to her feet amidst her loud protests. I got an arm around her waist while she looped her arm over my shoulder, and we hobbled away for the first few yards before falling down. The slope was rather steep here, and on hands and knees we managed to crawl at least sixty feet before we both gave out. There was a large boulder there and I dragged her around behind it, trying to place it between us and the plane. If it blew up, I figured at the very least we’d have some amount of protection from the blast.
Propping herself up against the boulder and brushing the hair back from her face, she asked, “Pilot?” Her voice was so muted I almost had to guess what she had asked. “Dead,” I answered, drawing my finger across my throat. She replied, “Muerto,” and she made the same motion of drawing her finger across her throat. I nodded a “yes.”
She held up her right index finger for me to see and repeated, “Dead.” She put the tips of her fingers together, showing me that they meant the same thing. “Si,” I answered. “Muerto.” That was to be our first Spanish lesson together.
Peeking around the boulder, I couldn’t see any smoke or fire at the plane after about twenty minutes. I sat back to wait a little longer and dug out my handkerchief to press against the gash on my cheek. It was still bleeding, but the pressure would eventually stop it. The woman was busy digging around in her purse and finally came up with a small bottle. She scooted over closer to me and held it for me to see. It was a bottle of clear fingernail polish. I had nearly staunched the flow of blood, so she examined it and then liberally poured some of the nail polish on it. She made a grimace of pain and said, “Ai!” as a warning. She dabbed the polish on the cut, and I was wincing at the burn but held still for the few seconds it took to dry. It acted like collodion and created an airtight, clear bandage. I thought that was pretty neat of her. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” She looked rather confused and didn’t understand.
I made motions for her to stay there and even said, “Stay here.” She did understand that and watched me go with her eyes fully opened. Halfway to the plane, I stopped to look back and she was still watching me—peeking around the boulder.
What had occurred to me was that the ignition switch was probably still turned on and if it was, all the electric wiring would be hot. Just one little spark from a hot wire would blow up everything and set the plane on fire.
When I got to the pilot’s door, I gingerly twisted the handle and pulled slowly. The door wasn’t damaged badly, and I got it open a little over halfway. I stood there looking in at Raúl and the mangled control panel. The ignition key was turned to a sideways position and to the right.
I had to move Raúl’s body slightly, and in doing so I discovered he had been wearing a shoulder holster and that the gun was still in it. My attention was on that key. Which way to turn it? I decided that every key I’d ever seen turned to the right to turn on, and to the left to turn off. I knew that just kneeling here wasn’t getting anything solved, so I reached in and turned the key to the left. Nothing happened—it only clicked into the upright position. I could only hope that had turned the power off. There was a small silver button next to the key and I figured it had to be the start button. I hesitated briefly, put my finger on it, closed my eyes, and pushed. Nothing happened—the power was shut off! I had sweat running down my face, and my entire body felt wet—and it wasn’t due to the weather. Even my knees seemed weak and wobbly, and my hands were shaking.
Raúl’s holster wasn’t all that difficult to get off his body since the straps ran around and over his back. Besides the holstered gun, there was also a pouch containing two full clips of ammo. The gun was a 9mm Beretta.
I got away from the plane as fast as possible and rejoined the woman. For awhile we simply sat quietly, leaning against the big rock with my arm around her shoulders. Then the sun began to leave and suddenly there was a chill creeping in around us. It would get colder.
Damn! We needed something to cover up with to keep out the cold and wind. I gave her the gun and holster and pointed at her, saying, “You wait!” Again she put her two fingers together said, “Espera. Hokay.”
Hell, I was getting regular Spanish lessons! “Espera.” I said, pointing at her.
“Hokay, I to wait here?” She damn near caused me to smile, but I didn’t. She just sat quietly, holding the gun in her lap.
