“No,” I say, even though I have three bites on my left arm. During the four-hour drive from Cartagena to Parque Tayrona, her voice surpassed the shrieking of my alarm clock as my least favorite sound on the planet. “The rest of us found the risk of contracting malaria more compelling than the possibility of staining our clothes with bug spray.” Which is especially ironic, considering that she’s already splattered with mud.
“Why can’t we just go back to the cabana?” Neda whines. “Hiking isn’t a vacation. Hiking iswork.”
I’d rather sleep in the sand with a rock for a pillow than bunk in the cabana with my cousin and her spoiled, ignorant entourage.
Neda complains about every step, and Nico’s jaw clenches tighter and tighter until I’m sure he’s going to dislocate his own jaw. Finally he pulls a small radio from his bagand drowns her out with salsa music. When the first song ends, a newsbreak reports that police found two bodies in a burned-out van on the edge of Cartagena last night.
My insides twist into knots. My father’s body was discovered the same way, nearly a year ago.
“What’s wrong?” Neda demands, and Nico summarizes the Spanish-language newscast.
Her forehead furrows. “It’s probably guerrilla warfare,” she announces, turning to me with an “I told you so” expression.
Genesis scowls at Nico. “Why would you translate that for her?”
“It’s not guerrilla warfare,” he snaps at Neda, his accent thickened with irritation. “FARC has disbanded. It’s just an isolated incident.”
He’s right. The conflict between activists and the Colombian government is all but over. Thishasto be a random act.
“Then it must be drug violence,” she insists.
I speak through clenched teeth. “Believe it or not, Neda, sometimes people in Colombia commit crimes unrelated to drug trafficking. Just like in the rest of the world.”
Still, I wish Ryan hadn’t heard. The reminder of our father’s death might not send him into a backslide, but it won’t help him either.
“Was it in the jungle?” Neda asks, as if she didn’t even hear us. “Guerrillas are always kidnapping and murdering people in the jungle.”
“Kidnappings are passé,” Genesis assures her, before Nico’s head can explode. “Today’s fashionable guerrilla makes his money in illegal gold mining and extortion. Besides, anyone who tried to kidnap you would give you back within the hour.” She links her arm through Neda’s. “You’re an acquired taste.”
Neda grins and flips her off. “Money is such a petty reason to ruin someone’s life.”
“Not for those who can’t afford food and shelter,” Nico insists. “But the gang riots and school shootings in the States trulyarepointless.”
“I don’t condoneanyviolence.” She stands straighter and looks down her nose at him. “I don’t even wear real fur.”
“How very enlightened of you.” I can hear my voice getting sharper, yet I can’t seem to stop it. “But while American minks are running around with their precious skins intact, Colombian farmers are being driven out of business because of US interference.”
Neda rolls her eyes at me. “The US doesnotput Colombian farmers out of business.”
“Their economic policies do,” Nico insists. “They also pour millions into the ‘war on drugs,’ yet nothing into helping feed and clothe the impoverished massestheyhelped to disenfranchise.”
For one long moment, Neda is quiet. Then she frowns down at the mud on her feet. “If this is the only way to get to the beach why haven’t they paved the path yet?” she whines.
I step over an exposed root and push aside a tall fernreaching into the path. “Because pouring concrete wouldn’t exactly preserve the natural beauty of the jungle.”
She stops in the middle of the trail to wipe a smudge of dirt from a delicate leaf detail on the strap of her left sandal. “I’m more interested in preserving my shoes.”
“Why didn’t you change into your hiking boots?” Genesis asks, and the frustration in her voice makes me smile.
Neda stares down at her manicured toenails, tucking a loose strand of straight, dark hair behind her ear. “Ferragamo says T-strap flats are perfect for any occasion.”
Genesis sighs. “For any occasion that doesn’t involve thorns, snakes, rocks, and mud.” For the first time in the history of their couture-based friendship, Neda has failed at shopping, and my cousin seems to find no humor in the situation.
I, on the other hand, think watching nature bitch slap a spoiled heiress is hilarious.
GENESIS
“How long is this hike?” Neda demands as we round another muddy curve in the path. “I can’t walk another half hour in these sandals.”
