Ian Clark, a young Englishman, passed by another exemplary mochilero in Peru. He was one of the penny-pinching backpackers abounding in South America. Although his services to Masae Norfolk were well remunerated and he could travel in lux, he was he was restrained by an order: to find the Swedish professors Søren and Jesper Håkansson and follow them.
The blond hair and blue eyes Brit wore an ensemble of worn-out Dunhill and Barbour outfits with a touch of Patagonia accessories to blend in with the hipster tribe as he traveled to the jungle, doing what other backpackers his age did: drinking beers with other travelers, sharing stories and tips. He often, pretending to be under the effect of one too many pints, told of his globetrotting feats, surviving rigorously on his meager budget. Ten American dollars a day granted him the pleasure of getting his boots dirty, eating from street vendors or markets and sleeping in roach-infested hotels. But what he failed to mention was that he did it all for the sake of appearances.
He had been a fly on the wall, a gringo sitting on main squares and parks, people-watching, hiking, passing the time at tourist information offices, museums, ruins. Always engaged in the art of traveling like any other die-hard adventurer but asking in each place if a couple of prominent professors happened to be there. And finally, a traveler shared with Ian about his encounter with a couple of professors at a museum in Chachapoyas, the capital of the region of Amazonas. Immediately after the tip, he was sitting with his back crunched and his legs rolled in a small van full of people, hoping to meet the Swedish brothers.
After a few hours driving between cypress covered mountains and the Utcubamba River, he arrived at Leymebamba, a tranquil and pleasant town built in a valley. He climbed off the minivan in front of the main square.
“Yuya Yacu! Yuya Yacu!” People were running up the street yelling.
Although Ian spoke Spanish, he didn’t understand what people were screaming as they ran up a street. So, he followed. With his compact backpack still on his shoulders, he moved up the hilly narrow streets.
“¿Qué es éso? ¿Qué dice la gente?” Ian asked a boy going up, grinning, holding a self-made slingshot with one hand and a few pebbles with the other. “What are people saying?”
“Es un río que sale de abajo, de la tierra,” the boy answered, running to the corner of the street where, due to an abrupt decline, the waters turned and went downhill, street after street to the Atuen river at the outskirts of the town.
“They are saying Yuya Yacu,” said another foreigner in English with a heavy German accent. He was standing by the corner taking pictures. “It means sneaky water in the Quechua language. You see, this town is built above an underground river that every now and then springs out of that house at the end of the road,” said the foreigner, nodding up to the house at the end while stretching to retrieve a wicker basket from the wild waters washing down everything on its path. “People never know when it will happen; as you can see, it caught them by surprise. It’s quite dangerous!”
Ian joined forces with the German and the people around, fishing for everything that fell in the freezing raging water, from small children to dogs wandering the streets.
“Buenas, estoy buscando a Joaquín.” Ian said to a lady hurrying past the garden. After the excitement of his arrival, Ian spent the day looking for information in the museum. There he was invited to a local celebration with the promise that he would meet someone who knew the professors.
“Aurita le digo. I’ll tell him right now, but you can come in! ” said the lady, eyeing Ian with curiosity while shaking the soil from the lettuce she had just plugged out from the garden and was taking it to the kitchen.
Ian entered the house and was directed to the back patio where the celebration was taking place. There was a good size crowd, drinking, laughing and getting ready to eat. Loud Andes music coming from the speakers, disoriented him a little.
“Gringuito, ven acá!” Joaquín yelled, standing by a peach tree.
Ian approached him looking around at the feast. He stretched his hand to shake Joaquín’s.
“Estás buscando a los Suecos? Are you looking for the Swedish professors? What for?” asked Joaquín, plucking a ripe peach from a branch above his head.
“Well, I’m interested in their studies of ancient cultures and I’d like to ask them if I could work for them while I’m here. Ian answered, leaning on a papaya tree. “I need money for the rest of my trip,”
“The professors already have a crew, but maybe they need extra hands when the excavations resume.”
“Have they begun excavating?” Ian inquired nonchalantly. It was definitely his lucky day, after all those days playing cat and mouse with the Swedes, following their slippery trail without anything to report to his employer.
“They did. But had to stop. Today is an exception, but it’s been raining a lot.”
Masae was right to have them followed, Ian thought. “So, when will the excavations resume?” Ian asked, looking at the people dancing a huayno.
A girl came with a couple of glasses of chicha for both of them. “Thank you!” Ian answered. Maybe the Chicha, with the power of fermentation and alcohol, would loosen Joaquín’s tongue further.
“When the rain stops, I might take you to them. But it looks like it could take weeks until they can start working again.” Joaquín gulped down his chicha. The music and conversations were loud enough that no one would hear them in that corner of the garden.
“Have they uncovered something?” Ian pressed, taking a careful swig from his glass. The fermented corn drink tested sweet on his tongue, but its effect on him was unknown.
“Nothing. There is a huge construction covered by vegetation. We were clearing the area, but had to stop because of the storms. The weather has been strange due to the deforestation in the jungle. That’s what we hear on the news.” He cleared his throat and spit to his side. “Lots of folks are coming from other parts to this place. Some claim land out of poverty and build their little house. Others with money build fancy lodging places to make more money. Both groups keep cutting the trees,” Joaquín said, waving back to his wife who was by the food tables, calling him to join the party. “Well, the professors are still there with the group of foreigners, waiting for the rain to pass.”
“I really would like to be part of the exploration and excavation. I need that kind of work. Could I go with you when you are ready?” Ian eyed Joaquín, taking another swig.
Joaquín apprised him. “All right Gringuito, when the rain stops, we can head that way.”
After a little more time for appearances, Ian stayed in the party drinking and eating with the locals. Then he excused himself to his lodging place nearby, where he sent the good news in a secure satellite message to his employer.
Norfolk Castle, England – August 30th 2007
“And what are you hoping to get in exchange?” Masae asked her visitor in perfect Peruvian accented Spanish. She was behind her desk in her Pharma-NorTech’s office in London. She stared at her visitor, her eyes high and expressionless.
“It’s a personal quest which will render a personal satisfaction. But if you find the information I’m providing of good use, we could extend this to an ongoing partnership,” answered the visitor, who was comfortably seated, her legs crossed and returning Masae’s stare with her head high.
Masae nodded, viewing an incoming message from Ian flashing on her computer screen. It seemed to be a day of revelations, she thought.
“Well, I suppose we don’t have anything else to discuss. We’ll be in touch.” Masae dismissed the guest, directing her gaze to the door.
Once the door was closed, Masae read the message and smiled. The Håkansson brothers were found. Although the excavation had to stop due to the torrential downpour in the region, eventually work would resume and Ian would be there.
Masae was satisfied. She knew Shinji didn’t die chasing a fantasy. She studied the images attached to the message. There were towns, narrow roads hugging the mountains, and the copious green of the Cloud Forest. A series of images were unleashed in her mind: the fight two years ago, the foot of the mountain, bloody and carpeted with bodies, the thick of the forest and the steady hand firing the gun, and Shinji falling dead. She shook her head. Her smile turned into a frown as she remembered his body and Mila’s taken away in the air. Masae scrolled down the images and saw the path through which one of her men took her in a motorcycle back to her jet.
She wrote back to Ian: I want you to play nice until the reinforcement arrives. You’ll stick around them like a mosquito they can’t get rid of! I’ll be sending Mila to stimulate their communication with us.