Search

I can't say “No.” Well, I can say it a few times, but apparently without conviction. I was talked into participating in search for a missing American woman.  The consensus was that it would be fruitless. The winning argument was that it would make the family feel better.

Timon, my gardener, showed up, I gave him the day's tasks and headed down to my boat. The mooring line had been chewed through by a dog and the boat had drifted, stuck near shore at low tide. It would be six hours before the water would float the boat. Timon and I tried to extricate it but didn't have the requisite muscle.

Timon went off to get another helper and returned alone. Where is the other? Oh, he is coming from next door. After about fifteen minutes the other Indian stood on the end of the dog, giving my dog a most hateful grimacing snarl. What was that all about? We easily freed the boat and then the worker conveyed that as he was approaching my house through the jungle Hayu had given him a bite on the ass. I have to say, if someone asked for my assistance and I was rewarded with a bite in the ass, I would leave him to his own devices.

We met at the Pickled Parrot, a bar and restaurant over the water on Isla Carenero. George and his wife Jessica run the place. “George how do I get out of here?” “Head straight to Hospital point and turn right at the blue water. Over there is 'J.B.'s Reef' he hits it every time.” An over the water restaurant in a foot and a half of water. What a concept. Well, he hadn't intended to open a restaurant but his wife figured it was better than just giving away beer to all his friends. I figure it is a break even proposition.

Although I was a few minutes late there was not a boat to be spotted. A few locals had taken water taxis.

A sixty something woman said “Do you know Jim? I am carrying his child.”

A cute twenty something said “Of course I know Jim and who isn't?”

What?

The police showed up in a water taxi. They don't have a single operating boat. The head of Judicial investigations. Five people I've never seen before that had flown down from the states to aid in the search. A bunch of cops. A guy who claimed to be a search and rescue specialist. A man from the FBI. Known locals. The parents of the missing woman.

We drank coffee. Most of the volunteers were ill prepared for the task at hand. The island is a swamp. Rubber boots and a machete are required. Aerial photographs were produced, we were broken up into teams of four and headed off into the swamp. We were told that many parts of the island were dangerous and that those areas would be avoided. OK, avoid the swamps, the only place not yet searched and the only place a body is likely to be found. We were instructed to keep our eyes open for a mattress and a stove. Had they been on dry land they should have been found months ago. If they are in the bottom of a swamp, we wouldn't see them.

People walked single file behind their group leader. Although I had cut some walking sticks from saplings or branches, instructing them to probe the ground before treading, these city folks continually got themselves stuck in the muck, removing their feet sans boots. One person would steady them while another retrieved the boot. These volunteers were less than worthless. There was no search pattern. It was a charade.

I broke off from the group and hacked my way through trails that had some overgrowth. No point in going into untread ground nor well travelled trails. The interior was littered with sandals, boots, a stack of propellers here, metal cans formerly holding wood preservatives, oil cans, bags, backpacks, the discards of the thieves.

An investigator: “Jim, I found a well.” “That is a septic tank.” He wanted to “investigate” it. I cleared a path and built a bridge from discarded wood. He stood over it and probed with his stick. “A body in there for four months would be fully decomposed, if you hit a bone, it will just sink into the muck and you won't feel it.” He started pushing his stick down into the muck and lifting it. “Any bone will fall off your stick. It will always come up empty.” We moved on.

He got on the phone and told somebody that he was waste deep in mud in the middle of a search. His ankles were dirty, but not much else. He went on to explain that the search was made difficult as all the rains had caused high tides. Sure, all that rain has raised the water level in the ocean.

He found a large pile of thatch that he wanted to investigate. “This is about a mile from the house. It would take days to make this pile. Do you think that he would have made many visits to a house renovation and tracked his way through the jungle to time after time to the body? Let's move on.”

Where do they find these guys? “What's that?” I shook my head, that's Bibi's right next to our starting point. He got on the radio and called for the group to reconvene at the Pickled Parrot. We all had lunch, received heartfelt thanks from the parents of the missing woman and disbanded.

I returned to the Pickled Parrot in the evening. The news on TV continually showed footage of an “extensive search”.  If they want to find the body, they should drain the swamps.