Road Fever (12 page)

Garry and I passed a look that wasn’t lost on Graham. “You kill someone,” Graham said, “it’s awful. It’s tragic. But it happens. People walk in the middle of the road. They don’t look. It’s not going to be your fault and I say, run. Just run.”

I started to voice an objection, but Graham said, “Most South American countries don’t have radio cars. They don’t set up roadblocks. The first thing you need to do is get out of the immediate vicinity. Running is the best way …”

“It’s not that,” I said.

“Forget about the record,” Graham said. “You want to face a murder charge in Peru?”

“Nobody is getting hurt,” Garry said.

“It happens,” Graham said. “No matter how careful you are, it can happen and you better be prepared.”

“Nobody is getting hurt,” Garry said again.

To that end, Graham thought we should take pains to be especially alert, drive defensively. He had designed a series of exercises that could be done in a car seat, exercises to rest the eyes and to keep feeling fit. He thought fitness was important.

“Are you taking any drugs?”

“Stay-awake drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Garry said. “We don’t need them.” When Garry and I drove the ALCAN 5000 we had discovered that each of us fell easily into a kind of bug-eyed keyed-up wakefulness. A twelve- or twenty-hour stint at the wheel wasn’t uncommon. We liked it.

“I’m not talking about illegal drugs,” Graham said.

I didn’t think he was. I said, “We’ll be driving for a month. Taking any kind of speed is just a bad idea. Somewhere along the line, the drug is going to catch up with us and we’ll crash.”

“What about sleep?”

“We’ll just pass out,” Garry said reasonably.

Graham didn’t like it.

“Of all the dangers you face, the most insidious will be the danger you present to yourself. Specifically, I’m thinking about lack of sleep.” Almost every time Graham goes out on an emergency—a hostage situation, a man with a gun—it turns out later that the central figure in the drama hadn’t slept in days. “You try to figure out what went wrong, where their wires crossed. Ask the family what they were doing before they blew up and almost invariably they say, ‘He was pacing all night, every night.’ They say, ‘He didn’t sleep for days.’ Or, I pick people up
on the street, they’re acting crazy, they pose a danger to themselves or others. And these guys, you find out, had just gotten out of some mental institution where they had been doing fine. But they stopped taking their medication. They stopped sleeping. Every time.”

Graham suggested that we “monitor” our “stability.”

“I did one hundred hours at the wheel once,” Garry said.

“All right. But just because you did it before doesn’t mean you can do it again.”

“I’ll keep my eye on Garry,” I said.

“Guns?”

“No,” Garry said. “We don’t carry guns. We aren’t trained, and they could cost us days at every border.”

Graham took us on a tour of other, more external dangers. Drug and rob, long a favorite of crooks in Southeast Asia, was becoming more prevalent. A friendly stranger offers a drink from his own flask or perhaps some food. These con men prey especially on good-hearted travelers.

“Ah, señor, I am shamed at my poor offering. I understand why you won’t drink with me. I am a poor man and have nothing better.” Anyone who would like to think of himself or herself as an ambassador of goodwill will crumble, take a deep breath, and drink of a new friend’s humble offering.

“No, really, it’s very good,” the would-be ambassador of goodwill hears himself saying and wonders why there is a slight interior echo. The victim wakes up six hours later, missing his cameras, backpack, possibly his clothes and nursing what feels like the worst hangover of his life.

I told Graham that we wouldn’t be eating local food at all. “I’ve ordered fifty man days of freeze-dried food. We buy bottled water.”

“And we’ve got milk shakes,” Garry pointed out. “We won’t be hurting for milk shakes on this trip at all.”

Graham asked how we expected to heat the water. “One of those electric coils people use to heat tea,” I said. “There’s a kind that plugs into the cigarette lighter.”

Graham nodded in approval, though, in point of fact, I hadn’t considered drug and rob when I bought the food. Freeze-dried meals, I thought, could be made in a moving car: turkey tetrazzini at seventy miles an hour.

Since we wouldn’t have to worry about drug and rob, Graham suggested that we spend some time fretting about choke and rob, a more traditional technique. The bad guy comes up behind your back, throws
a rope or chain over your neck, and pulls tight until you hand over your wallet. “Watch your back,” Graham said. “When you stop for diesel, watch your partner’s back.”

