Dad's Diary

By Peter Golden

The airport was dank and unfamiliar. A cold breeze had smacked Dean in the face as soon as he had emerged from Rio de Janeiro’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International. Dean observed a cute looking couple to his left, gaping indulgently into each other’s eyes. All Dean had on this continent was himself, a rucksack and a diary. It was the diary of his estranged father Jack who had disappeared when Dean was a child.

Using memoirs from the diary and with the help of some new friends he meets in a Rio hostel Patrick, Zach and Greg, Dean traces the exact footprints of his father through Brazil, Argentina and Bolivia. The boys have skirmishes with crocodiles, explore uninhabited islands and sleep under the stars on tranquil beaches in adventures that they will be able to tell their grandchildren.

When political unrest takes heave in Bolivia, Dean and his friends discover that there is no exit; all the roads out are blocked. Three of his friends are taken captive by the Bolivian army under suspicion of espionage. Dean travels to the capital La Paz with Irishman Patrick, unearthing some startling truths about his father along the way, which have the potential to change the course of Bolivian history and topple some of the most prominent political figures in Bolivia.

Dean starts to question whether he wants to unearth his father’s secretive past any further or whether his Dad Jack would be best left a distant memory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Golden
• Release date: Jan 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311748867

Peter Golden

Peter is an Irish writer.He is an avid traveler and explorer and these themes have featured throughout his work.His first full length novel Dad's Diary is a coming of age story about a boy discovering himself on a travelling adventure in South America.

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Dad's Diary

a novel

by Peter Golden

Text copyright © 2014 Peter Golden

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook my not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Dean fidgeted as the queue edged closer and closer to the burly immigration officers of Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport. The quandary of not being allowed entry into Brazil had not entered his thoughts until he realised that he would have to explain the reason for his travels to one of the unreceptive men standing a few paces on front of him. He faintly understood himself why he had travelled nearly six thousand miles, how would he be able to tell an officer entrusted with safeguarding Brazil's borders that he had legitimate business being in this country?

The reality of why Dean had just disembarked from Air France flight 447 would be incomprehensible to the officer. Dean was in search of something skulking deep within him. Nineteen years of soul searching had not conjured up the ability to locate it. It weighed on him like an irrepressible madness; a lead noose tightening around his neck.

His Dad was Jack Fletcher: handsome, a magnetic personality and an unquenchable thirst for adventure. Dean's Dad could have been anything he wanted to be. That is, if he had ever come home. If deep within Dean there was a gaping void, then deep in some cesspit in some far flung part of South America was the rotting carcass of his father; a salacious smile on his face no doubt.

Dean felt no anger towards his father. Despite being erratic and self-satisfying, he was above all a very likeable person. Women who had embraced their forties within a few mile radius of Dean’s house would talk about his father with a subdued wistfulness. A flicker of passion would radiate in their tired eyes whenever Dean would mention his father’s name. They spoke in hushed whispers amongst themselves, trying to comprehend why Jack had one day decided to leave a wife and a young boy and fall off the face of the earth.

Being forced to live in the shadow of a man whose mere mention caused hushed whispers amongst the opposite sex, did nothing to alleviate Dean’s own concerns about his desirability to God’s more genteel creation. Speculation about the reasons for his Dad’s disappearance had narrowed to the surmised inability of his Mom to keep a man of that calibre satisfied. This, of course, had left her feeling discredited, bewildered and most notably alone.

Dean observed a cute looking couple to his left, gaping indulgently into each other’s eyes. The girl looked sleepy-eyed; her partner appeared dishevelled. None the less they were grateful to have finally begun their adventure. Dean resented their tacit affection for each other, but most of all he resented the fact that they had each other. In a strange continent with strange people, they could rely on each other. He just had himself and there was nothing that he could do about it.

‘Who’s next?’ The husky voice of a Brazilian Immigration Officer brought him back to his senses.

Dean approached the glass counter apprehensively. The only thing that stood between him and South America was a five foot eleven, brawny Brazilian who didn’t seem enthused with the idea of working at seven on a Sunday morning.

‘My name is Dean Fletcher. I’m from England.’

The officer’s face contorted a little when Dean mentioned that he was from England.

‘And why have you come to Brazil? Are you after the girls?’ the officer said, his mouth curling into a smile.

Dean relaxed as the officer eased his tone of voice.

‘I’m here to travel, and if I meet girls that’s just a bonus,’ Dean answered, trying to imitate the Brazilian’s humour.

