A Game of Futebol

By Ray Allard

Rio Pequeno is a village surviving from a destructive, drawn-out civil war, one that has left this little-known South American countrys federal infrastructure demolished. The villagers, in fearful memory of past atrocities and military reprisals, are playing reluctant hosts to an occupying company of battle-weary soldiers, who are seeking rest and reorganization. Amid a mix of hospitality and resentment, conflicts arise. Tensions arise, primarily between the tired company commander and the stubborn village priest, and lead to an inevitable and highly emotional confrontation overa game of futebol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 6, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465332431

Ray Allard

I'm 65 years old. I was born in 1944 in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I received my BFA in Studio Arts in 1971 from the University of Minnesota. I was a Sergeant E-5 in the Army National Guard, and worked 15 years for the Minneapolis Star Tribune, where I met Gerri Williams, whom I later married. From 1985 on, Gerri and I have lived in Nairobi, Kenya; Lisbon, Portugal; Guatemala City, Sao Paulo, Brazil, and Durban, South Africa. In South Africa in 2000 I received an M-Tech degree in Fine Art Printmaking. I have trained as a public speaker through the Toastmasters program. I have been teaching ESL for more than 12 years, and English Composition at Strayer University. I have alsao taught Drawing, Design, and the History of American Blues. I write poetry, play the electric bass, draw, write, exhibit my artwork, and continue to pursue all my creative interests.

Book preview

ONE

THE COUNTRY

PERMIT ME TO tell you a story of a small country with two names. One is in Espanol: Tierra del Verde. The other is Portuguese: Terra Verde. Which one is correct no one seems to know. It is a mostly matter of personal choice. Here, the two languages are as one. Residents do not make a difference. For preference, on some days, it is one; on other days, the other.

And it is true. The choice between Portuguese or Spanish as a common language is irrelevant to the inhabitants of this insignificant pocket country nestled in the mountains of South America. Everyone speaks both, freely and interchangeably.

Roughly the size of New Jersey, it is unknown in North America. Terra Verde has in this century endured three military juntas. Unlike what has occurred elsewhere in the Latin world, these juntas have been free of foreign interference, because of the country’s insignificance. Tierra del Verde is long and narrow, nestled in among the peaks of the tall cold Andean mountains, forming a thin line between Argentina, Bolivia, and Paraguay, connecting Chile and Brazil. It is easy to miss. For political reasons, as much as sheer map-making incompetence, it has most often been omitted from the world’s atlases. These days it is possible to find it only in some current editions.

The terrain is mountainous, of course, but there is a central plain of good agricultural land dominated by a ragged old volcano at one end. Vulcan Dormindo, as it is called, looks down on a large, spring-fed lake that spreads decoratively at its feet. From the lake a short, shallow river drains out across the plain, receiving small creeks and rivers that swell its volume somewhat. Eventually it splits, descending to the Pacific ocean on one side, and into the Brazilian swamps of the Pantanal on the other.

Clustered like dusty, scattered sugar cubes, the white buildings of the capital city of Cidade Verde (or Ciudad Verde) lies baking in the direct sunshine at the opposite end of the valley. A sleepy, irregularly-scheduled railroad crawls up the mountains from Brazil and terminates here, bringing in the little bits of imported goods that Terra Verde wants or needs. A small but functional airport on the outskirts of the city hosts several of the local Andean airlines. There is no national airline. The airport is too small to land or service commercial jets, but old DC-3’s, Convairs and Lockheed Electras can be seen coming and going several times each week. The downtown skyline exhibits one or two ostentatious government buildings, a rather elaborate Spanish colonial cathedral, and several newer, high-rising office or apartment buildings of ten or twelve stories. The rest of the city lies flat, with few significant buildings over two stories tall.

The climate in Tierra Verde combines all the worst qualities found in various Latin countries: unbearably hot and protracted summers, and viciously cold winters, with fierce wind-driven rain, freezing at times, but mercifully short. Spring and Fall are almost non-existent. Promotional brochures for the local chamber of commerce, at least two decades old in the 1950’s, describe the country as a tropical paradise. That depends entirely on your definition of paradise.

There are few major industries or natural resources. The country is largely rural, with villages scattered randomly across its countryside. What slight international trade exists involves textiles woven by the Terra Verdans. The designs are colorful and eclectic, but not always particularly traditional. Among the more geometric and folkish images, you can also find Mickey Mouse and Mr. Spock. Minor deposits of copper and nickel support a small mining industry. This provides a thin but steady income to the national treasury. These minerals, plus the textiles and a small amount of rare hardwoods, usually purchased by rich Asian customers, comprise the bulk of legal trade. Even the smuggling and contraband traffic is only mildly active. Like some other third world nations, the economy is not particularly vigorous. Nothing here is particularly vigorous.

