Twelve Mile Limit

27

The men of Remate de Males were hunting, harpooning, and butchering freshwater dolphins.

In a little circle created by bamboo huts, five Amazonian dolphins had been hung on a crossbeam wedged between two trees. Even after death, the animals were pink in color, bright as flamingos. They were hanging nose-down, tied by their tails. Gravity had engorged their heads with blood, so their small eyes bulged.

As children and women stood watching from the shade, three young men in ragged shorts took turns with a long, curved knife, gutting the animals and carrying the viscera off in buckets. They worked within a glittering ballroom of flies.

To the old man, I said, “This is a tragedy.”

Misunderstanding my meaning, the old man answered, “Yes. It is not a good thing. Only the man on the hill has ice. The flesh of these botos will soon rot, yet the women stand here, doing nothing! They should be constructing bamboo flats for salting. And a good fire for smoking the meat. But these young women, their brains have gone soft. They think only of owning a television set and living in the city.”

Keesha glared at him but said nothing.

I asked permission of the three hunters before walking to the animals to get a closer look.

Supposedly, of the five freshwater species of dolphins in the world, the pink Amazon River dolphin, Inia geoffrensis, is the most intelligent. I say “supposedly” because the bottle-nosed dolphin has been so consistently imbued with compassionate, human qualities-even by biologists who should know better-that, these days, I doubt much of what I read about them.

But research on these rare, freshwater dolphins predated an unfortunate transition, for some, from science to wistful mysticism. Even early researchers described them as sensitive, intuitive mammals with a measurable brain capacity 40 percent larger than that of humans. At that time, they were considered to be one of the least threatened species of dolphins, though even then their numbers were small.

If desperate men were now hunting them for food, I doubted if the future of the species was still as certain.

I remembered reading that, because Amazon River dolphins had no known natural predators, they didn’t need to live in large groups, or pods, for protection. As a result, they were solitary swimmers, though occasionally seen in small family groups of five or six.

These village hunters had managed to kill three females, a young male, and a very large, mature male that looked to be just over nine feet long and had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. There was no mistaking the sex. Death had freed the muscles that held their genitalia within their abdomens.

I touched my finger to the harpoon hole in back of the large male, then moved around the animal, noting the physiological differences between this freshwater animal and the dolphin I saw so often back on Sanibel Island.

He had a very long beak that was lined with tiny hairs, and small, almost piggish eyes-in water so murky, sight would not be so important. He had disproportionately large flippers, and a hump on his back instead of a fin. The pink color, I suspected, had something to do with the iron oxide color of the river.

To the hunters, I said, “Did you take them near here?”

“Yes! Very close. Only a few kilometers away.”

“I’ve heard they are very intelligent. I’m surprised they let you get close enough to harpoon them.”

One of the men stepped forward, very proud of himself. “Sir, you are correct in saying that they are the smartest of fish. But they are not so smart as man. I discovered a way!

“We found one of the botos in a narrow river, and used a net so that she could not escape. Are you familiar with the strange noise these animals make when they are hurt? We kept her wrapped in the net while she made these sounds. Soon, other botos appeared. Perhaps to rescue this female. It was easy, then, to use our harpoons.” Laughing, he added, “Though it was not so easy to stay in our boats as they pulled us all over the river!”

Everyone in the circle of huts thought that was hilarious.

I opened the belly of one of the females, using my hands to part the stomach panels as if opening a thin curtain. She had net burns on her delicate skin-this was the female who’d called for help.

They’d emptied everything out of her, but for one small oversight. There was a partially developed pup in her womb. I left the dead infant where it was, then knelt, and searched through the viscera. “Was there anything in their bellies?”

“One small catfish, nothing else. They were very hungry.” The young hunter laughed and added, “Like our families. But not now. Tonight, we will have a feast!”

Keesha told me, “Do you believe me now? This is an evil place.”

We were walking through the village, up a mud road. Among the huts, naked children played in banana thickets while scrawny dogs lay in pools of sunlight, cleaning themselves. We’d been told that a man who lived on the outskirts of the village was very rich and might have a cell phone we could use, so we were searching for him.

To Keesha, I said, “I don’t know about evil, but it certainly isn’t very attractive.”

“No!” she said. “Evil! The botos, the pink ladies-they are sacred animals. How can you have lived and not know about them? At night, they grow hair and walk away from the Tefe River. They have magical powers-they’re witches. They will punish this village. They’ll destroy it. We must leave very soon!”

She was very agitated. Killing human beings didn’t seem to bother her nearly so much. I told her, “I don’t see much worth destroying. But, yeah, I’m with you. The sooner we get away from here, the better.”

The wealthiest man in the village was a middle-aged Irishman with blood-bleary eyes who wore Birkenstock sandals, hiking shorts, a native shirt made of colorful patches, and a black beret over his long gray hair, which he wore tied in a ponytail.

Unlike the other shacks in the village, his house was made of unpainted concrete block and shingle, with a muddy yard protected by an out-of-place white picket fence. Parked out front, half in the road, was a new Toyota 4-Lux, a shortbed pickup truck papered with bumper stickers: Vegetarians Are Delicious!