The relatively small cargo door was crumpled at its hinges, but it still had been sprung. I got my fingers through the crack at the opening where the handle was and pulled. It took all the strength I could muster to pry it open, not really being sure whether the door or my fingers would be the first to give up. One hinge was all that held the door now, and finally it gave way. I eased myself up into my seat and in the fast-fading light rescued my two suitcases and a folded package of canvas tied with a string. As I tossed these out onto the ground, I discovered a canvas rifle case and after lots of tugging, I got it freed. The smell of gasoline was burning my nose and making my eyes water. I had to get my ass out of there right away. As I started to clamber out, I was startled to see the woman standing there looking at me. She had gathered up my suitcases and the canvas and stood waiting for whatever else I might toss out. “Damn! I told you to wait!” My voice was gruff and nearly angry and she knew it. As I shoved the rifle case out in front of me, I looked at her again and she stuck her tongue out at me and then smiled. I nearly cracked up laughing at her expression. She didn’t know exactly what I had said to her but she knew I was scolding her and when I laughed, she began her low-voiced, tinkling laugh, too.
She put her hand on her hip, watching me patiently to see what I would do next, so I waved her away and began the slow process of getting myself back out of the plane. We picked up the stuff I’d tossed out and headed back to the relative safety of our boulder. We settled in behind the huge rock and began looking over our treasures together. I took back the pistol and adjusted its harness to fit me, while she laid out everything from my two suitcases. I handed her a pair of my trousers from the larger case for her to put on beneath her dress. She decided to go around to the other side of our boulder to do that, also taking with her one of my shirts and the jacket from my suit. It was really going to be chilly tonight at this altitude.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Name? Oh ... Christal,” she said. Only she pronounced it Chrees--tal. “You?” she asked.
“Johnny.”
“Honey?”
“No. Johnny!” I spelled my name for her and she said, “Hokay, Honey.” She was smiling tentatively.
I thought, Oh, well, what the hell. She probably calls all men Honey. I began scratching out a small fire ring next to our boulder, and Christal went about picking up small stones to lay around it without being asked. Then she brought back a few pieces of dead firewood, too. They were sort of a poor example of firewood, but there wasn’t much to gather around up here. When the fire ring was finished, I took in the few things I’d salvaged and decided to make another trip back to the plane before the dark settled in completely. I had remembered the uneaten burrito Raúl had given me and I found it safely tucked away where I’d put it. I sopped up some of the gasoline from the ground where the ruptured gas tank had leaked with a torn piece of cloth and brought that back, too, as I could start the fire better with that.
It was only on rare occasions that I would smoke a cigarette, but Chris had found in the larger case a partial carton of Delicados cigarettes from Mexico, and my lighter. I lay the gasoline-soaked rag in the center of the fire ring, carefully placed a few pieces of Chris’ tiny branches over it, and presto! We had a fire going. When I pulled the huge burrito from my shirt, Chris exclaimed, “Ai!” and she leaned over to kiss my cheek. We sat the two halves of the burrito on a flat stone next to the fire to heat, and leaned back against our boulder, watching it warm. I had stripped Raúl’s flying jacket off of him and although it was covered with dried blood, that didn’t matter—I’d be really cold without it tonight.
When I produced the bottle of brandy, which was still more than half full, Chris yelped, “Por dios mio!” She took the offered bottle gladly. I opened a package of the perfumed cigarettes and lit two while Chris got the lid off the brandy bottle.
She coughed a couple times on the cigarette but wouldn’t give it up, so we had fire, brandy, and a cigarette together while we waited for the food to heat.
Considering what the day had been like, and now that we were sitting practically on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, I felt that we were lucky indeed. I looked up at the stars overhead and said, “Now, what more could a man want if he were marooned on a desert island? A lovely woman sitting here beside me, a hot meal about ready, a warm fire, and the beautiful stars overhead. Just camping out for the night.”
Chris nudged me in the ribs and hoisted the bottle to me. “Nosotros junto!” And she took a drink. I knew what nosotros meant: us. But I wasn’t sure what junto was. I accepted the bottle and tipping it up, toasted, “Nosotros!” I was reviewing in my mind some of my remembered Spanish from school, and decided to try out a couple phrases. I said, “Chris, qué es esto?” She raised her head from staring into the fire and as I pointed at my hand, she said, “Mano. Qué es en English?”
“Hand,” I answered. We struggled along with a few more words, exchanging their meanings in both languages, and presently I asked, “Como se dice la palabra por esto?” I knew that meant “How do you say the word for this?”
She grinned. “Muy bien Señor.”
