Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (5 page)

    
Within half an hour they fly over the pass that forms the watershed
between the Cauca and the Magdalena river catchments. The plane skims
over an expanse of low clouds that hides the pass, and then loses altitude
steadily, the high-pitched rumble of its engine becoming more bearable.
Soon they catch glimpses into narrow river valleys, their depth hidden in
dark shade. André is intrigued that the clouds leave the valleys free and
tend to hug the upper slopes of the ridges between them. For a few
minutes the pilot follows the course of a sizable river, calling out ‘Rio
Magdalena’. Near the confluence of the Madgalena with another river,
he circles once over a small town and the rolling green hills to its west,
shouting ‘San Agustin’, before banking away to the east. Twenty minutes
later he sets the plane smoothly down on a short grass airfield outside
Pitalito.

    
After disembarking, the pilot informs them that he will return at three
thirty, that they must be back at the airfield at the latest by four, just in
case the direct route they came over is completely clouded in and he
might be forced to detour via the low pass east near La Plata, about twice
the distance. He does not want to risk flying after dark, he emphasizes.
A few minutes later, he turns the craft around and takes off alone.

    
They have to wait more than a quarter of an hour before a minivan taxi
drives up. The air is still nippy, with a sharp westerly wind. André is glad
for the protection of his rain jacket. The three students are huddled
together, turning their backs on him. It seems fairly obvious that even the
two guys are following Bianca’s lead to cut him out.

    
"Did you get a single room, so that Visconti can visit you at night?"
he overhears Giuglio ask. The question is accompanied by a snigger.

    
"None of your business —" she replies, laughing, only to be interrupted by Paolo: "You should hear Gioglio snore. It’s sounds like a
Vespa misfiring."

    
"You can talk," Giuglio fires back. "At least, I don’t stink up the
room."

    
André decides to move a few steps to the side so that he does no
longer have to hear their inane banter and passes the time studying the
chain of mountains and hills that enclose the expanse of the Magdalena
valley.

    
In San Agustin, a guide from the horse stables meets Paolo and
Giuglio. The two young men arranged for visiting the sites in the
archaeological park on horseback. Bianca and André are now alone,
waiting for their Jeep.

    
"Bianca, I don’t know what I did that turned you against me, but let’s
make a truce at least for the next few hours. We’ll both enjoy the sights
more if we step beyond this patch of discord that seems to separate us. I
promise to be on my best behavior."

    
She hesitates for a moment and then produces a weak smile. "
Oké
,"
she replies, the ‘k’ pronounced without aspiration, in the Italian way. He
loves it.

    
"Since you hired the Jeep and guide, I will simply tag along. So tell
me a bit how you see the day. What will we be looking for?"

    
She seems willing to consider his proposal and asks: "What do you
know about San Agustin?"

    
"Only that it contains several hundred statues and monuments that
originate from a culture that disappeared before Columbus, probably
even before the Incas."

    
"Yes, that is correct. Over five hundred statues, in fact. Some are
anthropomorphic figures—"

    
"—which means?"

    
"Resembling human form or having human attributes, like a lion’s
head attached to a human body—"

    
"—or the other way round?"

    
"Yes. Some are realistic, most are stylistic, their heads always out of
proportion large. Many have large feline fangs, probably depicting
deities. Still others depict animals: eagles, jaguars, even frogs. They are
scattered over a wide area, and the theory is that they were erected as
guardians of burial sites. The archaeological park just beyond San
Agustin contains the largest number, but there are more on the other side
of the river we saw from the van …"

    
He notices that she has adopted a lecturing stance. She looks so
endearingly serious. He loves it and smiles.

 
    
She pauses, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why are you grinning? … You
already knew all that and were just pulling my leg."

    
"No, Bianca, I do not. I was smiling because when you told all this
you spoke with the lecturing voice of a professor."

    
"You see, you’re mocking me, like you did last evening." Her face
becomes angry, distorting her lovely features. She brusquely turns,
moving away.

    
He berates himself for having been so tongue-in-cheek last night and
quickly steps in front of her. "No, Bianca. I am not mocking you. I loved
it. I love your enthusiasm. Honestly. Please, go on."

    
She blushes and looks at him uncertainly.

    
"Please, relent," he begs again. "Do we stay the whole time here or are
we also going across the river?"

    
"We’ll spend about three hours here. I want to see the
Fuente de
Lavapatas
with its famous carvings and then visit the clusters of statues
at the
Alto de Lavapatas
, just above the fountains. From there one gets
a panoramic view over the whole area. After lunch, we will cross the
river to the second most important site, the
Alto de los Ídolos
, to view the
largest of all statues. It measures seven meters high. There is a third site
beyond the town of San José de Isnos, which has two very intriguing
statues. One, depending on the angle viewed, reveals four figures, the
other is a highly pregnant woman. I hope we’ll make it there."

    
André has stopped listening. The name San José ‘of something’ strikes
a familiar chord, but he cannot place it. Where had he heard it?

    
"There you go again. You said you were interested, but you aren’t
really listening."

    
He knows that he risks losing the bit of goodwill she has offered him,
but something drives him on. "Sorry, what’s this town called again?"

    
"San José de Isnos. Why?"

