A Cut Above by Ginny Aiken

morning, a couple of hours later than I’d initially planned, and after I’ve bought a new purse, posed for a passport photo, checked in with the police, and fielded three calls from Aunt Weeby and two from Miss Mona, Mr. Cruz comes by in a beefy-looking SUV. Before we take off, however, he has me pose in front of the vehicle, and I smile, thinking his a nice gesture for a tourist.
    When I thank him, he blushes under his dark tan. “So sorry, Miss Andrea. The photo is for identification purposes. Our guerilla problems are better than they’ve been at times, but kidnapping is still a very real occurrence in Colombia.”
    Great. He had to go and tell me. I try to put the whole scary possibility out of my mind as we head out toward Mr. Cruz’s camp in the Muzo emerald-producing region.
    When we reach the outskirts of the capital, the vendor-turned-travel guide warns me we might be stopped at various checkpoints, the government’s effort to cut down on criminal activity on the roads in and out of the mining regions.
    I snort. “I’m an expert at checkpoints.” He looks surprised. I go on. “Colombian ones can’t be any worse than Burmese or Kashmiri ones.”
    Before long, I doze off—I didn’t sleep well even after all the checking and rechecking of doors I did. When I wake up again, I notice the drizzle that’s started up as we’ve climbed higher into the Andes Mountains.
    “How far is the Muzo region from Bogotá?” I ask.
    “Oh, about seven or eight hours’ drive.”
    My groan escapes me before I can shut it off.
    Mr. Cruz laughs.
    We climb up from the capital to the Andean range. According to Mr. Cruz, we’ll go up to about twelve thousand feet above sea level. We’ve now reached a barren landscape, covered by a blanket of clouds that shrouds the more luxuriant, green valleys below us. The damp cold penetrates the car, and I fight constant shivers.
    The stillness around us feels quietly mysterious.
    Neither the long drive nor the silence outside inspires conversation, so we bump along the rough road in a deep silence. Finally, as dusk approaches, we begin to descend into the jungle-covered Muzo region. On the peaks, the clouds had surrounded us with a whitish paleness. Now, I get a sense of sinking into the depths of darkness, the unknown. When I realize what a dangerous trip my imagination is taking, I give myself a mental shake.
    Get a grip. You’re about to see emeralds like few ever see. But, hey. It’s really weird out here in the wilds of Colombia. The last five or six miles of our approach to the mining camp at Muzo prove impossibly steep, and our SUV creeps along through thick mist, the leftovers of the earlier drizzle.
    Then I see ahead of us three buildings of rough, cement block construction with Tin-Man hat roofs. Since Mr. Cruz aims right for them, I can safely assume they’re his camp. As he slows down the SUV, a handful of camp workers come out from different directions to greet us. They chatter with Mr. Cruz, then lead us to the medium-sized structure, which turns out to be the kitchen. As soon as I step inside, I’m offered a cup of amazing, fragrant coffee and a pair of arepas with butter.
    Yum!
    I take my snack to a table next to a dingy window, and as I sip, I study the landscape outside.
    Perched on a steep slope, the rest of the camp seems carved right out of the hillside. Underlining the buildings, a road disappears up toward the peak and into more clouds. From where I’m sitting, the whole mountain appears cobbled out of little more than jagged rock covered with ragged patches of vegetation, deep, rich green decorations for the stark, black outcroppings. According to what Mr. Cruz told me on the road, because of the misty cloud-and-steam cover, I won’t be able to see down to the actual mines until the fog clears, hopefully when the sun burns it all away in the morning.
    Sitting here, sipping hot coffee, less than a frog’s hop away from the legendary Muzo mines, the source