Three Men in a Raft by Ben Kozel

Author:Ben Kozel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MacMillan
Published: 2002-09-22T04:00:00+00:00

We were on the lookout for the first of two sizeable tributaries that would, between them, double the volume of the Apurimac in the space of 20 kilometres.

On a section of calm, just before the confluence of the Apurimac and the Pachachaca, we met our first curious resident since leaving the Cachora Bridge. He swam to within a couple of metres of the boat and fixed us with a beady stare. The slick brown otter then spun around and cruised back to shore.

The Pachachaca River looked like an enormous aqueduct. On both sides, smooth vertical walls met the water at a perfect 90-degree angle. And like a stormwater drain boosting the flow of a suburban creek after heavy rain, so the Pachachaca swelled the Apurimac.

The wave train just below the confluence bucked and tossed us with more power than anything upstream. It felt like we were caught up in some kind of wrestling match, as though the two rivers weren’t happy about having to share the same turf and so now had to contend for dominance. The fact that the river here is still called the Apurimac means that geographers at least think they know the winner.

Beyond the Pachachaca confluence, we entered cactus country again. They were the only form of vegetation to be seen, standing tall and straight, like mute sentinels who seemed aware of our passing. Not for the first time on the journey, I felt closer to the Wild West of North America than the Amazon. This place could have been on a postcard of the Grand Canyon.

Midway between the Pachachaca and the Pampas confluences, we came across the first people in six days. They were workers on a half-completed steel bridge. When complete, the bridge would link a road between Ayacucho and Cuzco. All the men were from Ayacucho, but they had lived at a compound above the river for the past six months. The foreman was delighted to see us, as we were to see him when he promptly issued an invitation to lunch.

The workers’ compound felt like an army base. Four young women ran the kitchen and mess area. We sat at a long table while the giggling cooks took it in turns to serve the soup and main dish then collect our plates. When the foreman excused himself, the two higher-ranking cooks came out to chat. The other two women regularly peeked through the service hatch.

The head cook was flirtatious and blushing simultaneously. Her second-in-command didn’t say much, but fixed on each of us, one by one, an intense gaze. Both radiated plenty of sexual energy. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of dynamics existed between four women and 40 men in a remote work camp.

I steered the conversation in a direction that might get us something we wanted. ‘There’s one thing we haven’t been able to do for a while.’

‘What is that?’ the head cook smiled.

‘Cook ourselves a good meal,’ I announced. ‘You see, all of our pots sank a week ago.

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