BY HARRY P. OTTER

The Crib

 

            I still couldn’t believe that the stifling heat, the three-day barge-ride, the two-day hike through the desperate vines, insects, and terrain couldn’t protect these people. I couldn’t understand how a law meant to protect this area could lead to this, simply because it hinged on the presence of this private tribe. I tried to imagine the last year: the usual hum of this tiny, ancient community against these humble homes blended with the unusual sounds of visitors. All I could hear, though, was the eerie echoes of the jungle in the charred and hollowed out structures. I imagined the reassuring voices of the cartel squad late yesterday as they approached the last survivor in his hut, the explosion of bullets, him slipping out the back. How could he not be charred and hollowed out after this last year?

            In his home my foot bumped something. A cradle, untouched by the carnage. Even in the dimness I could tell it was masterfully crafted. I had come here to help these people, to preserve their language and culture, as unique and rich as this cradle. I was in his space—less than 24 hours from this man. I had supplies he would never take, interest he would never believe, and motives he could never trust. The cradle, a priceless artifact back home, I returned carefully to the rubble and turned to leave, my soul crippled by shame of my people and love of a people no one would ever meet again.