maybe even more than when I was a merc and saw some pretty fucked up shit.
We reach what I guess is the closest thing this village has to a square, a collection of white-ish buildings that surround a packed dirt space, a concrete fountain in the middle. Sitting on the edge is a small, spry looking old man with dirty clothes and missing teeth.
Upon seeing the jeep, the man stands up, waving. My guard glances over his shoulder, telling me, “Francisco, your guide.”
We come to a stop, Francisco exchanging quick greetings with the guards, who pass him a folded wad of bills. I get out, grabbing my bag and slipping the straps over my shoulders. I adjust them, then see that my escorts are still in the jeep.
“Coming?”
Laughing, the same guard who two days ago was so willing to jack me against a wall looks at me like I’m crazy. “No. Only idiotas go in there. Most don’t come out.”
I shrug, actually glad he’s not coming. “Suit yourself,” I reply, and the guard grunts.
Reaching behind him, he grabs one of the very same UMPs that I brought into the country and places it across his legs, patting it. “Thanks for the tip, Norte.” He laughs again, tapping his partner on the shoulder, and they leave.
In the muggy silence that reigns afterwards, it’s just me and Francisco, who shakes his head as they go. “Soft,” he says derisively. “Come.”
Francisco leads me through the rest of the small village, stopping at what is obviously the village mercado to pick up his own bag, which is much smaller than mine, along with an ancient-looking bolt-action rifle.
“We go.”
“Wait,” I reply, digging into my bag. I pull out my knife and attach it to my hip, always wanting to be prepared, but especially when I’m heading into unknown territory. Francisco pulls out a worn but wickedly sharp looking machete, checking the blade but somehow making it seem relaxed and not threatening. “Anyone else?”
“Sim,” Francisco says. “Come.”
On the edge of the village, Francisco and I are met by two other men who are slightly younger, tough-looking, wiry, and crazy-eyed. I wonder if they test some of the jungle’s natural products.
They lead me to a Jeep that looks held together with duct tape, spit, and wishes. “Really?”
“In,” Francisco says, and I shrug, jumping in the back. The engine sounds like at least one cylinder is off, and the black smoke that pours out the back threatens to choke any of the surrounding wildlife as we embark on a bumpy ride through lush greenery for the next twenty minutes.
I don’t try to talk with Francisco. His English is obviously limited to short commands, and my Portuguese isn’t much better than his English even though I learned a few additional phrases from the guys at the airport. Instead, when they park and gesture for me to get out, I silently grab my bag and adjust my straps, following them into the deep rainforest.
Within minutes, the world’s gone dim and hot, like I’m walking through a sauna with the lights off. There’s so little sunlight penetrating the canopy overhead. Around me, I can hear a symphony of animal calls, from the screams of monkeys and the chittering of other small mammals to the cries of birds, the buzz of insects . . . I can’t even keep track of them all.
But it’s the animals I can’t hear that I know I need to keep an eye out for. It’s what you don’t see that’ll kill you. Whether it’s any of half a dozen species of vipers, or poisonous frogs that’ll send me into psychedelic death throes, I’m not going to let myself be caught unaware.
As we walk, the guys speak an even more mangled form of the local dialect that I can’t figure out in the least. But I hear them talking about the norte and laughing, so I know I’m the butt of their jokes and commentary.
I don’t really care. I can’t worry about that when I’m this close. The cave is deep in the jungle and over treacherous terrain, while at the same time, we must go around Nikolai’s disguised fields and plantations. It’s a weaving, dangerous path, and I know it’ll take time.
As the sun sinks, we find a spot to camp overnight. I’m tempted to push on further, but I also know the rule . . . once the sun sets in the jungle, it goes so black that the few predators who are nocturnal don’t