| Subject: Chapter 3a |
Author:
Juli
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Date Posted: Friday, June 25, 06:23:44pm
In reply to:
Juli
's message, "Angelita" on Friday, May 21, 10:47:26pm
Chapter 3
Michael rolled his eyes as Birkoff headed quickly for the lavatory on Wirth’s jet. Again. The boy, Michael couldn’t bring himself to call him a man, must have had the worst case of airsickness Michael had ever seen.
During the brief period before he got sick, Birkoff had shown Michael some of the technology that he had brought on their “adventure.” Michael had been impressed. He grudgingly admitted that the handheld GPS navigation devices would definitely come in handy, and he planned on keeping one for himself. The computer whiz had also begun to explain the other gadgets he had brought when a bout of turbulence had sent him running for the bathroom.
Michael leaned back in his seat and slept the rest of the way through the bumpy ride to South America
It was late morning when they landed, and one of Wirth’s agents met them with a sturdy off road vehicle, packs, supplies and men to help with hauling once they could no longer drive in the jungle.
Michael thanked the man in Spanish, and motioned for Birkoff, who was looking decidedly grateful to be on the ground, to get into the truck. Michael hoped that Birkoff would not be as car sick as he was air sick.
With a laptop propped on his lap, Birkoff booted his navigational software. A flashing red dot glowed in the center of a detailed terrain map, indicating where the vehicle was.
“Are you going to be ok?” Michael asked, shifting the truck into gear.
Birkoff blushed. “I’m ok in a car; I just can’t handle flying,” he said, not meeting Michael’s eye.
Michael gave a nod and stepped on the gas. The truck rumbled forward, another truck carrying the men and supplies following behind. After some time, Michael had to admit that having Birkoff along with his high tech map was quite convenient as he didn’t have to stop to navigate around towns or natural barriers. They made good time from the town of La Paz, and at the place where they would have to abandon the vehicles, Michael called a halt. The natives unloaded the trucks and set up camp for the night. Singing as they worked, the Bolivians quickly made camp and began cooking dinner for the group.
Michael stepped away from the bustle of the camp and stood alone at the edge of the jungle. “This is where it begins,” he thought, breathing in the familiar scent of the humid jungle. The sights and sounds felt like coming home again. The time spent in New York seemed to melt away as he reacquainted himself with the Amazon rain forest.
He pondered this “errand” he had been sent on, again shaking his head at the absurdity of it. He had spent the last few years living in South America, and he knew how hard it was. “Hiding is more like it,” his inner voice taunted.
Pulling out a map to distract his mocking thoughts, Michael planned the trip for the next day. Birkoff noticed and walked over.
“If you tell me our route, I can program it into all of the GPS systems and nav. computers,” he offered.
Michael nodded. The computer genius, though not an outdoorsman, was rapidly making himself useful. After several minutes of study, he folded the map down and pointed with his finger to show Birkoff.
“We will traverse this ridge, then through this valley, and make camp by the Tiuchi River. From the riverbank camp, we can make it to the village in one day on foot. We will make that our base camp. That way the bearers won’t have to carry all of the gear any further than they have to,” Michael explained.
Birkoff nodded, his stylus tracing the route on the screen of his instruments. “I hate to admit it, but I’m not looking forward to the hiking tomorrow,” he said, not looking up.
Michael could hear the nervousness in Birkoff’s voice. It was the same with all city people. He put a hand on Birkoff’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. You might even find that you like it out here,” Michael said.
Birkoff looked up at that, his face was incredulous. “Like it?!?!” he gasped, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Michael broke into a rare grin. He figured the kid spent his whole life in air conditioned, sterile computer rooms. He probably didn’t even have a window.
“Don’t worry,” Michael repeated. He turned from Birkoff and headed back towards camp. The Bolivian dinner was beginning to smell delicious, and Michael realized how hungry he was.
Later, after sitting around the fire listening to the natives joke with one another in Spanish, Michael climbed into his tent and draped mosquito netting over him. He was asleep in minutes.
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