It is dark in the jungle. As dark as a pitch-black plum pit sitting in the deepest reaches of a black panther's gastrointestinal tract.
I am writing long-hand. I must guess where the edges of the paper are, occasionally ending my lines on my khaki pants. The canopy is a long, black blanket blotting out whatever distant stars might ponder their way through the heavy overcast skies.
We have just left Sao Paulo. Tomorrow we will sleep in Brasília. Tonight we do not sleep. The forest is practically paved with poisonous snakes and miniscule rodents that climb up pants legs and play bongos with your testicles. Tonight we are like the Israelites, recently escaped from the clutches of the Pharaoh and doomed to wander for 40 years except in our case it's one night.
Chicago Dan finally plotted a route out of Sao Paulo that promised a decent chance of evading the clutches of the literally millions of professional kidnappers. The route took us through an abandoned lava mine, under a salt quarry and thither the University. We then were to ascend 500 feet into the hills before linking up with the sewers where our steel cargo containers would be converted into boxcars for use in a secret section of subway used by government officials smuggling urban development funds. Unfortunately when we arrived at the University we were unlucky enough to find ourselves in the middle of a protest against the forces of soul-crushing capitalism.
"Nós diamos comprar sapatas!" the protesters shouted. That is, "Down with capitalism!"
"Eu amo Bush, configuração de um monumento para honrá-lo!" "Bush is a scoundrel and his association with capitalism makes it even more repugnant!"
As we were trying to attract as little attention to ourselves as possible, the several dozen protesters that one of our massive 22-wheel trailers crushed to death were a bad break for us. And their families, of course. I do not attempt to match my grief to theirs. It's not a competition. The throng surrounded our caravan, incorrectly assuming our huge number of steel cargo containers represented the capitalist transport of commerce rather than a scientific expedition. They shouted, "Meu gosto das nádegas da clementina!" or "Let us kill those who are agents of misery!" as they tried in vain to overturn the trailer.
The lives of everyone I was leading were in jeopardy and so I did what I always do. I boldly stepped into the fray and, pardon my boasting, saved the lives of everyone. On both sides. The police were beginning to set up their crowd control flame throwers.
"Peoples!" I yelled in perfect Portuguese as I exited my armored Mercedes Benz. "Do not set your ire on us. We are you. You are we. Together we are we together!" That phrase makes more sense in Portuguese. "Turn your backs on violence. Save your knives! Unload your guns and drop them to the dust!" They began to quiet more in confusion than at the power of my words. "My name is Jacob Ditkovski," I said. "I am a scientist, a man who thirsts not for monetary gain or to feast on the man-power of the proletariat like so much breakfast sausage but to enlighten and discover. If you kill us you do not mark a blow against capitalism but against knowledge and truth! And that would be ironic because this is a university and you are all students. Do not be ironic! Seriously, it would be so very lame."
"What are we supposed to do then?" asked a six-year-old boy covered in soot and dressed in adorable rags. "We are angry and the rich live in skyscrapers and travel by helicopter so they don't smell the wretched stench of hard-work and death."
"You can struggle through peaceful protest to enlighten the wealthy elite until they give you human rights or you can buy surface-to-air missiles from Bahrainian arms dealers."
When I hugged the boy tears began to pour forth from the eyeballs of everyone around me. Even I was not immune to the tear gas canisters the police fired into the crowd. As I climbed back into my car and we started back towards the sewers and the secret subway I couldn't help but feel my throat closing. I was also dizzy and disoriented. That's pretty much when I passed out.
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While Jacob Ditkovski is on expedition all correspondence should be directed to his ward, Penelope Atwood, via Atwood [at] OkapiPress.com.
