CHAPTER THIRTEEN: REFUGEE CAMP

We had to cross the Rio San Pedro next, making our way between two villages, El Ceibo in Mexico and Progresso in Guatemala. The upper region of the Peten, our destination, was only a few days trek from here. Farther east of us was the unexcavated Mayan ruin of Yaxha, near the village of Naranjo. Still concerned about military patrols, Cristobal kept us off the beaten track.

The Rio San Pedro appeared to flow as a void in the jungle wilderness. Traversing the length of the Peten region of Guatemala, this river is a highway connecting human life that struggles to survive in the middle of nowhere. Most likely during the height of the Maya civilization, this river was a vibrant trade route for commerce and possibly warring tribes.

We drew in our horses and dismounted arriving at the river’s edge. The brilliant sunshine of the late morning beamed down upon the lazy river’s current. Standing by its swollen banks I was impressed by the remarkable peaceful phenomenon of its presence. Large puffy clouds dotted the horizon, a warning of more rain to come by afternoon. I then heard the faint sound of a low continuous roar down river.

“What’s that?” I asked Cristobal.

He said there were some rapids that we had to avoid and knew of a place that was shallow enough to cross farther up river. In single file, as if in certitude to Cristobal, we walked the distance in the ambience of the blue sky and river, enmeshed with lush green foliage. It was not far before we arrived at a small outcropping of cleared land.

In methodical silence we secured our gear to the saddles, making sure to tightly wrap the camera, journals, film and pistols in our ponchos. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a confidential glance between Cristobal and Hornsby. All feelings of the fierce inhumanity of life had disappeared. It all seemed to be turning out for the good. Cassarina looked infinitely calm; more stately and mature than I had ever seen her. There was no doubt she had reconciled the anguish in her heart. I was relieved.

“Just cross the river and we’ll almost be there.” I imagined what we would see as we passed through the Laguna del Tigre region dotted by lush lakes, while working our way closer to Yaxkin and possibly the location of the Soul Chamber. The prospect had given me a twinge of renewed excitement.

By the time we were set to swim the horses across the river, the wind had stirred into a stiff breeze, blowing against the river’s current. Ripples upon the river’s surface were clearly visible making the velocity of the water’s flow deceptive. The clouds were building into a dark grayish wall of thunderheads, their whitish pink anvil heads soaring into the heavens in the eastern horizon.

“Best get across and make shelter,” Hornsby said while surveying the approaching storm.

The time had come to move quickly, once again. We striped down to our underwear, packing our clothes to keep them dry. Hornsby took the lead, with Cassarina close behind. The horses mildly protested at first, but Cristobal whipped them with a switch.

Plunging into the chilly waters of the river, each of us led our horse with the reins gripped between our teeth. There was a short distance between each of us at first, but the current and panicky horses widen the gaps. As I breast stroked through the muddy water, I kept my eyes fixed on a spot across the river so as to navigate my position relative to the river’s flow. From the corner of my eye, I could see Hornsby drifting downriver as he neared the middle, but still making his way with brisk strong breaststrokes. Cristobal was behind me, calling out.

“Nadar contra corriente.”

Cassarina and her horse we caught in the swirling current as well. I was about to try and swim in her direction, hoping we’d make it across before coming to the rapids when I saw a partially submerged tree trunk coming around the river’s bend. It was massive with barren branches protruding out in a frightening posture.

The log’s path was headed straight for us. If we continued to swim against the current, the floating log would drift into the horses and us. Hornsby appeared to be out of danger, but Cassarina and I were in harms way. Cristobal shouted something at us, but my own splashing from trying to find a means of escape drowned him out.

The horses sensed the danger and started to pull at their reins dragging Cassarina under water. In a few moments, Cassarina surfaced, floundering against the horse’s fear and her fight to keep from drowning. Taking stock of the situation, Cassarina let go of the reins. The struggling horse swam away from her, headed directly for the rapids. She furiously swam to the other side of the river. Hornsby’s horse panicked pulling him back toward the middle of the river, as well. I didn’t fair any better.

Between gasps of air and choking on muddy river water, my horse yanked hard, twisting me around. I grip the reins in one hand, in hopes of forcing the beast to follow me, but instead he overpowered me, plunging me dangerously deeper beneath the river’s surface. It became a matter of tug-of-war, with me hopelessly loosing the battle as my strength gave out. With my lungs ready to burst, I surrendered the reins and swam toward the river’s surface, desperate for air.

