by the river. “They will ambush us one by one.”
Tanaki and his grandfather Nenderu nodded. “And they will expect us to come up the trail again. For now it is the only way to reach our destination,” Tanaki said.
“Then, for now, we’ll have to find another way,” said Holliday.
“Such as?” Peggy asked.
“We cross the river and find a way up the bluffs on the other side,” Holliday said. “There must be some crossing farther upriver.”
“Shuar,” said Nenderu, shaking his old head. He and Tanaki spoke briefly, and then Tanaki translated for Holliday.
“My grandfather said there are bands of Shuar on the other side. Very dangerous. They are headhunters and quick to anger. They have no lands of their own and steal from others to live.”
“I thought the Shuars were only in Ecuador and Peru,” said Rafi.
“This was true, and most have been ‘civilized’ by the white man, but some stay with the old ways, shrinking heads and eating marrow from cracked bones.”
“Wonderful.” Peggy grimaced. “Head-shrinking cannibals.”
“If I had a choice between Rogov and the cannibals, I’d take the cannibals every time,” Holliday replied. “Get the boats ready.”
• • •
Father Francisco Garibaldi arrived in Bartica and was pleased to see that the equipment he’d sent to Lord Grayle was ready and waiting for him, courtesy of White Horse Resources.
At the rudimentary Bartica Airstrip, he found a man named Cyril Gomes, who owned a very old Cessna 185 Skywagon floatplane and was more than happy to take him anywhere he wanted to go. Gomes was dark and mostly bald, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a face that looked as if it were made to be a mug shot. Garibaldi, dressed in full jungle gear, handed the Guyanese man a scrap of paper with the coordinates for Holliday’s last-known location.
“This place, she’s in Brazil, you know?” cautioned Gomes.
“I know.”
“Going to cost you some more, man.”
“Not a problem.”
“Maybe lots more.”
“Whatever you want. Just get me there as soon as you can,” said Garibaldi.
Gomes came up with a figure and Garibaldi paid him without hesitation, using the American dollars he’d converted at the hotel that morning. He stuffed his two duffel bags and the leather gun case through the cargo hatch, then climbed into the copilot’s seat while Gomes topped up the gas with a fifty-gallon drum and a hand pump.
Garibaldi noticed that despite the aircraft’s age, it had a fully updated suite of avionics, including a Garmin GPS digital mapping screen, autopilot, digital weather radar and every other bell and whistle you could think of. Gomes climbed up into the pilot’s seat, hit the starter and gave the engine a moment to spool up.
“You have a gun case, I saw.”
“What of it?” Garibaldi replied.
“Where you want to go is a preserve for the
indios
and the forest. Also it is illegal to bring weapons into Guyana.”
“Are you trying to get more money, Gomes? You really think that’s the smart thing to try on someone who knows how to get guns into this kaka hole of jungle you call a country? Move your stink pokie, auntie man, and move it now.”
Gomes stared at Garibaldi, utterly confused and equally afraid of this man who could suddenly speak Creole and who could look at him with such fury in his eyes. “Ah go di it, mon, right away, sure.” Without another word the Guyanese man hauled back on the throttle, and the little one-engine plane hurtled down the dirt strip. He slipped on his headphones and mumbled something incomprehensible into the microphone. Then at sixty-five miles per hour, Gomes hauled back on the yoke and the little plane jumped almost frantically into the air. As a pilot the nasty little man certainly left a lot to be desired.
Gomes brought up the spindly landing gear into their slots on the floats, then slipped the Cessna to the west until he found the broad reaches of the Essequibo River. He turned
Tanaki and his grandfather Nenderu nodded. “And they will expect us to come up the trail again. For now it is the only way to reach our destination,” Tanaki said.
“Then, for now, we’ll have to find another way,” said Holliday.
“Such as?” Peggy asked.
“We cross the river and find a way up the bluffs on the other side,” Holliday said. “There must be some crossing farther upriver.”
“Shuar,” said Nenderu, shaking his old head. He and Tanaki spoke briefly, and then Tanaki translated for Holliday.
“My grandfather said there are bands of Shuar on the other side. Very dangerous. They are headhunters and quick to anger. They have no lands of their own and steal from others to live.”
“I thought the Shuars were only in Ecuador and Peru,” said Rafi.
“This was true, and most have been ‘civilized’ by the white man, but some stay with the old ways, shrinking heads and eating marrow from cracked bones.”
“Wonderful.” Peggy grimaced. “Head-shrinking cannibals.”
“If I had a choice between Rogov and the cannibals, I’d take the cannibals every time,” Holliday replied. “Get the boats ready.”
• • •
Father Francisco Garibaldi arrived in Bartica and was pleased to see that the equipment he’d sent to Lord Grayle was ready and waiting for him, courtesy of White Horse Resources.
At the rudimentary Bartica Airstrip, he found a man named Cyril Gomes, who owned a very old Cessna 185 Skywagon floatplane and was more than happy to take him anywhere he wanted to go. Gomes was dark and mostly bald, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a face that looked as if it were made to be a mug shot. Garibaldi, dressed in full jungle gear, handed the Guyanese man a scrap of paper with the coordinates for Holliday’s last-known location.
“This place, she’s in Brazil, you know?” cautioned Gomes.
“I know.”
“Going to cost you some more, man.”
“Not a problem.”
“Maybe lots more.”
“Whatever you want. Just get me there as soon as you can,” said Garibaldi.
Gomes came up with a figure and Garibaldi paid him without hesitation, using the American dollars he’d converted at the hotel that morning. He stuffed his two duffel bags and the leather gun case through the cargo hatch, then climbed into the copilot’s seat while Gomes topped up the gas with a fifty-gallon drum and a hand pump.
Garibaldi noticed that despite the aircraft’s age, it had a fully updated suite of avionics, including a Garmin GPS digital mapping screen, autopilot, digital weather radar and every other bell and whistle you could think of. Gomes climbed up into the pilot’s seat, hit the starter and gave the engine a moment to spool up.
“You have a gun case, I saw.”
“What of it?” Garibaldi replied.
“Where you want to go is a preserve for the
indios
and the forest. Also it is illegal to bring weapons into Guyana.”
“Are you trying to get more money, Gomes? You really think that’s the smart thing to try on someone who knows how to get guns into this kaka hole of jungle you call a country? Move your stink pokie, auntie man, and move it now.”
Gomes stared at Garibaldi, utterly confused and equally afraid of this man who could suddenly speak Creole and who could look at him with such fury in his eyes. “Ah go di it, mon, right away, sure.” Without another word the Guyanese man hauled back on the throttle, and the little one-engine plane hurtled down the dirt strip. He slipped on his headphones and mumbled something incomprehensible into the microphone. Then at sixty-five miles per hour, Gomes hauled back on the yoke and the little plane jumped almost frantically into the air. As a pilot the nasty little man certainly left a lot to be desired.
Gomes brought up the spindly landing gear into their slots on the floats, then slipped the Cessna to the west until he found the broad reaches of the Essequibo River. He turned
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