generation.”
“How much contact do they have with the outside world?” Nate asked.
“Very little. Their culture hasn’t changed in a thousand years. They trade some with the riverboats, but they have no desire to change.”
“Do we know where the missionaries are?”
“It’s difficult to say. I talked with the Minister of Health for the state of Mato Grosso do Sul. I know him personally, and his office has a general idea of where the missionaries are working. I also spoke with a representative from FUNAI—it’s our Bureau of Indian Affairs.” Valdir pointed to two of the X’s. “These are Guató. There are probably missionaries around here.”
“Do you know their names?” Nate asked, but it was a throwaway question. According to a memo from Josh, Valdir had notbeen given the name of Rachel Lane. He had been told that the woman worked for World Tribes, but that was it.
Valdir smiled and shook his head. “That would be too easy. You must understand that there are at least twenty different American and Canadian organizations with missionaries in Brazil. It’s easy to get into our country, and it’s easy to move around. Especially in the undeveloped areas. No one really cares who’s out there and what they’re doing. We figure if they’re missionaries, then they are good people.”
Nate pointed at Corumbá, then to the nearest red X. “How long does it take to get from here to there?”
“Depends. By plane, about an hour. By boat, from three to five days.”
“Then where’s my plane?”
“It’s not that easy,” Valdir said, reaching for another map. He unrolled it and pressed it on top of the first one. “This is a topographical map of the Pantanal. These are the fazendas. ”
“The what?”
“ Fazendas. Large farms.”
“I thought it was all swamp.”
“No. Many areas are elevated just enough to raise cattle. The fazendas were built two hundred years ago, and are still worked by the pantaneiros. Only a few of the fazendas are accessible by boat, so they use small airplanes. The airstrips are marked in blue.”
Nate noticed that there were very few airstrips near the Indian settlements.
Valdir continued, “Even if you flew into the area, you would then have to use a boat to get to the Indians.”
“How are the airstrips?”
“They’re all grass. Sometimes they cut the grass, sometimes they don’t. The biggest problem is cows.”
“Cows?”
“Yes, cows like grass. Sometimes it’s hard to land because thecows are eating the runway.” Valdir said this with no effort at humor.
“Can’t they move the cows?”
“Yes, if they know you’re coming. But there are no phones.”
“No phones in the fazendas ?”
“None. They are very isolated.”
“So I couldn’t fly into the Pantanal, then rent a boat to find the Indians?”
“No. The boats are here in Corumbá. As are the guides.”
Nate stared at the map, especially the Paraguay River as it wound and looped its way northward in the direction of the Indian settlements. Somewhere along the river, hopefully in proximity to it, in the midst of this vast wetlands, was a simple servant of God, living each day in peace and tranquillity, thinking little of the future, quietly ministering to her flock.
And he had to find her.
“I’d like to at least fly over the area,” Nate said.
Valdir rerolled the last map. “I can arrange an airplane and a pilot.”
“What about a boat?”
“I’m working on that. This is the flood season, and most of the boats are in use. The rivers are up. There’s more river traffic this time of the year.”
How nice of Troy to kill himself during the flood season. According to the firm’s research, the rains came in November and lasted until February, and all of the lowest areas and many of the fazendas were underwater.
“I must warn you, though,” Valdir said, lighting another cigarette as he refolded the first map, “air travel is not without risk. The planes are small, and if
“How much contact do they have with the outside world?” Nate asked.
“Very little. Their culture hasn’t changed in a thousand years. They trade some with the riverboats, but they have no desire to change.”
“Do we know where the missionaries are?”
“It’s difficult to say. I talked with the Minister of Health for the state of Mato Grosso do Sul. I know him personally, and his office has a general idea of where the missionaries are working. I also spoke with a representative from FUNAI—it’s our Bureau of Indian Affairs.” Valdir pointed to two of the X’s. “These are Guató. There are probably missionaries around here.”
“Do you know their names?” Nate asked, but it was a throwaway question. According to a memo from Josh, Valdir had notbeen given the name of Rachel Lane. He had been told that the woman worked for World Tribes, but that was it.
Valdir smiled and shook his head. “That would be too easy. You must understand that there are at least twenty different American and Canadian organizations with missionaries in Brazil. It’s easy to get into our country, and it’s easy to move around. Especially in the undeveloped areas. No one really cares who’s out there and what they’re doing. We figure if they’re missionaries, then they are good people.”
Nate pointed at Corumbá, then to the nearest red X. “How long does it take to get from here to there?”
“Depends. By plane, about an hour. By boat, from three to five days.”
“Then where’s my plane?”
“It’s not that easy,” Valdir said, reaching for another map. He unrolled it and pressed it on top of the first one. “This is a topographical map of the Pantanal. These are the fazendas. ”
“The what?”
“ Fazendas. Large farms.”
“I thought it was all swamp.”
“No. Many areas are elevated just enough to raise cattle. The fazendas were built two hundred years ago, and are still worked by the pantaneiros. Only a few of the fazendas are accessible by boat, so they use small airplanes. The airstrips are marked in blue.”
Nate noticed that there were very few airstrips near the Indian settlements.
Valdir continued, “Even if you flew into the area, you would then have to use a boat to get to the Indians.”
“How are the airstrips?”
“They’re all grass. Sometimes they cut the grass, sometimes they don’t. The biggest problem is cows.”
“Cows?”
“Yes, cows like grass. Sometimes it’s hard to land because thecows are eating the runway.” Valdir said this with no effort at humor.
“Can’t they move the cows?”
“Yes, if they know you’re coming. But there are no phones.”
“No phones in the fazendas ?”
“None. They are very isolated.”
“So I couldn’t fly into the Pantanal, then rent a boat to find the Indians?”
“No. The boats are here in Corumbá. As are the guides.”
Nate stared at the map, especially the Paraguay River as it wound and looped its way northward in the direction of the Indian settlements. Somewhere along the river, hopefully in proximity to it, in the midst of this vast wetlands, was a simple servant of God, living each day in peace and tranquillity, thinking little of the future, quietly ministering to her flock.
And he had to find her.
“I’d like to at least fly over the area,” Nate said.
Valdir rerolled the last map. “I can arrange an airplane and a pilot.”
“What about a boat?”
“I’m working on that. This is the flood season, and most of the boats are in use. The rivers are up. There’s more river traffic this time of the year.”
How nice of Troy to kill himself during the flood season. According to the firm’s research, the rains came in November and lasted until February, and all of the lowest areas and many of the fazendas were underwater.
“I must warn you, though,” Valdir said, lighting another cigarette as he refolded the first map, “air travel is not without risk. The planes are small, and if
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