Just when I resurfaced to catch my breath, I was slammed hard from the submerged log. Knocked unconscious, I don’t recall how I was saved, but later, once I was brought ashore and revived, Hornsby told me that Cristobal and him let their horses go, so they could swim to me. A bit shaken, I rested soon enough.

“You got a nasty bump on the head, maybe a slight concussion,” Cassarina offered in her expert medical opinion. “Are you well enough to move?”

“We can leave you here, Jules, and come back for you,” Hornsby said, anxious to go find the horses and our gear.

I scanned the sky to see that there was no time to waste as the tropical storm was quickly moving our way. The first thing that came to mind was that I had survived four near misses of death. There was the rock ledge incident, the massacre at the mission, my bout with malaria and now a near drowning. Each time I survived the odds, including the others, though they didn’t come as close to death.

“I’m fine,” I stammered, not convincing Cassarina.

My head was swimming, and my eyes couldn’t focus, but I determined that once I got up and moved around I’d get my bearings back.

We sought our gear and the horses down river trampling through the shoreline brush. The horses were nowhere to be seen, either having drowned in the ragging white water or they had made it to safety running off. The loss was disheartening.

Fortunately, we found Hornsby and Cassarina’s backpacks washed up along the river’s edge about a kilometer downriver. My backpack, other than my clothes and mess kit, contained the camera, film and pistol, lost forever – including Father Hernandez’s gift, The Anahuac Mythology. Most importantly was the damaging evidence of the death squad massacre at the mission and our only weapon for defense, Hornsby’s revolver.

Cassarina’s backpack had the journals of drawings from the cryptic vault and medical kit. They were soaked through. Hornsby carried the navigational equipment, compass and maps, none of which suffered any damage. But over all we were in desperate straights again. Without the horses, our journey would take more time. In resignation and despair, Cristobal said we would go to Progresso to get provisions and equipment.

I keenly eyed Cassarina to see if our misfortune would shake her foundation. But she didn’t complain. She took it in stride. I, on the other hand, felt more despondent, noticing that Hornsby’s enthusiasm dimmed as he shook his head in despairing annoyance.

Low dark clouds blocked out the sun drenched blue sky. Streaks of lightning and rumbling thunder came from the distant horizon. Thick drops of rain started to fall. The tropical deluge had started again. The four of us collected up our gear and started to hike along a jungle path headed northeast.

The unknowns of the jungle are forever consuming your thoughts. You eventually come to a place of surrender or you’ll go mad. You can’t win back the toiling efforts, those climatic moments of accomplishment, as the next event, even more monstrous, can deny you of its pleasure. Anyone of us had to live with the other question that kept us guessing. As we marched single file in the tropical downpour, Hornsby declared in frustration that either he will win back his respect or be done with it forever.

The whole passionate ordeal of the expedition danced before him, that which initiated him to be an anthropologist in an unappeasable manner. The man had sought it out in a wilderness of indigenous tombs, saying farewell to the comforts of an English suburb. He found himself victorious enough times against the odds by producing fortunes from entering the depths of human antiquity. Enough times that he was one of them in flesh and blood, garnished with indigenous mythology.

In reflection to his anthropological distinction, his state of mind had out shone him. The whole ordeal this time seemed to beguile him into its long intensities of proving his convictions as a solitary man. Nobody on the other side of the globe had any interest or anything to say to him.

He was a mere insect, an illness to their consciousness. How could it be that when we have such discoveries, the rock art, the cryptic vault and my dream, our sublime feelings are meet with such ugly things of less goodness and more evil. Was the universe taking enjoyment in our degradation? Or was it the means of molding us, through laborious time and unyielding faith to change our consciousness into something wiser, better, and more omnipotent ourselves? Or was there just nothing for us to change into?

Cassarina walked near him. Again, the two of them talked in muffled tones about something. I imagined she was providing him some kinds words of reconciliation in light of our ill luck. I paid little attention. I had no delusions about the two of them. They had both showed their vulnerable sides, the under belly of their academic veneer. Both were characters of action -- charging forward like an infuriated bull -- horns down and nothing could stop them. They were made of strong nerves, and certain refinement, a rare combination.