In regard to the dirty diversion, Graham suggested that whenever either of us noticed something unusual, we should yell “diversion” and move to a back-to-back position. “When you yell,” Graham advised, “point at the person causing the diversion. He is usually the most presentable of the team and is not used to being fingered. This confuses pickpockets.”

Graham didn’t think that money belts were a good idea. Pickpockets and robbers expect them. A purse worn around the neck and inside the shirt is often suggested in guidebooks. “Some people put a guitar string inside the neck loop,” Graham said. He didn’t recommend the idea. “Sometimes thieves come screaming by on motorcycles and they grab the bag, hoping to tear it off your neck, rip the fabric. Better to lose the bag than suffer a broken neck.” In Graham’s experience, Latin American crooks didn’t often look for a leg pouch, which is a pocket fastened to the calf with elastic bands. Graham himself kept his passport and larger sums of money in a leg pouch.

If all else failed and we found ourselves in an abduction situation, Graham said we should not get out of the truck. We were much safer in the cab. We should stay together. “They will try to separate you.”

Abduction scenarios usually happen when an official—a real officer or a imposter: uniforms are easy to come by—asks to see your passport. If this happened in a city and we were not sure whether the man was a real police officer, we were to insist on going to the nearest police station. We should not surrender the passport to a suspicious official, ever. “That’s the first step in an abduction,” Graham said. “The confrontation usually happens in public. What they want to do is get you to a place where there will be no witnesses. The first move is to get your passport. Now they have something you want. You have to follow them. It’s a situation that starts with a minor hassle and then gets worse and worse by degrees until you find things becoming very ugly very quickly. They lead you into an alley, for instance, and there’s men there with knives.”

The last ditch defense was physical force. A fight.

“Each situation has its own logic,” Graham said. “Think ahead. If it looks like they want your truck and need to take it somewhere, try to ride with them, inside.”

“Even if they have guns?” Garry asked.

“Especially if they have guns,” Graham said. “A knife is a much better weapon in an enclosed space.”

We, Garry and I, expressed some doubt about this.

Graham said, “Well, first of all, riding with your captors in the cab of the truck gives you more time to examine the weapons. I’ve heard of people being robbed or abducted with toy guns. You have to think. Don’t be so panicked you forget to notice whether it’s a cheap plastic replica. Look down the barrel. Does it have an obstruction like a lot of toy guns? Is it a revolver? Then you should be able to see the tips of the bullets staring at you from the cylinder. Sometimes the guns are real, but the perpetrators have no ammunition. It’s expensive and illegal for locals to buy in many places.”

If push came to shove, there were ways to disarm assailants. You could simply grab the gun, and get the webbing between the thumb and forefinger in between the hammer and shell.

That sounded a bit iffy to me.

There was another way: with hands up you create a diversion, something as simple as looking to the side as if you see something. When the gunman glances in that direction, you slap-grab the gun to one side and bring the other hand up to the barrel, twisting the weapon over the top of his hand and, hopefully, breaking the assailant’s finger in the process. There was a way to continue this maneuver and disable the assailant, though Graham thought we didn’t need to know that. We weren’t going to arrest anyone. “You just want to get the gun and get out of there.”

I knew that technique. I had practiced it years ago in a self-defense class. We used squirt guns. About every second attempt, I got a faceful of water. “Okay,” Graham said, “but the guy with the squirt gun was expecting a diversion. He knew you were going to go for his weapon. In any potential situation you face on this trip, you’ll have the element of surprise going for you. And besides, it’s worth your life. You remember that Air Afrique hijacking last week? A French citizen was brought to the first-class cabin, they put a blanket over his head and shot him. That’s ludicrous. It’s so easy to disarm people at close quarters. When the French flight attendant went for the gun, he was shot but he got it. He’s still in critical condition. But he’s alive. Think about that.”

And so, there in Garry’s backyard, on a bright summer afternoon, we practiced taking guns away from people. There I was, standing with my hands in the air like some terrified dude in a western movie. My stomach was knotting up. On the other hand, the idea of doing this, of
learning these techniques, seemed romantic and macho. It was a strange combination of sensations.