‘Is it not unusual to want to travel here on your own?’ He picked up the passport and immigration card Dean had left on the counter.

Dean had been anticipating this question. ‘I’m travelling by myself because I have no choice. I could not find any travel companions.’

‘You have no friends you mean?’ Again, the officer’s mouth twisted into a smile.

‘I have friends. They’re just not in South America. I can make some more here.’

‘Rio is a very dangerous city,’ the officer advised, still working through Dean’s documentation. ‘You should be careful. There are many gangs and many people wanting to rob you. You can go.’

He stamped and slid Dean’s passport under the glass partition. Dean picked it up and walked through immigration control, avoiding any further eye contact with the Brazilian.

A few minutes later he emerged from Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport, only to be on the receiving end of a sensory bombardment. Firstly, the stale fumes of the cabbies’ cigarettes infiltrated his nostrils, whilst their aggravating heckling disorientated him. Secondly, the crisp sun filled every exposed pore of his body with a refreshing sense of vigour.

Dean noticed one taxi driver who seemed less fervent about getting his business. He approached him.

‘You available?’ Dean inquired.

He blew some smoke out and nodded his head slightly.

‘I want to go to Copacabana.’

‘That’s ok, get in to my taxi,’ he said, in a muted voice.

Dean moved towards his taxi and scanned the taxi licence pinned to the driver’s sweat-stained shirt. It seemed legitimate. He hoped that this would not be the last taxi journey he would ever make.

Chapter 2

El Misti Hostel in Copacabana is a backpacker’s hidden refuge in the midst of one of the most chaotic cities in the world. It is nestled down a quiet alley next to Hospital São Lucas a few minutes from Rio’s most famous beach. If you looked down the alley you would not be able to see El Misti, but only hear the incessant reggae beats which reverberate from its walls. A poorly erected fence is all that separates this treasure from being corrupted by the common traveller.

Dean rested on a beat-up couch in the barbeque area of El Misti. A makeshift bar sat beside him, while several other couches and tables were strewn around the barbeque. The smell of fresh burgers and skewed chicken transfused through the air quicker than the Bob Marley beats coming out of the stereo.

‘What’s your name?’ Dean didn’t realise the question was directed at him until he looked up and spotted a freckled, smiley face looking at him.

‘Me? My name is eh Dean,’ he replied apprehensively.

‘Cool. I’m Patrick,’ the friendly face said, extending an outreached hand to Dean.

‘What brings you to South America, Dean?’

‘I guess I’m not really sure yet,’ Dean said vaguely, unwilling to divulge too much information to a stranger. ‘I’ve come here to find out.’

‘You’re like the rest of us then. Haven’t got a bloody clue how we got here, and even less of a clue how we’re going to get out.’

Patrick had pitch-black hair, an uncannily pallid complexion and small dimples every time he smiled. Even someone from an isolated tribe in Southern Africa could tell that he was Irish.

‘I’ve always wanted to come here, ever since I was kid,’ Dean said, working up the confidence to extend the conversation.

‘It’s an amazing place. I’ve been travelling for just a few weeks myself and I’ve already extended my stay twice.’ He took a chunk out of the burger that had been resting on his lap and some ketchup oozed out of the bun and on to his shoe.

‘I was meant just to stay for two weeks and then go back to work. But I couldn’t leave. Life here is just too sweet. I ended up ringing my boss and my Mom and telling them I’m not coming back. As you can imagine they didn’t take it very well.’

‘I can imagine not. Who are you travelling with?’

‘By myself. What about you?’ The sight of the granulated beef rolling around Patrick’s mouth was making Dean hungry.

‘On my own as well. I didn’t think I would bump into another solo traveller so fast.’

‘What are you on about?’ he replied, looking at Dean slightly perplexed. ‘Most of the people in this place are travelling on their own. You’ve obviously come to the right place then. El Misti is the first stop of the lost souls who come to South America. Say what are you drinking? I’ll get you one.’

Patrick gestured towards the Barman with the skilful hands at the makeshift bar. Dean tentatively gazed at the Brazilian measuring and shaking cocktails in his metallic shaker, behind the wooden panel that was supposed to serve as a bar.

‘C’mon. We’re all friends here. This is El Misti, have you ever had a caipirinha?’

Dean wasn’t sure whether caipirinha sounded more like an exotic flower or the name of a Brazilian transvestite.

‘It’s a Brazilian cocktail,’ Patrick answered, as if he was reading Dean’s mind.

‘What’s in it?’ Dean said, trying not to sound like an amateur. He did not have the most illustrious drinking history and he didn’t want Patrick knowing about it.