For myself, the expedition had taken me further into the depths of my own understanding of one’s life long destiny. Had I come to the isthmus to sacrifice myself to its deities, the near –death mishap outcomes diminished my thoughts of perishing in the Mayab Forest. That was a comforting reassurance under the circumstances, but unsettling to think that one of my other companions still could.

Cristobal caught our attention with a hushed warning. Something was moving in the jungle nearby. Fixing my eyes through the downpour of rain, I saw a shadowed shape cautiously moving about ten meters through the driving rain. Then another figure stooped and slowly paraded behind.

My companions froze, crouching down in fear of a paramilitary patrol mistaking us for rebels. I signaled to Cristobal to venture a bit further concealing himself in the foliage. I moved up close behind him as Hornsby and Cassarina stayed back. Many more individuals appeared, trudging along with burdens of satchels on their backs. Some were carrying children. Others with bundles strapped on their backs. All were moving in a remorseful procession. There could have been a hundred or more men, women and children covered in mud, sweat, disease, and torn clothing, pressing forward towards a refugee encampment.

The four of us passed through the campamento de refugiado of scraps of tin and cardboard shelters, plastic tents upheld by tree branches, and some refugees huddled together shivering from exposure. They had been forced to leave their ancestor’s solitary huts and villages to tread the jungle paths of the Peten, descending the rivers and streams in cayucos, passing through death filled suffering of loved ones along the way.

Desperate for self-preservation, they fled their forest homes, the protection of the wilderness, seeking liberation in the inhospitable jungle, migrating as a whole body. Their milpa fields no doubt have been left to rot, the binding symbol that rejuvenated their spirit to their heritage.

Covered in mud and grime, the Iipil and Piik embroidered finery of the Mayan women’s colorful dress was soiled and ragged. The men were equally disheveled, lean and old, glancing curiously at us. Some smoked cigarettes in cupped hands. There were no young men among them.

Some children with swollen bellies played disconcerted in the mud. Younger ones cried piteously and babies in rebosos slung over their starving mother’s shoulders clasped bare wilted breasts hoping to suck a drop of milk.

At times I heard the yelp of a perro callejero roaming about the encampment trying to beg some scrap of food. The whole scene repulsed me. As I glanced around the sea of exhausted and miserable faces, my heart sank. There was no organized sanitation. Feces littered the muddy ground. This was not humanity. Then the shrieks of a woman cut through the driving rainstorm. I ran to see what the matter was.

Cassarina was already by the woman’s side, comforting her when I arrived. The Mayan woman was squatting on a rain soaked mat on the muddy ground. A bare footed elderly man wearing dungaree trousers, a worn and stained cotton shirt and straw hat squatted in front of her, holding her fisted hands.

“She’s in labor,” Cassarina commanded. “I need a shelter.”

Hornsby, Cristobal and I set about making a lean two. Hornsby instinctively took Cristobal’s machete and hacked out a few thick tree stands at about three meters each. In minutes we had erected a poncho-covered tee-pee canopy directly over her. Dripping wet, she reeled in the contractions. At that moment, a figure came hurriedly through the bush.

“Ca va?” It was a French woman under the hood of a poncho. I barely caught a glimpse of her face as she bent down to check on the pregnant girl.

“Très bien!” Cassarina responded without a flinch. She was in her element. I heard Cassarina ask the woman how many refugees were there.

“De 100 à 150 personnes.”

“For chrissakes,” Hornsby remarked, astounded at the number of refugees.

The French woman rose peering at us with rich blue eyes embedded in a lean rounded face. A lock of black hair hung down across her face. She wasn’t much taller than Cristobal. It was obvious she was exhausted with the dark rings under her eyes.

“Je Docteur St. Germain. Julie St. Germain. Excusez-moi? My English is not so good.”

Hornsby promptly introduced himself as if at a formal dinner party.

“I am a doctor of anthropology.”

I, in turn, acknowledged her. “I’m Cole, Jules Cole.”

Beneath the tented shelter Cassarina announced herself. “I’m Dr. Cassarina Deakin.”

She continued stroking the back of the young Mayan girl who was heaving with respirations.
“And this is Cristobal, our guide,” Hornsby offered, pointing toward Cristobal who stood not an arms length away from us.