To Become Master, Pose as a Servant.

Free Erin!

Life Is a Sexually Transmitted Disease.

He didn’t open the door immediately when I knocked. There was a blanket covering the house’s main window. The blanket moved, and I saw a nose press against the glass. A few moments later, the door cracked opened an inch or two.

The Irish accent was unmistakable, even though he spoke in Spanish: “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Paranoia isn’t paranoia if someone is really after you. This guy’s voice had the sound of genuine fear.

I replied in English, “I need to use a phone. It’s very important. I’ll pay you, no problem.”

The door cracked slightly wider, and I could see a wedge of his red Irish skin, and one dark eye. “Tell me who you are, what you’re doing here. There’re no gringos in this village. They don’t belong.”

I almost asked, Then what are you doing here?

Instead, I took refuge in an old, familiar lie. I explained to him that I was a marine biologist, here to do research on the rare Amazonian dolphin but that my boat had been stolen. Because I had friends in the village of Remanso, waiting on me, I had to contact them immediately.

I added, “If you drive me there, I’ll pay you whatever you want. A couple hundred dollars? Three hundred? In American money. It’s that important. Or let me use your phone. Please.”

He looked at me, then looked at the heavy, plastic briefcase. “What’a you got in there?”

“Cameras, research equipment. A waterproof case is the only way to protect the stuff.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Wait here. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

When he closed the door, I heard him lock it behind him.

I looked at Keesha. “You said there was an evil man in this village. Is that him?”

“No. He’s a drunk. Could you not smell him? The evil man lives on top of the mountain. Up there.”

I followed her gaze to the west. High above us, several miles away, atop the rain-scarred hillside, was what looked to be a clustering of big houses.

“He lives there,” she said. “I have heard stories that people go into that house and never return. He’s the one my people call the Bad Gift. He’s an American-like you.”

The Irishman came out carrying a beat-up Nokia cell telephone. “It’s all charged up, but you can’t get a signal here,” he said. “I’ll have to drive you to the top of the hill. Until we got all that goddamn jungle cut down, you couldn’t even get a signal up there.” He paused. “It’s gonna cost you a hundred bucks, Yank. In advance.”

As I paid him, Keesha said to me, “He’s not going to take us to the big house on the hill? We must not let him take us there.”

I looked at the Irishman, to see if he understood the question. He replied, “Take you to Tyner’s place? You don’t go looking for Curtis Tyner. He comes looking for you.”

“He’s an American?” I asked.

The Irishman replied, “He used to be. I’m not sure if he even knows anymore. Or cares.”

When we were loaded in the pickup truck, Keesha between us, the Irishman lighted a cigarette, and told us his name was Niall, no surname offered. It reinforced the impression that he was afraid of something, on the run.

“How long have you lived here, Niall?”

“Too fucking long. This place is hell when it comes to civilized things, things we take for granted back in the world. Women, though. ..” He swung his chin toward Keesha. “You can have all the girls you want, and as young as you want.” As if she were not there, he added, “And a lot more comely than this one. She looks a little used up. The jungle girls. They don’t flower for long. Give me another ten bucks, I’ll find you two girls a hell of a lot prettier than this one.”

We drove the rest of the way up the mountainside in silence, the back of the truck fishtailing on the slick orange clay. Once, the Irishman came very close to losing control completely, and we nearly slid over an embankment that would have dropped us several hundred feet into a gully.

The girl had reached for me involuntarily, her small hands tight on my arm, yet the stoic expression on her face did not change. Even when she said, “It is not so interesting as I thought it might be.”

“What’s that?” I asked her.

“Riding in an automobile. I thought it would be as interesting as paddling my obada. But it is not. It gives my stomach a sick feeling. Do people ever recover from this sickness?”

Thus I knew it was her first time in a car.

Several hundred feet above the village, near a ditch already overgrown with scrub bush and weeds, the Irishman braked to a stop. He handed the phone to me, and said, “Step out of the truck, you may have to move around a wee bit. But you should get a signal.”

I walked away from the truck, taking a slip of paper from my billfold on which I’d written Harrington’s number and a couple of others. The paper was sticky wet from being dumped in the river, though still readable.

But I never got a chance to finish dialing. As I straightened my glasses and began touching buttons on the phone, a half-dozen Latin-looking men, heavily armed and dressed in camo, stepped out of the bushes.

I stood there motionless, with no way to respond. I’d taken off my holster prior to entering the village, and I’d left the briefcase in the truck.

In Spanish, one of the guerrillas yelled, “If you move or try to run, we will kill you both!”

To my left, I heard the door of the Toyota slam shut, and I looked to see the Irishman drag Keesha out onto the ground as, in the far distance, a green Humvee sped toward us, kicking up a rooster tail of mud.

As I raised my hands above my head, I said to Niall, “You have me, there’s no reason to hurt her.”

In reply, the Irishman said to the guerrillas, “Search him while I see what the bastard’s got in this case. Sergeant Tyner is on his way.”