Life Blood ---XXI---Page No--70

Then the path uphill abruptly opened onto a clearing in which sat a large two-story building, its color a dazzling white, most
likely plaster over cinder block, with a thatch roof and a wide,
ornate mahogany door at the front. The building was nestled in a grove of trees whose vines and tendrils had embraced it so
thoroughly, there was no telling how far it extended back into the forest. There also was a parking lot, paved and fed by a well-
maintained gravel road leading south.

Seeing it, I felt an immediate wave of relief. Even better, the lot itself contained half-a-dozen well-worn pickup trucks, while sunburned Maya men were lounging in the shade of a nearby tree and smoking cigarettes. They were not from Baalum. They wore machine-made clothes and they were speaking Spanish, unlike the men in loincloths down in the village.

Yes! That's how I can get us out of here. A few dollars . . .
        Parked there also was a tan Humvee, the ultimate all-road
 vehicle, which I assumed belonged to Alex Goddard. Maybe I should just try to steal it.

As we passed through the door and into the vestibule of the
building, I glimpsed a cluster of Maya women and children
crowded into a brilliantly lit reception area. Goddard smiled and
waved at them, and several nodded back, timorously and with
enormous reverence. They were being attended by a dark-eyed,
attractive Maya woman in a blue uniform—the name lettered on
her blouse was Marcelina— who was holding a tray of vials and
hypodermic needles. She was pure indigena, all of five feet tall,
with broad cheekbones and deep-set penetrating eyes. Unlike the
other women in the room, however, there was no air of
resignation about her. She was full of authority, a palpable inner
fire.

"One of my most successful programs here"—he nodded a

greeting to her—"is to provide free vaccinations and general health
resources for the villages in this part of the Peten Department."
        "I thought USAID already had public-health projects in
Guatemala." The sight deeply depressed me. They all looked so
poignant, the women with their shabby huipils and lined faces, the
children even more disheartening, sad waifs with runny noses and
watery eyes.

Which confirmed again that they'd come in the pickups parked outside, driven here by the men.

I had six hundred cash in dollars. I could just buy one of those worn-out junkers for that.

Alex Goddard glanced around, as though reluctant to respond in the presence of all the Maya.

"You saw those 'security guards' down there just now. They're
nothing but boys with guns, 'recruits' kidnapped by the
government on market day and pressed into the Army. They're all
around here. The powers that be in Guatemala City are very
threatened by what I'm achieving, so they've got these Army kids
hanging around, keeping an eye on me. They also hate the fact I
can provide health services better than they can. But to answer
your question, most of the AID money gets soaked up by the
bureaucracy in Guatemala City, so the people up here have
learned to rely on me. The Army, however, despises me and
everything I'm doing."

What a load of BS. You just admitted you had an inside track with Colonel Alvino Ramos. Anybody can see Children of Light or Ninos del Mundo, or whatever the hell other aliases you use, is thick as thieves with the Guatemalan Armed Forces. Don't insult my intelligence. It just makes me furious.

I turned to Marcelina. She'd begun passing out hard-sugar
candies to the mesmerized children, showing them how to
remove the cellophane before putting them into their mouths.
Though she was pure Maya, she looked educated. I instinctively
liked her. Maybe she could tell me what was really going on here.
        "Do you speak English?"

"Yes." She was gazing at me with a blend of curiosity and concern. "If—"

"I've got a procedure scheduled shortly," Goddard interjected,
urging me on down the tiled hallway. "But I need to take a
moment and recharge. Come with me and we can talk some
more."

Near the end of the hall, we entered a spacious, country-style kitchen. He walked over and opened the refrigerator.
        "Care for a little something to eat?" He looked back, speckled
white hair swinging across his shoulders as his ponytail came loose. "I had Marcelina whip up some gazpacho last night and I see there's some left. It's my own secret recipe, special herbs from around here. It's good and good for you."

"I'm not hungry." It wasn't true. I was growing ravenous. But I
was repressing the feeling because of everything else that was
going on. His "village" was holding back its secrets, and now his
clinic of "miracles" also felt suspiciously wrong. I'd seen plenty of
rural public-health operations in developing countries, and this

setup was far too big and fancy. The whole thing didn't begin to compute.

"As you like." He gave an absent shrug.

I looked around and noticed that just off the kitchen was

another space, which was, I realized, his private dining room.

There was a rustic table in the center that looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a large Cebia tree. I walked in, and
moments later he followed carrying a tray with two calabash
bowls of gazpacho and some crusty bread.

"In case you change your mind and decide to join me." He

placed a bowl opposite where he was planning to sit. "Like I said,
there're unusual herbs around here with flavors you've never
dreamed of."

He began eating, while behind him I glimpsed Marcelina

moving down the hall, carrying more trays of vaccine and headed
out toward the vestibule again. I had to find a way to talk to her.
        As I settled into the rickety chair that faced my plate, I glanced
down and saw a red lumpy mixture with a spray of indefinable
green specks across the top like a scattering of jungle stars. No
way.

When I looked up again, he was swabbing his lips with a white napkin, his penetrating eyes boring in.

"Now," he said, "it's time we started concentrating on you. Got you going with your program." 

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