Portuguese phrase book and began memorizing words. He read travel ads for adventures into the Pantanal—ecotourism, it was called in English. There were cars for rent. A money exchange booth, a bar with beer signs and whiskey bottles lined on a shelf. And near the front entrance was a slender, artificial Christmas tree with a solitary string of lights. He watched them blink to the tune of some Brazilian carol, and despite his efforts not to, Nate thought of his children.
It was the day before Christmas Eve. Not all memories were painful.
He boarded the plane with teeth clenched and spine stiffened, then slept for most of the hour it took to reach Corumbá. The small airport there was humid and packed with Bolivians waiting for a flight to Santa Cruz. They were laden with boxes and bags of Christmas gifts.
He found a cabdriver who spoke not a word of English, but it didn’t matter. Nate showed him the words “Palace Hotel” on his travel itinerary, and they sped away in an old, dirty Mazda.
Corumbá had ninety thousand people, according to yet another memo prepared by Josh’s staff. Situated on the Paraguay River, on the Bolivian border, it had long since declared itself tobe the capital of the Pantanal. River traffic and trade had built the city, and kept it going.
Through the heat and swelter of the back of the taxi, Corumbá appeared to be a lazy, pleasant little town. The streets were paved and wide and lined with trees. Merchants sat in the shade of their storefronts, waiting for customers and chatting with each other. Teenagers darted through traffic on scooters. Barefoot children ate ice cream at sidewalk tables.
As they approached the business district, cars bunched together and stopped in the heat. The driver mumbled something, but was not particularly disturbed. The same driver in New York or D.C. would’ve been near the point of violence.
But it was Brazil, and Brazil was in South America. The clocks ran slower. Nothing was urgent. Time was not as crucial. Take off your watch, Nate told himself. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed the heavy air.
The Palace Hotel was in the center of downtown, on a street that descended slightly toward the Paraguay River sitting majestically in the distance. He gave the cabbie a handful of reais, and waited patiently for his change. He thanked him in Portuguese, a feeble “ Obrigado. ” The cabbie smiled and said something he didn’t understand. The doors to the lobby were open, as were all doors facing the sidewalks of Corumbá.
The first words he heard upon entering were being yelled by someone from Texas. A band of roughnecks was in the process of checking out. They had been drinking and were in a festive mood, anxious to get home for the holidays. Nate took a seat near a television and waited for them to clear.
His room was on the eighth floor. For eighteen dollars a day he got a twelve-by-twelve with a narrow bed very close to the floor. If it had a mattress, it was quite thin. No box spring to speak of. There was a desk with a chair, a window unit of AC, a small refrigerator with bottled water, colas, and beer, and a cleanbathroom with soap and plenty of towels. Not bad, he told himself. This was an adventure. Not the Four Seasons, but certainly livable.
For half an hour, he tried to call Josh. But the language barrier stopped him. The clerk at the front desk knew enough English to find an outside operator, but from there the Portuguese took over. He tried his new cell phone, but the local service had not been activated.
Nate stretched his tired body the length of his flimsy little bed, and went to sleep.
________
VALDIR RUIZ was a short man with a tiny waist, light brown skin, a small slick head missing most of the hair except for a few strands he kept oiled and combed back. His eyes were black and bunched with wrinkles, the result of thirty years of heavy smoking. He was fifty-two, and at the age of seventeen he’d left home to spend a year with a
It was the day before Christmas Eve. Not all memories were painful.
He boarded the plane with teeth clenched and spine stiffened, then slept for most of the hour it took to reach Corumbá. The small airport there was humid and packed with Bolivians waiting for a flight to Santa Cruz. They were laden with boxes and bags of Christmas gifts.
He found a cabdriver who spoke not a word of English, but it didn’t matter. Nate showed him the words “Palace Hotel” on his travel itinerary, and they sped away in an old, dirty Mazda.
Corumbá had ninety thousand people, according to yet another memo prepared by Josh’s staff. Situated on the Paraguay River, on the Bolivian border, it had long since declared itself tobe the capital of the Pantanal. River traffic and trade had built the city, and kept it going.
Through the heat and swelter of the back of the taxi, Corumbá appeared to be a lazy, pleasant little town. The streets were paved and wide and lined with trees. Merchants sat in the shade of their storefronts, waiting for customers and chatting with each other. Teenagers darted through traffic on scooters. Barefoot children ate ice cream at sidewalk tables.
As they approached the business district, cars bunched together and stopped in the heat. The driver mumbled something, but was not particularly disturbed. The same driver in New York or D.C. would’ve been near the point of violence.
But it was Brazil, and Brazil was in South America. The clocks ran slower. Nothing was urgent. Time was not as crucial. Take off your watch, Nate told himself. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed the heavy air.
The Palace Hotel was in the center of downtown, on a street that descended slightly toward the Paraguay River sitting majestically in the distance. He gave the cabbie a handful of reais, and waited patiently for his change. He thanked him in Portuguese, a feeble “ Obrigado. ” The cabbie smiled and said something he didn’t understand. The doors to the lobby were open, as were all doors facing the sidewalks of Corumbá.
The first words he heard upon entering were being yelled by someone from Texas. A band of roughnecks was in the process of checking out. They had been drinking and were in a festive mood, anxious to get home for the holidays. Nate took a seat near a television and waited for them to clear.
His room was on the eighth floor. For eighteen dollars a day he got a twelve-by-twelve with a narrow bed very close to the floor. If it had a mattress, it was quite thin. No box spring to speak of. There was a desk with a chair, a window unit of AC, a small refrigerator with bottled water, colas, and beer, and a cleanbathroom with soap and plenty of towels. Not bad, he told himself. This was an adventure. Not the Four Seasons, but certainly livable.
For half an hour, he tried to call Josh. But the language barrier stopped him. The clerk at the front desk knew enough English to find an outside operator, but from there the Portuguese took over. He tried his new cell phone, but the local service had not been activated.
Nate stretched his tired body the length of his flimsy little bed, and went to sleep.
________
VALDIR RUIZ was a short man with a tiny waist, light brown skin, a small slick head missing most of the hair except for a few strands he kept oiled and combed back. His eyes were black and bunched with wrinkles, the result of thirty years of heavy smoking. He was fifty-two, and at the age of seventeen he’d left home to spend a year with a
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