A Horse Called El Dorado by Kevin Kiely Read Free Book Online Page A

everyone was ordered off the chiva . At first the driver refused to get off, shouting that he was responsible for the safety of his vehicle. The ‘captain’ persuaded him with a gun barrel, poking it against his ear so that the driver cried out in pain. We stood on the road, squinting against the fierce sun.
    The roadblock was made up of their old, white Renaultcar, along with some wood with barbed wire hammered into it and a stack of old tyres. I watched one of the guerrillas sorting the items stolen from us, as if he had been to the market. The ‘captain’ instructed the driver to open the gasoline tank of the chiva , and he stuffed in a cloth until it held tight. There was a piece still sticking out and to this he held a lit match. I was fascinated watching the flame flicker, until there was a small exploding sound. A bright sheet of flame leaped out from the petrol tank, lighting up one side of the bus. Everyone moved back.
    The flames made their way inside the bus, and the seats caught fire. There were groaning and crackling noises, a stench of burning rubber and tin, and finally a loud explosion as the engine caught fire. Flames shot out from under the roof and the engine. The glass windows turned black and cracked in the intense heat. When the panes had shattered, the bus seemed to have shrunk inside the flames. There was smoke everywhere and a horrible stink of burning.
    We watched as the ‘freedom fighters’ packed up their loot and put the roadblock materials into the boot of the Renault. They hooted and honked as they drove away from the burning wreck.

Chapter 11
    I need hardly tell you how fed up everyone was, having been robbed and left stranded at the side of the road. After a lot of angry talk and cursing from the men and women, the driver organised a group to walk to the next town and send back a bus. He and six others walked away, leaving thirty of us behind.
    A few of the men went to find wood for a fire. An old woman with a face like ancient tree bark produced a cooking pot and a frying pan from where she had kept them hidden from the guerrillas, under her enormous skirt! Soon, like magic, we were heating corn, rice and capers. There was a very small amount for everybody. Then we all lay around wherever there was shelter. I slept very little, watching the heaving bodies breathing in and out, and the noisy birds and insects around us.
    Another chiva arrived at dusk, with a different driver. He chatted to Mama and tried to make her laugh. He also patted me on the head. We were allowed on the bus first and invited to sit on seats near the door, behind the driver’s bay. When everyone was seated we set off again.
    We were making great time on the road, as the adultskept saying over and over. Late at night we stopped to eat rice and beans at a cantina , which was a welcome break in the journey. We didn’t stay long though – the driver was anxious to get to Cartagena del Chiara, which is over halfway to Cali.
    Not far from Cartagena del Chiara, the driver stopped in front of what seemed in our headlights to be rocks on the road. Then the rocks stood up – they were, in fact, two men wearing ponchos . They climbed slowly aboard the bus, their wide-brimmed hats pulled down over their eyes. They looked old and feeble under the dim roof lights. I thought they must have a fever, because an old woman behind us welcomed them and asked after their health. One of them nodded, a pained expression on his face. He produced a paper cup and got water from a family with a good supply in a plastic container. There was nowhere for them to sit except on the floor between the seats.
    When we had got under way the men arose, produced guns from under their ponchos and held us up. They ordered the driver to pull the bus off the road. The driver replied that he would need one of them to assist him in steering. The bandit told him to do the steering himself, but the driver insisted that he could not steer off the road at this