“This Q’eqchi girl,” Dr. St. Germain started to explain, “was raped by soldiers who attacked her village. Atroce.”

“Where are the others? You said they’re about a hundred and fifty.” Cassarina attended to the girl.

“Over here, I can show you. Most of them have come from the Alta Verpaz highland mountain range. We have been on foot for a week or more, avoiding patrols.

“There’s no time now. I need hot water to wash her and bathe the baby,” Cassarina said in a desperate tone. “Is there a fire?”

“Non,” said Dr. St. Germain. “We had a cooking fire but the rain put it out.”

“Are you the only doctor here?” Hornsby inquired.

“We. I was at a village outside of Flores when the military patrols came. That was about three weeks ago. They have been running for their lives. Some didn’t make it. There were rumors of a Peace Corp worker being murdered while under interrogation. Hearing this news, I decided to flee with them, offering what medical treatment I could.”

Dr. St. Germain excused herself, telling Cassarina she had to attend to others with serious wounds. She could see the girl was in experienced hands.

“Best to get on task,” Hornsby said in response to Cassarina’s request for hot water.

The three of us set about rounding up some dry matches from the men and then put together a stone pad in the driest area we could find, which was as muddy as any other area. Over the stone pad we constructed another poncho tee-pee shelter to keep the rain off.

Cristobal gathered some coconuts, shelling them to scrape off the coarse fibers. From this we took a few cigarettes from the old men to add as kindling. I looked about for clusters of dried thin brush while Hornsby cut thin pieces of branches and small sapling trees. Though it was wet, it would dry quick enough to catch fire as long as we kept the coals hot.

In a half hour we had boiling water. It was good timing. The baby came screaming into this world behind a thunderous clap of lightning. Cassarina, smiling, emerged with a tiny baby boy in her arms, closely wrapped in one of her shirts.

In the meantime, we constructed a rainwater collector with our last poncho to store up drinking water. The refugees could put their containers underneath it where we created a small tied opening as a faucet. The other matter was to organize a latrine.

Hornsby told Cristobal to find the chief of the tribe, the bataab. Then, the two of us set about scouting out the perimeter to mark a few areas solely for defecation.

“We’ll need to dig some holes, as best as we can.”

In a moment Cristobal returned to Hornsby and told him the bataab was “estar ocupado.”

“Too busy?” Hornsby exclaimed with rain dripping from his face. “Where is he, I need to have a word with him.”

Cristobal pointed in the direction of the pregnant woman explaining that the bataab was the old man assisting the girl, his granddaughter. The girl’s parents had been killed in their village.

“Grand,” Hornsby said then turned to slush his way through the mud over to where Cassarina, the girl and old man were huddled under the poncho shelter.

“I must get this old man appointed as the warden of his people, the administrator of this bunch or they’ll all perish from e.coli infections.”

Even in the strenuous conditions of our work, Hornsby had become a bit frisky. The challenge made Hornsby robust, taking Cristobal in tow to translate for him. I tended to the fire, keeping the coals burning bright amid the rainy damp air.

The three of them emerged shortly, walking about the area, where Hornsby was animated in explaining about the need for sanitation. The bataab was nodding in agreement dutifully following behind Hornsby. Moment’s later orders were being given to some of the men to dig latrine holes.

Cassarina made up a “jungle soup” concoction as Hornsby and I took turns holding the newborn, tucked safely against our body to keep warm. The girl would fair well enough, but was understandably fatigued from the exertion of childbirth. She rested under our tee-pee shelter. Cassarina fed the soup to the girl, while we ate coconut meat from coconuts that Cristobal had previously foraged for fire starter.

With hints of daylight left, I ventured over to where Dr. St. Germain returned. It was a stone’s throw through the jungle bush from our area. I assumed that these were the worse off, the other fifty. Dr. St. Germain had managed to orchestrate the construction of a makeshift clinic, hastily built of lashed cane walls and a pinnacle thatched roof. There was only a small doorway opening.

As I entered I saw the floor was made of palm leaves, piled up high enough to give some relief from the soggy, muddy ground. Moaning bodies were laid next to each other, in neat rows with little room to walk between them. They were drapped with bloodied bandages of torn clothes dressed upon an array of wounds and open sores. Some had carbuncle sores all over their bodies.
“Impetigo,” Dr. St. Germain said noticing that I was looking with disturbing curiosity. “I have no anti-biotic to stop the blood infection.”

