The Codex

11

Trash burned in a row of fifty-five-gallon drums along the filthy beach at Puerto Lempira, each sending a stream of acrid smoke into the town. A fat woman cooked on a comal over one of the drums; the smell of frying pork cracklings carried toward Vernon on a fetid breeze. He walked with the Teacher along the dirt street that paralleled the beach, trailed and jostled by a crowd of children, followed in turn by a groveling pack of dogs. The children had been trailing them for almost an hour, crying out “Gimme sweet!” and “Gimme dollar!” Vernon had dispensed several bags of candy and given out all his dollar bills in an effort to placate them, but the generosity had succeeded only in swelling the crowd to ever more hysterical proportions.

Vernon and the Teacher arrived at a rickety wooden pier that stuck out into the muddy lagoon, at the end of which was tied a gaggle of dugout canoes with outboard motors. Men lounged in hammocks, and dark-eyed women eyed them from doorways. A man pushed up to them, a boa wrapped around his neck.

“Snake,” he said. “Fifty dollar.”

“We don’t want a snake,” said the Teacher. “We want a boat. Barca. Boat. We’re looking for Juan Freitag Charters. You sabe Juan Freitag?”

The man began unwrapping the snake and holding it out as if he were offering a string of sausages. “Snake. Thirty dollar.”

The Teacher brushed past him.

“Snake!” the man cried, pursuing. “Twenty dollar!” His shirt was almost falling off his shoulders, it had so many holes. He clutched at Vernon with long brown fingers as he passed. Vernon, fishing in his pocket for change and dollar bills, could only find a fiver. He gave it to the man. The children surged forward, redoubling their hollering, streaming down to the quayside from the teeming barrios above.

“Damn you, stop handing out money,” said the Teacher. “We’re going to be robbed.”

“Sorry.”

The teacher seized an older child by the scruff of his neck. “Juan Freitag Charters!” he cried impatiently. “Where? Donde?” He turned to Vernon. “How do you say boat in Spanish again?”

“Barca.”

“Barca! Donde barca?”

The boy, frightened, pointed a dirty finger toward a cinderblock building across from the pier.

The Teacher released him and hurried along the dusty quayside, Vernon following, pursued by children and dogs. The door to the office was open, and they went in. A man behind a desk got up, went to the door with a flyswatter, swatted the pursuing children away from the door, and slammed it. By the time he had resumed his seat, he was all smiles. He had a small, neat head and body and blond, Aryan features. But when he spoke, it was with a Spanish accent.

“Please accommodate yourselves.”

They took a couple of wicker chairs, next to an end table piled with copies of scuba magazines.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“We want to rent a couple of boats with guides,” the Teacher said.

The man smiled. “Scuba diving or tarpon fishing?”

“Neither. We want to go upriver.”

The smile seemed to gel on the man’s face. “Up the Patuca?”

“Yes.”

“I see. You are adventure travelers?”

The Teacher glanced at Vernon. “Yes.”

“How far do you wish to go?”

“We don’t know yet. A long way. Perhaps as far as the mountains.”

“You must take motorized dugout canoes, because the river is too shallow for a regular boat. Manuel!”

After a moment a young man came in from the back. He blinked in the light. He had fish blood and scales on his hands.

“This is Manuel. He and his cousin Ramón will guide you. They know the river well.”

“How long will it take to get upriver?”

“You can go as far as Pito Solo. One week. Beyond that is the Meambar Swamp.”

“And beyond that?”

The man waved his hand. “You do not want to cross the Meambar Swamp.”

“On the contrary,” said the Teacher, “it’s quite possible we do.”

The man inclined his head, as if humoring crazy Americans was all in a day’s work. “As you wish. Beyond the swamp are mountains and more mountains. You will need to take at least a month of supplies and food.”

A wasp buzzed in the whitewashed room, tapping on the cracked window, swinging around, and colliding with it again. With a lightning motion the man smacked it with the flyswatter. It fell to the ground, writhing and stinging itself in agony. A polished shoe was extended from under the desk and ended its life with a little crunch.

“Manuel! Get Ramón.” He turned to the Teacher. “We can outfit you here, señor, with everything you need. Tents, sleeping bags, mosquito netting, gas, food, GPS, hunting gear — everything. We can put it all on credit card.” He laid his hand reverently on a brand-new credit-card machine connected to a shiny jack in the wall. “You do not worry about anything because we take care of it all. We are a modern operation.” He smiled. “We give you adventure, but not too much adventure.”