A Horse Called El Dorado

Dedication:

Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Copyright
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Much thanks and gratitude for taking in this story to Michael O’Brien and Íde Ní Laoghaire. Thanks also to Kunak McGann, Emma Byrne, Eoin O’Brien for editorial guidance, Maeve McCarthy for artwork, Eanna Kiely for the initial impetus and Shane Kiely for solid advice.

I was born in Colombia, a country as large as France, Spain and Portugal put together. Maria Torres, my mama, is from one of Colombia’s big cities, named Cali. My
wandering
Irish papa, Joseph Carroll, is from Fordstown, County Meath. He looks like Grandad, and people say that I have a look of them both. I arrived in Ireland for the first time when I was thirteen.

Mama, Papa and I lived far from any city in a
comuna
, or commune, on the banks of the Río Putumayo, a river that goes on for hundreds of miles and flows into the Amazon. When I close my eyes I sometimes feel that I can still smell the air and the flowers. Colombia has the most beautiful flowers in the world. There are orchids of every colour, clumps of them going on and on, bright enough to make your eyes blink in wonder. There are trees with sword-shaped leaves, and enormous ferns, higher than any building in Ireland. There is heat all day during the long summers. Colombia is near the Equator, the hottest part of the world.

The commune was in the region of the Caquetá and Putumayo, in the south of the country. We lived off the land, growing our own food, which meant a lot of hard
work, digging and planting. I had my own bow and arrows in case some jaguar or ocelot, big jungle cats, came prowling out of the heat and mist. It is not all jungle and forests in that region – there is much tree felling and burning of land to make space for growing crops.

I loved the jungle, but I was a little afraid of it and I would never wander in too far. Where I lived there were monkeys, and sometimes they would howl and call to each other all night. The birds would put me into a trance when I was young as I stopped to hear the sounds they made from their multicoloured beaks. I’d stare up at the hummingbirds until my neck hurt. Enormous toucans flew out of the forest and always put me in a crazy mood with their hooting and shrieking. Their rapid flapping from branch to branch on the trees would make me want to run wild.

The commune was a sprawling little village made up of huts of different sizes, all with roofs made of
downsloping
layers of leaves. When it rained the water would roll from one layer to the next and down onto the mud. There was a tool hut and a big food storage hut as well as a meditation hut, also used for meetings and business, with a wooden sign on the roof which said, ‘Make it Eden’. The sign was made by a big American man called Hank Shepak, a drifter from Colorado who always laughed at his own jokes. No-one else did, but everyone agreed that he was a good organiser.

The huts were linked by walkways of planks placed on
the mud. There was a television, a video player and a computer, locked in storage cupboards in the meditation hut. Our electricity came from a generator that often broke down. The commune also owned a small truck, so that we could travel to El Encanto, a little town along the river. We were ‘friends of the Earth’, and the adults wanted the whole world to become a commune some day. We mostly spoke Spanish at the commune, but
various
other languages were spoken too. I learned English from my papa and from Paul Rooke, and I also know a few words of German, Dutch and Portuguese.

There were other kids at the commune, and not all Colombian. Erica Van Egden from Holland had a
daughter
called Carlotta, who was older than me, and Greta Meissner, from Germany, had two young sons. Some of the men were good to us but others did not want kids around too much, so we kept out of their way. Paul Rooke, another American, always wore a leather
headband
and he played a saxophone at our
fiestas
, or parties. He was good to me because I shared his love of horses, but Mama didn’t trust him. I hung out with Paul Rooke and a local man named Gonzales, but mainly I liked to spend time with my friends César, Jésus, Martha and little Jaime.

When I was very young, I’d sometimes see the huge wings of gliding condors and think they were small aeroplanes in the distance. Then I would run to Mama. She would hug me and take me out of the sun into the
hut and we would play with the mirror and her combs. My hair is brown but hers is black, thick and shiny. Mama used to tell me a story about the Putumayo river. It stopped flowing every night, she would tell me, and every morning as soon as the sun rose over the Andes it would wake, start to bubble, splash and suddenly get up and roar along again.

Around the time I was seven or eight, Mama went with a new man. I told everyone in the village because I felt scared and angry, and maybe that was the cause of the boxing match, between the men who fought over her. One of the men was my papa, Joseph. Well, he left a few days after that fight, bruised and with a cut on one cheek. He explained to me that Mama was going to live with the other man and that I would be okay. Then my papa went one morning with his haversack and his guitar, a
cuatro
. I watched him walking down to where the riverbank path goes beyond many mud paths and far off towards the Andes mountains. I had tears in my eyes. I couldn’t see if he had any tears, but he raised a fist and shook it at the Heavens. He turned back a few times after that, and finally disappeared.

