Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      5

      The honk of an automobile horn broke Nancy Kelleson’s concentration. She looked down to see the rows of figures swim into focus on the inventory sheet. In every column, red ink was the predominant color.

       “Well, I might not have enough food, equipment or field supplies, but at least I’ve got a few more warm bodies to help out for the time being.” She pulled back her damp, blond hair—in the humid heat, it never got completely dry—and secured her ponytail with a leather thong. Rising, she pushed the rough, wooden door of her hut aside and stepped out to meet the new arrivals.

       The pair of four-wheel-drive Land Rovers had pulled into the center of the village, surrounded, as always, by the population of the small enclave, about fifty men, women and children. Most were dressed in simple, brightly colored clothes that were a mixture of native and western styles. The children ran around barefoot and either bare-chested or clad in T-shirts and worn shorts. The women dressed in a mix of the traditional breechclout covering, also going bare-breasted. The men wore mainly simple shirts and pants or shorts. Some articles of clothing had been white a long time ago, to protect against the tropical sun, but they had all turned a dirty gray-brown over time.

       As usual, Kelleson headed straight for the driver of the first vehicle, a short man with ebony skin, thinning, curly hair and an ever-present smile that revealed one missing front tooth. He directed the other passengers to unload their duffels and for the villagers to remove the supplies they had brought back. “How was the trip, Etienne?”

       He looked up at her—the top of his head barely came to her jaw—and held out a stubby-fingered hand, waggling it back and forth. “Not as bad as the last one—we only had to stop six times to clear the road, a new record. At least we didn’t break anything this time. I think, however, that Major Medina will be paying a visit here soon—he seemed to be particularly interested in the new arrivals.”

       “Just what I need right now.” Kelleson brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and turned to the half dozen men and women standing to one side, their Caucasian skin, tans and new clothing demarking them as her fresh recruits. “I’m off to give the welcome speech to the newbies.”

       “Good luck, we’ll have this squared away by the time you’re finished. Oh, one more thing—the Feri pump finally arrived.”

       “Finally? Thank God for small favors, I say. I just hope it works as well as they promised. We’ll make that a priority—fresh, clean water will go a long way toward making things better around here. Thanks for the great news.”

       The short man grinned again while hoisting a forty-pound sack of corn with distinctive Red Cross markings over his shoulder. “I bring it all back, good and bad—you know that.”

       “Yes, I certainly do.” Squaring her shoulders, Kelleson approached the small group, noting that most of them looked to be either from Europe or America. She took a moment to watch as they all stared around at the strange new world they had just stepped into. “I trust you all enjoyed the trip here?”

       “Sure, if you call twenty hours crammed in five airplanes, followed by an eight-hour drive into the bush enjoyable.” The speaker was a tall, rail-thin guy with short, black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His comment brought weary chuckles from the other three men, a grin from one of the women and a glare from the other one.

       “First, let me welcome you to this Huaorani village in the province of Sucumbíos, Ecuador. My name is Nancy Kelleson, and I’m your headperson for this SARE project. Over the next six months, we’ll all be helping this village become more self-sufficient, installing a new well, clearing and planting fields and teaching Spanish and English and their country’s history to the children.” She looked each person directly in the eyes as she spoke. “Make no mistake about it, this is not a vacation or pleasure trip. You all volunteered for SARE with the expectation of seeing the world and working hard, and I can guarantee that you’re going to get both in about equal measure.”

       She extended a hand to encompass the cluster of single-story wooden huts with thatched roofs, all surrounding a cleared main square. In the back of all the houses, looming over all of them, was the thick, verdant jungle. “The first rule I want all of you to take to heart is that the moment you set foot here, you entered hostile territory. The jungle can kill you as easily as breathing. It will swallow you up without mercy, pick your bones clean and leave what’s left to bleach in the sun before being covered by the foliage in less than a week. Treat the jungle and its denizens with the respect they deserve—you won’t often get a second chance.”

       All eyes were on Kelleson, the group’s shared fatigue forgotten for the moment as she spoke. “The second thing to remember is that we are in a Third World country, so things are done differently here. Always keep your identification papers on you at all times, and do not go anywhere without a native as guide. There are soldiers in the area, some from the Ecuadorian Army, some from the Colombian Army, as we are near the border between the two nations. If you are stopped for any reason, be patient and polite. Sometimes mentioning SARE might get you out of the situation, other times it might cost you some money, if you’re lucky. Either one is preferable to spending any time in a South American jail.

       “Why don’t each of you take a moment to introduce yourself and tell the rest a little about why you decided to come here?” As each member of the group spoke, Kelleson evaluated them. There was a last-minute arrival with the group, a tall, well-built man in his late-thirties, with black hair and ice-blue eyes. He said he was Matt Cooper, a freelance journalist who was here to see how SARE was helping the indigenous population, but his intent gaze put Kelleson’s senses on alert. She’d seen that stare before and it never boded well for the people around a person like that.

       Cooper was definitely older than most of the others, about Wilberson’s age, and also carried himself differently. Whereas the other members were staring around in surprise or awe, his gaze had seemed to size up the situation efficiently, almost as if he were checking for escape routes—or figuring out how to defend the place from an invasion.

       Kelleson made a mental note to keep an eye on him as she addressed the rest of the group again. “It’s good to meet all of you. I imagine you’re pretty strung out from the travel, so the rest of the day is a light one, СКАЧАТЬ