I glanced over to one corner of the hut and saw a colorful handkerchief covering a woman’s face.
“She died an hour ago,” Dr. St. Germain informed me.

An assistant helped Dr. St. Germain, a young Mayan girl passing a cup of water to their lips. Not much else could be done for them but offer comfort and reassurance that they would be rescued at some point.

“You would think America would come with humanitarian aid. But they are more interested in supplying weapons to the Guatemalan army,” the doctor said bitterly.

Dr. St. Germain was kneeling next to an old man who had a wound in his shoulder. She used a coconut shell cut in half to act as a water bowl to clean the wound. I watched as she removed the bloodied bandage to reveal a horrendous maggot infested ulceration of human flesh.

She looked up at me with half-empty eyes from lack of sleep. Her long auburn air, once silky was untidy and muddy. Her face was marked with fresh and dried blood as well as her trousers and blouse. All the things that could break a person’s spirit had accumulated here in this dwelling place of death. My gut twisted in knots from the nausea that over came my senses.

“This is what saving life is about,” she said acknowledging my repulsion. “A la merci de dieu.” Dr. St. Germain was at the Mercy of God, fulfilling the role of the Angel of Mercy.

That evening I rested under the jungle canopy, not far from the fire. Hornsby and Cristobal among the hundred refugees managed to find some makeshift lodging for themselves as the rain continued to drizzle through the night. Cassarina stayed with the young girl and her baby, herself well worn from the toiling events of the day. I had gathered some palm leaves and lashing them together I made an umbrella type canopy for my head. It kept me dry enough, though I was still damp from the rain and chilly air. I stayed opened-eyed and alert tending to the fire from time to time.

Stillness pervaded the night. Other than an occasional crack of the fire coals shooting sparks like fireworks into the misty air, the scheme of a safe universe produced itself with a permanent sober slice of the moon’s phase, momentarily through the cloud cover. The slender shaving of its reflecting light made me wonder if God intended to provide assurance of everlasting security, and we, with our audacious beliefs, screwed it up? All around me was evidence enough. Then, I felt a rush of air behind me, a voice out of the darkness.

“Jules, its me, Cassarina,” I heard her say.

She had wondered out to me, a few meters from her shelter, crossing the encampment in the darkness undetected. She came close to my face with a steady candor, “This isn’t so bad is it?”
“You make a comfortable home,” I replied sarcastically.

The misty rain made the air hang heavy. It muffled our voices. She pressed her lips and lingered for a moment. In a discreet whisper she said she wanted to stay with the refugees. In a way I had expected it. When she returned from visiting Dr. St. Germain, there was edginess in her silence. A deep purring brooding was going on within her psyche. But unlike before at the Lacandon village, she now had a constant tranquil voice, a serene tone reflecting a peace of mind in the most horrible of circumstances.

“I can help Dr. St. Germain with my knowledge of medicinal ethnobotany. It’s our only chance to try and save these people.”

It was a vital point that I couldn’t contradict. She had the wisdom of the necessary things to help conquer their plight.

“But what about Hornsby?” I said with enigmatical emotion. “I don’t think he’ll agree.”

Cassarina turned her head, her green eyes gleamed at the low burning fire I was attending through the night, and in a glance as thoughtful and vulnerable she was frank with me.
“I have something to tell you . . . about James and I.”

It was no longer necessary to keep me ignorant of their secret, but she kept me in suspense for a whole minute, as her face turned gravely sincere.

“What is it?” I finally said. “Are you two . . .”

“Lovers? Hardly.” She gaffed at the thought. “He’s the trustee of my inheritance.”

The truth unfolded before me as Cassarina explained that Hornsby took on the responsibility of raising her after her parents were killed in a plane crash. Her father and Hornsby had met as officers during the war, and upon returning to England they attended Cambridge University. Cassarina’s father was an Earl, with a fairly large family legacy to carry forth in his lifetime. There were no heirs apparent except for Cassarina.

“My father studied psychology. James and him often mingled their disciplines thinking that anthropology and psychology ought to be combined into one science. This is how they became so close.”