The Andes mountain range looked threatening in the distance, like a massive dark cloud on the horizon that never moves. For months after my papa left I used to think that he was in some village in the Andes. I heard stories from passing wanderers about those places, where it gets so cold at night that they have to sleep
beside fires and wrap up in many blankets. The Andes seemed so far away that I hardly thought they were real, but one day I would cross those mountains. Papa
occasionally
sent an e-mail to the commune. Mama would bring me the page and read his words so I knew he was still somewhere and asking about me.

Mama did not live too long with her new man. I slept in one of the communal huts with the boys and girls, while she moved in with the other women. Mama kept away from men after that, except when she was working with them in the fields.

Paul Rooke and Gonzales looked after the horses in the corral, a fenced-off area in the shade of high trees. Here I learned to ride and Paul said I was ‘a natural’. I really liked one of the horses particularly, a beautiful horse called El Dorado. He was a gorgeous golden colour, and when he galloped along the riverbank he seemed to glisten in the sunlight. I grew to love him and soon understood that he would not obey anyone except me and Paul Rooke. If others went near him he would shy away. When the adults got rough with him he would move back and prepare to defend himself. By the time I was eight everyone in the commune said that Pepe and El Dorado were inseparable. I liked that.

The horse was named after the legend of El Dorado, which Gonzales had told me. It was about an ancient king who covered himself in gold dust and went out on a raft into the middle of a big lake,
Laguna de Guatavita
.

He flung in gold bars and jewels as an offering to the gods for his wife, who had drowned herself because she was unfaithful to him. Then the king jumped in to wash off the gold dust. Long before that, the Muisca Indians of the area also emptied gold, emeralds and food into the lake as tributes to the gods.

My life was very primitive in the commune. At least, Grandad and Grandma tell me so, having heard my story. At the commune we had no use for money. We exchanged what we grew – coffee, sugar, maize,
potatoes
, bananas, kidney beans and cocoa – for other items we needed, such as diesel for the truck and the
generator
. Fruit was all around at harvest time – not in boxes and stands like in a supermarket with labels and prices, but growing on the trees and bushes around us. We stored bunches of bananas and pineapples in baskets made out of leaves.

We would never waste food, because it is a gift from the planet. If a crop gave us a rich harvest we would have a party. The adults made beer out of maize. Sometimes it was good and they cheered, drinking it down, shouting ‘
chicha
’ to each other and laughing.

The sprawling village commune had a good view down onto a narrow stretch of the Putumayo river. Across the river the jungle was thick and dark. I would look across at it and think I saw strange sights among the shadows – giant beings, flying saucers and ghosts.

Small tribes of jungle indians would sometimes appear
under the tall trees. We knew not to stare at them or move close to them, because they feared us. I was quite afraid of them too when I was small, but Mama always said that they were peaceful. The adults knew the tribes by name – the Andokes and the Huitotos, who had been cannibals according to legend and long ago worked for the whites collecting rubber from the
hevea
trees. These tribes hunted using short spears and the
sumpitan
, or blowpipe, that shot poison darts. They wore little
clothing
, but a lot of face paint and feathers in their hair. They looked very ancient, as though they were made of stone.

One year everyone at the commune worked hard to make a rope bridge for crossing the river. First, the adults had to saw logs for the bridge and to build scaffolds on each side of the river. Then they made a raft for going over to the other side. It seemed like magic, the way everybody, working together, got the bridge to span the river in one long, hot day. Our group were not stupid donkeys, as Mama would say. We shouted and cheered when the first couple walked over and back. A large hut was built on the other side of the river, hidden carefully among the trees, ‘In case of trouble,’ as Paul Rooke said.

Even with all the hard work, living in the commune was like paradise to us. Well, almost. There was some bad stuff too. You must have heard about drugs on
television
? It’s serious stuff, and guys get put in prison for a long time for selling them. Well, Colombia is one place where a lot of drugs are grown and harvested, mostly
cocaine and cannabis. Cocaine is made from
coca
leaves, which are green and oval in shape. If you chew the leaves they give you energy. The Indian tribes use them as a tropical medicine.

Then there is AGRA, which stands for
la Agrupación Radical Anticapitalista
– a big, long name for a bunch of thugs who drive around in jeeps with rifles and machine guns. I saw them several times and still have bad dreams about them sometimes. Have you ever heard a gunshot? It is like a loud, cracking noise and it shocks, deafens and scares you. If you saw the things that I’ve seen, you’d have bad dreams too.

Those heavies with the guns I mentioned, the dirty AGRA, are in the drug business. They are what we call
narcotraficantes
– a much feared word, and not because it is so big. It means they are drug dealers, people who kidnap, who take hostages, who steal and who kill. Some people say AGRA help the poor, but everyone in the commune feared them. Sometimes government soldiers passed near to the commune in trucks looking for them. But mostly the government were afraid of AGRA too.

AGRA ended my time in the commune. That was the biggest adventure of my life. But my newest adventure will be even greater. I just know it will.