Lost in the Jungle by Yossi Ghinsberg Page B

cookhouse, we found the boy’s father, the man who had been grazing the horses in the pasture, waiting for us. He wanted someone to tell his troubles to. He looked about guardedly, afraid the señora might overhear him.
    ‘Take a look at me,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know how old I am. When I was young, the señor brought me here. He promised to pay me and give me a plot of my own. Look at my clothes,’ he said, pointing to the patches covering his body. ‘I can’t remember how many years I’ve been wearing them. I have no others. I live in that mud hut with my wife and sons. They all work for the señor, like me. They don’t go to school. They don’t know how to read or write; they don’t even speak Spanish. We work for the master, raise his cattle, and work his fields. We only get rice and plantains to eat. Nobody takes care of us when we are sick. The women here have their babies in these filthy huts.’
    ‘Why don’t you eat beef or at least milk the cows?’ I asked.
    ‘We aren’t allowed to slaughter a cow. And the milk goes to the calves. We can’t even have chicken or pork – only if an animal gets sick and dies. Once I raised a pig in my yard,’ he went on. ‘She had a litter of three. When the señor came back, he told the foreman to shoot them. That’s the only time we ever had good meat. I don’t mind working for the señor, but I want him to keep his promise. I want a piece of land of my own so I can grow rice and yucca and raise a few chickens and pigs. That’s all.’
    ‘Doesn’t he pay you anything?’ Kevin asked.
    ‘He says he pays us, but he uses our money to buy our food. We never get any cash. Kind sirs, maybe you could help me to persuade the master. Just one little plot is all I want. The master has land, much land.’
    We were shocked by his tale. Marcus took out a notebook and pen.
    ‘What’s his name?’ He wrote down the name. The man didn’t know the address. He only knew that the señor lived in La Paz.
    Marcus was infuriated. ‘When I find the owner of the ranch, I’ll spit right in his eye. What a lousy bastard! I mean, it’s really incredible.’
    ‘That’s just the way things are,’ Karl said. ‘It’s sad, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’
    ‘I’ll get the owner’s address from the señora,’ Marcus said.
    ‘Don’t, she won’t like it. Anyway she’ll never give you the address.’
    ‘You know,’ said Karl, ‘when I got my degree in agronomy – ’
    ‘Agronomy ?’ I was startled. ‘I thought you said you studied geology.’
    ‘Well, not exactly. I majored in agronomy, but I spent years working here with a famous geologist. I learned geology from him. But it doesn’t matter.’ And Karl was off reminiscing. ‘I was quite a radical as a student, a Communist. The party sent me on a two-month visit to Russia, which was a big disappointment, and I gave up Communism. I went over to another movement, even more radical. It sounded good – very idealistic and high-minded – but my friends became terrorists. Some of them are wanted now internationally. That wasn’t for me. That isn’t the way to achieve your ideals. Fortunately I got out in time.
    ‘I got a scholarship to finish my degree in a tropical climate and was sent to Brazil. That’s how I got to South America, and I’ve been living in jungles ever since. I’ve covered every inch of this continent,’ Karl went on. ‘I’ve seen the poverty, the injustice, the corruption, and the exploitative regimes. I’ve wondered how the world could be changed. Communism isn’t the answer. Neither is violent revolution. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought and arrived at a new social theory. The only way to solve the world’s problems is mathematical cosmopolitics!’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Karl?’ Marcus asked.
    ‘Just look at the world. All of its problems would vanish overnight if it wasn’t for politicians. There’s enough food to go around, enough land,