I explained the question in English and she repeated it several times. “Good!” I told her. Hell, we were making progress!
By the light of the fire I laid out the weapons and checked them. For the pistol there were twenty-seven rounds, and for the rifle two boxes of twenty rounds. I loaded them both and tucked them away under the canvas we would be using for a sleeping bag. We ate our burritos and I dug out clean, dry socks for us both to sleep in and laid the damp ones across the boulder to dry overnight.
In Order to Survive
The morning air was crisp, and as soon as I rolled out from under the canvas I had to find a place to pee. I moved off to one side about fifteen feet and began to think I’d never get my bladder empty. As I shook it off, I turned around and there was Chris sitting up with the canvas drawn up around her neck, watching me. As I came over to the fire pit to get it going again, she got out from under the canvas and stood in front of me. She put her two index fingers together and winked at me. Then she turned around and went to where I had peed, dropped down her two pairs of pants, squatted down, and peed an absolute stream as she watched me looking at her. Well, I thought, we may as well get used to this. We’re in this for the long haul together.
Chris got up and went off to gather more firewood to add to the few remaining hot coals. I wasn’t in favor of a large fire and there wasn’t much dead wood anyway. I could tell we were above the tree line because the few trees there looked stunted and low and more like bushes.
With nothing to eat, we decided to salvage what we could of the cargo and get it away from the plane, which could still possibly catch on fire. As I tossed or handed out each precious find, Chris took it away to a safe distance. When I found two deep-sea fishing rods, I immediately began searching for a tackle box—and found it. I threw out a medium-sized roll of plastic sheeting that was about four feet wide, and then discovered four cases of sodas in plastic bottles and two cases of bottled water. There was a twelve-gauge over-and-under trap shooter shotgun and two dozen boxes of shells. I found a short case of ammo for the scope rifle and a bundle of three dozen machetes with wooden handles. It was quite a chore scrambling around in the cargo hold of the plane, and by early morning it had become more like working in an oven. I had stripped down to my boxer shorts and boots and was still sweating profusely.
“Honey?” Chris called through the doorway.
“Si, Chris?”
“The pilot?”
I sure as hell hadn’t forgotten Raúl. I just believed that we needed to save what we could before it might burn up. Sure as hell I was aware of Raúl—the odor was ever present.
I crawled out the door and reached for my shirt and pants on the seat. Chris was standing there with a rather surprised look on her face at how undressed I was. She raised one eyebrow and pursed her lips.
I needed some water bad so I gathered a couple things, tucked my clothes under my arm, and headed for the growing pile of goodies salvaged so far. Chris obediently followed along behind me with the pack of machetes and the tackle box.
I parked my butt on a rock and drank nearly a full bottle of water, trying to replace what I had sweated out. I was feeling pretty good about what we had managed to do so far. I started to put my pants on, but Chris put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Es hokay, Honey. Pilot?” I nodded in agreement. “Okay, pilot now.”
Instead of me putting my pants back on, Chris took off her nice dress and wore only the pants I had loaned her and a loose blouse. We went to see about the pilot together. The body was beginning to bloat already, and I took Chris about ten yards away and put her to work scratching out a grave with one of the machetes. No matter how I pulled on Raúl’s arms and shoulders, I couldn’t get the body loose from the yoke stuck in his chest.
I changed tactics and pulled his legs out through the door and let them dangle. I located the seat release lever but had to go back inside the cargo area to make it slide back. When I got back around to the front again, his torso had been released from the yoke, and now his body was free and likely to fall out to the ground. I knew that both of us couldn’t pick him up, so I got the canvas cover from the big boulder and spread it on the ground and dumped the body on it. Then I straightened him as best I could. I took everything out of his pockets and set them on the ground together: a wallet, passport papers, a Swiss Army knife, a pack of cigarettes, sunglasses, a couple pens, and some change. I took his belt, too, and his boots. It took both Chris and me to tow and pull Raúl’s body up the incline only thirty feet away. The ground was so full of rocks that Chris had only been able to scratch out a six-inch-deep trench. We put Raúl in it, scraped in what actual dirt there was, and then spent over an hour carrying stones for a mound. But it was done, finally, as best as possible.