    
Suddenly, he knows where he heard it — in the Alcazar Bar. Yes, the
three or four syllables he missed could be ‘de Isnos’, but he cannot be
certain. "Because I think that I heard it recently mentioned in connection
with another matter."

    
"What matter? Are you looking for drugs?"

    
He laughs. "Do I look like a drug dealer? No, I’m a simple-minded
investigative journalist. Occasionally I also write for travel magazines.
But for a change I’m traveling as an ordinary tourist. Mind you, I may
still spin a tale about a day at San Agustin with a gorgeous and vivacious
Italian tour guide."

    
"You can’t leave it, can you? That’s why I’m cross with you.
Professor Visconti said that you were undressing me."

    
"Did he? Oh, what heavenly bliss that would be, even the mere
thought of it, opening the buttons of that blouse one at a time, peeling
back the cloth, kissing every centimeter of new skin revealed," he raises
his gaze to the sky, "but, alas, somebody else will have that pleasure.
Didn’t you say that you’ll soon get married to your professor of archaeology?"

    
"See … Your promises are worthless." She feigns anger and turns
away from him, but he can see that she is trying to suppress a giggle.
Even her tanned cheeks cannot hide her deepening color.

    
"I think my dear mother would agree with you." He sees her briefly
glance back and pretends to be dejected, sighing deeply. "She always said
I let my mouth run away from me."

    
Bianca turns back to him, her whole face laughing. "Can’t you be
serious for even five minutes?"

    
"Am I forgiven? … Just once more?" he begs.

    
"Yes, but just this one time."

    
At that point the Jeep drives up. The vehicle is still rolling when the
driver jumps out, apologizing profusely for letting them wait. His large
pointed nose and the lack of chin makes him look like a mouse and
without thinking André names him ‘
la souris
’. He introduces himself as
Hernando and claims that he was told his passengers would only arrive
at eight thirty. Bianca quickly checks her watch and shrugs her shoulders,
amused. André unobtrusively checks his. It is a quarter to nine. He winks
to her.

    
Before they get into the Jeep, he takes a picture of Bianca and the
driver next to the ancient vehicle. Bianca sits in front, and ‘
la souris
’
roars off. Ten minutes later they overtake Paolo and Giuglio with their
guide.

    
At the ceremonial fountains of
Lavapatas
she takes lots of shots with
her camera and bombards the guide with numerous questions. Occasionally, André comes to her rescue when her Spanish fails, but mostly he
simply watches her, her face — not the slightest blemish on its peach like
skin — the intelligent eyes under delicately arched eyebrows, the high
forehead, her straight nose, maybe a shade large, her perfect white teeth,
the firm chin with its small dimple, the animated hand gestures, the way
her whole face lights up when she smiles and one cannot help but to
return the smile. He cannot remember ever having been so completely
captured by a woman within a few hours of meeting her for the first time.
He takes a few shots, making sure to catch her in the frame.

    
Walking up the steep steps from the fountains back to their vehicle, he
cannot keep his eyes from her sexy bottom. The very thought of touching
its silky skin quickens his pulse.

    
At one point, she becomes aware of him watching her. "André, you
aren’t paying attention to the sculptures," she chides him.

    
"Not true. I give all my attention to the only sculpture that counts, one
carved by nature itself."

    
"You’re hopeless." But her eyes are laughing. She wags her index
finger and says: "I warned you."

    
I think I got her on the same wavelength as me, he muses, as he
responds with a smile.

    
He expected more visitors. They only meet two middle-aged American
couples on the neatly trimmed fenced-off grass areas around a circle of
monuments on the
Alto de Lavapatas
.

    
As they are viewing two statues, one depicting a male, the other a
female, Bianca asks: "Did you notice that all female faces are always
triangular, while those of males are almost square?"

    
"Yes. Is there a significance to it?"

    
"Definitely. Professor Visconti says that the triangle imitates the shape
of corn kernels. It symbolizes both sustenance and fertility, while the
square shape of the males emphasizes strength and power."

    
"I get the sustenance part. Women ground the corn and thus provided
sustenance. But how does fertility enter into this equation?"

    
"It’s simple. The prolific nature of one single kernel of corn capable
of producing hundreds of new ones, isn’t that proof of great fertility?"

    
"But why should that shape be associated with a woman’s face?"

    
"That’s obvious. Women equals fertility?"

    
"Did you make that up just now?"

    
"No, that’s Professor Visconti’s interpretation."

    
"And you believe it? … Don’t you think this could simply be the
product of imagination in the mind of a sex-starved archaeologist?"

    
"André, watch it! You’re going too far."

    
"But seriously, this exact same thing has been done before. When
archaeologists unearthed the first so-called Venus-figurines in various
parts of Europe, they interpreted these voluptuous sculptures as expression of male eroticism. Any other interpretation would have been in
direct conflict with the strictly patriarchal view of society so fundamentally anchored in all Judaic-Christian religions. But a more plausible
interpretation would be that these figurines of voluptuous and pregnant
women were symbolic depictions of goddesses, of mother earth as the
life-giving power. No erotic connotation. And besides, other ancient
cultures where corn was unknown also depicted women’s faces in this
shape."