“You guys,” Graham said after a few exercises, “are really hopeless. Tim, how long did you study karate?”

“Maybe a year.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifteen years, I guess.”

“What you know is only going to get you in trouble.”

I told Graham that I fully intended to avoid situations where I might feel obliged to kick someone in the groin.

“Those kicks of yours,” Graham said, “are easily blocked anyway. I teach a self-defense course for women and I think that’s what you guys need to learn.”

A comment which made me feel considerably less macho. And then, all at once, completely assured. If a woman could learn these techniques, I could probably pick them up pretty well myself. Another macho attitude, disagreeable, I suppose, but there it was.

“The first thing I’d say about hand-to-hand combat, having seen you guys,” Graham said, “is to avoid it at all costs.”

Good thinking there, Graham, I thought.

“But if you do need it to get out of some situation, forget everything you thought you knew about fighting and go for the eyes. Poke, scratch, anything. This isn’t the movies and it’s not a fair fight. Do it fast, do it unexpectedly, and inflict pain. People can’t focus on hands coming for the eyes. Even you guys might have a chance.”

Maddocks turned his back and asked me to grab him around the neck. I figured he’d throw me, and came in with my knees flexed, ready to straighten him up, pull him backward, use my weight to keep him off balance. Almost as soon as my forearm touched his Adam’s apple, I noticed a knife at my raised elbow. It was a double-bladed survival knife, with a four-inch blade. The handle was black and the blade glinted in the late afternoon sun.

I let my arm drop, very carefully, and stood back.

“Where did that come from?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him pull it.

Graham lifted up his cotton shirt, which he wore outside his pants. There was a sheath, no thicker than a pocket penholder, and it was clipped inside his pants so the knife was out of sight.

“I teach my students to slash,” Graham said. “Don’t stab, slash.” The idea was to surprise and hurt the assailant, then run like hell. A slash across the face, especially the forehead, should stop just about anyone. Forehead cuts were especially bloody. People bleeding profusely
from the face generally forget what they were doing and become intensely self-absorbed.

So we stood among the flowers and practiced the technique involved in slicing up peopled faces. “Z” strokes were good: zip across the forehead, slice sideways over the nose, gash across the cheeks and mouth. I recalled doing something similar years ago at St. Mary’s grade school. We called it “playing Zorro.”

The summer afternoon was sweet and moist, heavy with the odor of flowers and grass, and we stood there for an hour or so, playing Zorro.

T
HAT EVENING
, at Garry’s summer cabin on Cape Bimet, I came across a disturbing item in the local paper: “AP, Mexico City: At least thirty people were killed yesterday when a Boeing 737 cargo plane slammed into a busy highway outside Mexico City in the evening rush hour, plowing into cars, houses, and a gasoline station, Red Cross officials said.” I wondered why that eventuality was not in the security briefing: planes falling out of the sky on us.

Jane was going to bed and asked Garry to lock the door.

“You have here,” Garry said in a Clint Eastwood whisper, “two guys who just had two, three hours of training in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Lucy,” Jane said. “Natalie.”

And Garry Sowerby walked to the door. I heard the dead bolt snick into the secure-locked position.

“Let’s get into tropical time,” Garry suggested after Jane went to bed. “We could make ourselves a couple of gin and tonics.” He motioned me into the kitchen and we sat at the table there, talking softly so Jane couldn’t hear us.

“Nobody gets hurt,” Garry said.

“What if they do?”

“You want to run?”

“We stop.”

“Damn right,” Garry said. “I never really thought about this much on the other drives. I think I’m nervous about it because of my kids. You know what my biggest fear is? The nightmare? It’s not gasoline or abductions or even getting shot at again. It’s hitting some kid. Killing a child. How could anyone claim a world record that represents the death of a child?”

“This was supposed to be a lark,” I said. “It was supposed to be fun.”

“So,” Garry said, “nobody gets hurt.”

“First priority.”

“First priority,” Garry said.

We sipped the gin and tonics in silence. Garry said, “Two more months.”