‘That’s the whole surprise. Listen, do you want one or not?’ Patrick looked like he was not about to offer again.

‘Let’s go for it.’

Patrick instructed the barman to whip up two caipirinhas. Dean observed him measure the precise amounts of each component of liquor into the shaker, with a sort of exactitude that a brain surgeon would be satisfied with. While shaking the cocktail shaker, it became a sort of weapon, which he spun behind his head and through his legs. Dean was worried that the barman might mis-time a manoeuvre and that the cocktail shaker would go straight into the face of some unsuspecting visitor.

After about a minute, there were two murky looking drinks sitting on top of the bar. The contents of the glasses seemed more to Dean like something that had been taken straight from a swamp, than something potable.

Patrick grabbed the drinks and passed one to Dean. Dean pressed his mouth to the glass and the pungent alcohol immediately crammed into the cracks in his lips. Not willing to display weakness he continued to force the liquid down his throat.

‘Good isn’t it?’ Patrick asked, a mischievous smile on his face.

‘It’s definitely very strong,’ Dean replied, choking a little as his stomach tried to reject the unnatural substance he had just forced into it.

‘Get it into you. It’s good for you.’

Two more travellers emerged from inside the hostel and sat next to Dean and Patrick.

‘What’s the craic lads?’ Patrick asked.

‘Not a lot,’ the taller guy answered, ‘We’re just back from the favella tour. It was pretty sweet. A woman walked out in front of us with a syringe at one stage. That was definitely an eye opener.’

He spoke slow and deliberate, with a distinct Australian accent.

‘By the way guys this is Dean. He just arrived in Rio today. Dean, this is Zach and Greg. They’re brothers. Try not to get them mixed up. They hate it.’

Zach was shorter than Greg, with a defined jaw line and slender frame. Greg appeared better built, with undulating, blonde hair that nearly covered his blue eyes.

‘Pleased to meet you Dean,’ Zach said cordially, with the same pronounced accent as his brother.

‘Have you guys been in South America for long?’ Dean enquired.

‘Not much longer than you mate,’ Greg answered, opening a chilled beer, ‘We arrived four days ago. We’re gonna make a move from Rio either tomorrow or the day after.’

Patrick finished his beef burger and gulped back the last of his caipirinha.

‘Hey, I might decide to travel with you guys if that’s ok?’ Patrick proposed. ‘It gets a bit tiresome travelling on your own all the time.’

‘That should be fine,’ Zach responded. ‘We’re going to go to Parati. It’s a really chilled out spot a few miles down the coast. The buses going there from Rio are pretty good.’

‘What you at tonight Irish?’ his brother interjected.

‘Not sure. You guys want to go to Lapa?’ Patrick suggested, brushing a fly from his forearm.

‘Sounds good. Dean you game mate?’

‘Sounds like fun,’ Dean replied.

* * *

18/11/1989

Rio is a crazy city. There is so much to do around Copacabana and Ipanema. I could spend hours watching the people pass by on the beach. The volley ball competitions are good too.

You have to go see the statue. I’m no religious guy now but I have to admit that sight will stick with me for the rest of my life. I like to think of it as Jesus watching over the city.

Rio isn’t a safe city. As long as you are alert you should be fine. Copacabana can get dangerous at night and the best advice I can give you is DON’T GO NEAR THE FAVELLAS! There are guys waiting in there to rob you.

I’m missing my baby boy already. I hope one day he will be able to understand why his Daddy left. If he’s anything like his old man then I’m sure he’s going to be angry for a while. But when all the dust settles he’s going to learn that his Dad loved him more than anything in the entire world.

I miss Susan. I bet every day of her life she regrets marrying a fraud like me. I could only ever give her my all; and I guess that just wasn’t enough.

* * *

Lapa is one of the more ‘colourful’ neighbourhoods of Rio de Janeiro. During carnival tourists can mingle openly with street performers and transvestites. The area is renowned for a vivacious nightlife, both on the streets and in its many bars and clubs.

Dean, Patrick, Zach and Greg found themselves in one of these clubs. The music was strictly house and the crowd appeared grungy.

Dean felt the incessant beat pulsate through his body as he downed another caipirinha. A hazy smog had descended on his consciousness and a smell of stale sweat permeated the air.

The boys stood at the bar, looking somewhat awkward amongst the wild party-goers.

‘We need to get onto the dance floor,’ Patrick yelled at the group, the sound of his voice being extinguished by the deafening dance music.