Light puffs of white smoke from the fire filter between us like ghostly fingers in a leisurely manner. The charm of her vagueness up till now impressed me as divine and unbounded confidence in keeping the great secret, secret. I started to speak but Cassarina hushed me.
“But there is more,” she continued ominously. “James was disqualified from Cambridge.”
“ I thought he had resigned,” I said, astonished. Cassarina shook her head no.

“The truth of it is James is a bit of a anthropological swashbuckler. His passion for ancient sociology filled the emptiness of not marrying. As I grew up, I learned that he was most happy in his science researches, plunging like a boy into some new pursuit of valorous deeds in uncovering the hidden meaning of life. It is with gratitude that he raised me with a strong sense of justice and passion to redress a wrong. He always stirred me to discuss, analysis and think among the company of a wide spectrum of people who came to our house for dinner and social events.

“James came from a poor family in Australia, who I never met. He seemed to have cut off the past, solely to carry on with the present task of making sure to fulfill his promise to my father. His mastery challenged me every step of the way raising me with the philosophy that men should be men and not hooligans. I grew up expecting the same, as you might have noticed.”

“So,” I interrupted passionately, “ I don’t understand why this has to do with his being disqualified from the university.”

“James wouldn’t give me the liberty to tell you the truth for fear of giving you reason to abandoned him. I kept on him, as you might had seen us talking among ourselves from time to time, to open up, but he continued to be stubborn.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

“I’m not going on with you, and…” she drifted off for a moment. The misty rain filled the chilly night air with a fragrance I had not smelled before.

“And what?”

“James was pushed out. It was a conspiracy. First the board of regents sent him threatening letters to stop the nonsense about the Mayan Soul Chamber. Then, he was brought before a review panel to put in question his credibility to continue with his tenure. To keep face and some professional credibility James offered to resign . . . but it was under duress.

“His resignation was immediately accepted. But it didn’t stop there. James continued to write articles about Mayan mythology permeating throughout the consciousness of humankind, which were refused by every publisher in England. That was a first, since he was well published worldwide. I was busy at Oxford at the time with my medical exams, so I didn’t suspect anything straight away.

“When I finally caught wind of the crucifying he was taking from his former loyal colleagues, I intervened. I feared that he would release himself from the circle of the academic code of belief and go madly into a blissful oblivion. So it was my idea for him to make this expedition to escape the organized ostracism of his British peers. I put up the bulk of the funds from my inheritance, along with the generous donations that were made from a few individuals. I felt it was my duty to repay him for taking care of me.”

“It was his fidelity to his own truth that undid him,” I said.

“I knew you would understand.”

“What about Garthwaite?”

“A friend and not someone that James trusts . . . not like you,” Cassarina was quick to answer.
For the first time she looked back into my eyes with the strength of being victorious in convincing me. She displayed a sincere temperament.

“And you?”

“Jules, are you jealous?” Cassarina chuckled slightly.

“No, I just thought your correspondence. . . .”

“Hardly a man that is a man. Unlike you.”

She strung me out like a tightrope walker without a balance pole in that last flattering comment. I swayed for a moment, speechless, trying to keep my balance from of what she was implying. I didn’t dare to continue in this vein and fortunately, she didn’t either.

“Take him to Yaxkin, or at least go look for it. I know this time is precious to him. He doesn’t have anyone else to believe in him, other than me. And I must stay here, I can’t leave these suffering people with a clear conscious.”

“But what about my dream?”

“I don’t know, you’re the expert,” Cassarina said, reassuring me.

There was a confidence in her voice that disposed me not to strenuously object.

“I will need to think about it,” slipped out of my mouth.

I reached into my shirt pocket. From my fingers I produced the orange sign language card I had gotten in San de las Cristobal from the deaf girl. I had stuck it into one of my wallet’s plastic covers, which had kept it relatively intact.

“Here, I want you to take this as a memento, something to . . . keep us connected.”

“Grand. I will keep it forever,” she said giving me a kiss on the check and taking the worn card in her hand.

Her kiss gave me a promise of salvation. Touching the very core of my being, it was the revealing moment that lurks on the edge of our yearning for companionship.

“You’re a brick.” She rose to her feet said, “Bonne nuit!” and headed back to her shelter in the flickering light of the campfire.