Extremely Urgent

MARCH 1981/ CARABA, GUATEDORA When Kevin opened his eyes that morning, he could sense the physical presence of danger. He could feel it laying beside him, just as he could feel his body grow tense, and how the sunlight coming through the window warmed his face. He knew that his life was in great peril and dragging a wooden bench over to the wall and standing on it, he peered out the window to confirm his suspicions.

Outside, the sleepy village of Caraba was enjoying another blazing hot day. Then, he saw it. Moving along down the hilly, pot-holed, muddy road that led to the small village, came a white pickup truck. It was a Chevrolet Silverado with dark tinted windows. In the bed of the pickup were four Guatedoran peasants holding rifles.

It was the death squad and it was coming for him.

In the far reaches of his mind, he always knew that there was a possibility that a death squad might come for him, now he would have to confront the reality of the situation. What should he do? Run? There wasn't enough time. Besides, he didn't have a passport. He had nowhere to go. The only thing I can do is pretend that I am somebody else, he decided, and pray that these men are not looking for me.

In the cab of the truck was the driver, wearing a brown military uniform, and sitting beside him was another passenger. This man had on a business suit and was smoking a cigarette.

Jouncing about in the bed of the pickup were the peasants: four men wearing straw hats, ponchos and rubber boots. Each man held in his hands an old carbine. Unshaven, they all wore the same weary expression and leaned to one side slightly as the truck negotiated its final turn and entered the village.

The tiny village was typical of those found in Guatedora, Central America. It consisted of an enclave of tiny homes built of adobe that featured roofs made of tin or straw. Many had sheets instead of wooden doors and most had clotheslines that sagged with the weight of the colorful clothes hanging out to dry.

The vehicle rounded another turn, and made a funny gargling sound as the tires rolled over the cobblestone streets. The noise caused a few country chickens pecking at the gravel to scurry away.

Near the center of the town was a roundabout and in the middle, where the cement paths met, stood an old Spanish cannon. The truck rounded the turn and then took the narrow road that fronted an old Catholic church.