The group made towards the dance floor, a number of its occupants glancing uneasily at them as they did so. Greg immediately tried to pull some moves on a nearby Brazilian. She was either too inebriated to notice his advancements or too disinterested.

Meanwhile, Zach was dancing with a curvaceous brunette who wore a skin-tight, blue dress. She warmed slightly to his drunken dance moves and he slipped his hands onto her bustling hips.

The boys nodded with respect at the young Australian. A greasy looking South American guy approached Dean and spat something in Spanish at him whilst pointing at Zach. Dean initially ignored him out of caution but he was unrelenting.

‘No es una mujer,’ he barked. ‘Es un hombre.’

He became more agitated as he realised that Dean could not understand a word that was coming from his gummy mouth. Dean looked anxiously at Patrick, who was keeping a close eye on the situation. The South American became frustrated and walked off.

‘What was he saying to you?’ Patrick shouted into Dean’s ear.

‘Something about an h-o-m-b-r-e?’

‘Shit!’ Dean did not have to be able to hear Patrick to understand what expletive he had just used.

Patrick darted across the dance floor to Zach, who by this stage was cleaning the tonsils of the young Brazilian he was dancing with. Patrick grabbed Zach by his collar, like he would grab a mischievous puppy, and dragged him towards the exit. The others followed.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Zach screeched, as soon as he was released from Patrick’s clutches. ‘I was bloody in there.’

‘That was a bloke,’ Patrick retorted, in a matter of fact tone.

‘What are you on about?’

‘The girl you were dancing with. It was a man. One of the Brazilians told Dean.’

The boys could see the nausea spreading across Zach’s face. The colour drained from his usual rosy cheeks. There was an uneasy silence until Greg exploded into laughter.

‘The first chick you hooked up with in South America was a dude. This is priceless.’

‘Shut up Greg,’ Zach retorted. ‘This is disgusting.’

‘Give him a break Greg,’ Patrick urged, becoming the mediator. ‘It can’t be a nice feeling.’

‘Oh my God. Wait until the crew back home hear about this.’ Greg was unrelenting in his torment of Zach.

‘Come on Zach,’ Greg pleaded, ‘you have to see the funny side of this. It’s moments like these that make a holiday. When you’re eighty, you’re going to look back on this and laugh about it. I know you will.’

Zach’s face lightened a bit.

‘Well I guess if it had happened to you I would have been in stitches,’ Zach told Greg.

‘Exactly.’

Dean who had been chuckling silently burst into laughter.

‘Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk,’ Dean sang, imitating the popular Bee Gee’s song. ‘Ah, ha, ha, ha, she was a man, she was a man.’

The boys exploded into a barrage of gut-wrenching laughter as they walked down the street.

‘Man I feel like a woman,’ Patrick sang, getting in on the banter.

‘God this is priceless,’ Greg teased, almost incapable of walking because of the hilarity of the situation. ‘Dean mate, you have to come to Parati with us.’

Dean was slightly taken aback by the offer, but also somewhat flattered.

‘Ye I’d love to. I haven’t had a lot of time in Rio, but you seem like cool guys to travel with.’

‘Great,’ Patrick said, ‘Looks like it’s the four of us then.’

A pensive silence fell on the group as they began to amble in the direction of the hostel. Dean gazed cautiously at the individuals he had decided to share this poignant journey with. To him they were strangers, and yet he felt safe.

He had no idea where this adventure was going to bring him, and yet somehow he felt content, as if his route was mapped out in the stars and his only job was to follow it. He had a deep belief that if he kept faith in his journey, he would find the answers that he was looking for. He just didn’t know how long it would take.

Chapter 3

23/11/1989

After five days in Rio, I thought I needed a little bit of a detox so I got the bus down to Parati. Man this place is paradise.

It’s an old, quant, little village with some amazing views. I walked around the place for a while, but not too long because the cobbled roads were destroying my feet. Life here is so relaxed. People take a nap for about two hours every afternoon. It takes them so long to get anything done. Don’t go into a market in a rush because they don’t like being pressured.

The best thing to do in Parati is to take a boat ride. You can see all the boats down by the pier, but make sure you agree a price in advance. The Brazilians are shrewd business people.

I’m staying on a campsite just outside of the town. The funds aren’t looking too good after Rio so I thought a hostel might be even out of the question. A few drunken nights have cost me dearly. I’m sharing a big tent with two guys I met in Rio. They told me they were travelling down this way so I said I’d join them.

It’s surreal waking up every morning and being able to crawl out of your tent onto the beach. The