REPORTAGE


by Paula Delgado-Kling



Homero was a survivor. One morning in February 1997, he rose after ten hours of sleep and saw that all the cots were already empty in the cambuche, a theaterlike platform raised above the jungle’s mushy ground to avoid floods and slithering animals. There were about sixteen cots, eight lined up on each side in dormitory style. Each had a wool blanket. Some were folded neatly, others had been quickly thrown on the ground. The rusty holes on the roof filtered mist and sun rays that dared peek through the trees.

      The night Homero was abducted, he’d been exhausted from the jeep drive, then from all the walking, and from the grief of being removed from his mother. At the cambuche he fell asleep right away. On his second night away from home, Homero woke every few hours, chilled by his perspiration.

      Now, at ground level, the camp was full of the day’s activities. Homero saw smoke from a cooking fire. He noticed about twenty people, all in camouflage. Alfredo, his abductor, was saying: The chulos are near the side road. The one that leads here. He rubbed his hands together as if he were cold.

      Did they see you? another man asked.

      Chulos are huge carnivorous eagles, like vultures. Why were the men talking about them? No, a woman said. Los hijuemadres are scared to wear their green uniforms around here, but I know who they are outside San Vicente. And they’re on motorcycles. Gradually Homero pieced it together—they were talking about policemen. The woman’s sun-scorched face was flustered. She bit down hard on a piece of wood, her molars gnawing. She wore a ponytail, and the wind blew around several rebellious wisps of her black hair. Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing well-defined biceps. Her boots were covered in fresh mud.

      Shall we send seven kids to deal with them? Alfredo asked her. ¿Qué piensas, Marta?

      That’s fine, Alfredo. But take the experienced ones. Those damn chulos can’t be buzzing around. She spat yellow phlegm onto the ground. How dare they think they can fly free here?

      Up in the cambuche, a girl approached Homero. You’re the new kid?

      Yes. I guess. Homero blinked uncontrollably. He was still tucked under his blanket. I am, Homero repeated more confidently. I am.

      Elsa, tell the new people to come, Commander Marta yelled, and the girl waved back.

      We have to go to her, she pointed, spitting from the cambuche onto the dirt ground. To Commander Marta. This is an escuela here.

      A school? Homero asked.

      Actually, more like a training camp. Here we learn lessons that will make the revolution triumph. To kill the rich is to fulfill revolution’s destiny. When Elsa said the word revolution, her brown eyes lit up, and she stuck out her bosom. She was short and had the air of a rooster.

      My name is Homero, he said shyly. He figured making allies would help keep him alive.

      No, it’s not. Here it’s something else, Elsa snapped.

      Homero’s voice was changing into a man’s, and he screeched, It is?






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