Like all nations in the world, the limited tourist industry is supported by, and supports a cottage industry of tipicos, small artesanato objects that reflect the eclectic cultural images of the country. There are crudely painted figures of local costume types, garishly and sloppily painted, and carved as if by beginners. There are various hammered tin products, copper jewelry, and finished precious stones mounted in silver settings. There are other carvings and constructions to choose from, as well as the dazzling variety of fabrics.

Agricultural crops consist of corn, sugar cane, cotton, rice, bananas, potatoes and coffee. The farms of the plain provide ample produce to supply the country, but never a great surplus. In the case of sugar cane, virtually the entire crop is rendered into Xingo, the local version of aguardente; a potent liquor with a lingering aftertaste of the green plant from which it comes. The lake and the rivers provide some fish, but not enough to sustain an industry in this land-locked nation. Farmers husband goats, sheep and chicken. What beef is consumed comes from Argentina, and because it is at premium prices, it is available only in the expensive meat markets in el Centro. Most Verdan cuisine is based on mutton or chicken.

No accurate count of the population has ever been made, but estimates range between one and five million. The people themselves are a mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and Indigenous, and their easy use of the two colonial Romance languages mixed together is a result of this geographically unique location. The Indians have long since abandoned attempts to maintain their own language, content it seems to have contributed a word here and there into the general mix, most of which are profanities. The dual Latin heritage is most visible in place names. Institutions often supply both versions, and street names will vary between the two along their lengths.

Children are universally required to complete six years of school, from which they acquire rudimentary skills in math and reading. No one feels the necessity to study the geography much beyond Verdan borders. Rural school houses provide most of the schooling, half days, and the literacy rate is around 37%. A High School in Ciudad Verde provides further education, for those who can afford it. A lucky few students that show unusual promise can seek and obtain state scholastic support. Most graduates seeking education beyond this have to go to other countries, with actual colleges. It is no surprise that few ever return.

There is a picturesque waterfall of some local fame on one of the tributary rivers. The lake in the shadow of Vulcan Dormindo is large and attractive enough to provide some recreation. It supports a small, comfortable resort. There are not many other tourist attractions. There are no museums, for there are no treasures to contain in them, and no other natural wonders to lure bored travelers. Perhaps a thousand people visit the resort in any given season. More often than not, tourists have come here because they have read misleading descriptions in package tour brochures. In spite of the fact that the resort provides adequate service, and is clean, few visitors ever return. The resort is supported chiefly by a few wealthy Tierra del Verdans from the city.

The country has produced no writers, artists or musicians of more than local importance. There are one or two spaces in Cidade Verde where artwork can be displayed, but there are no art galleries, or other such institutions. The local music, when not a copy of fads or fashions in neighboring countries, is comprised largely of boring and repetitive Indian festival music, played on a whistle made from a bamboo reed, accompanied by a limited variety of irritating home-made rhythm instruments. A popular, centuries-old epic poem exists, that describes the founding of Tierra del Verde by Jesuit missionaries, who were eventually slaughtered by the indigenous population. No one knows who wrote it, but it serves as an inspiration for festival dances of a frequently lewd nature.

One publishing house provides the national newspaper, which is mostly full of government-approved news. It also provides three magazines that are aimed primarily at the female population, full of recipes, dress patterns, and stories about how to keep your man, even after he’s beaten you and slept with your teen-aged neighbor. Dozens of cheap books were published in the past and more than half of them were by local authors. Currently, no future publishing plans exist. What books are sold on the newsstands come from other countries. Other than the downtown newsstands that chiefly peddle crude and badly printed pornography, there are no bookstores. The only library is a neglected institution in Cuidad Verde, where books, maps, and other significant national documents sit rolled or folded up in cardboard boxes, molding on metal shelves, turning slowly to dust. History, it seems, is not of particular interest locally.

Tierra del Verde is nominally a republic, ruled by a president and a congress with a long tradition of self-serving ineptness. The Republic acquired independence by default. In 1834, during a dispute between Spain and Portugal over something else, now forgotten, possession of Tierra del Verde became a bargaining point. After nine hours of heated debate, both powers simultaneously surrendered claim, surprising each other, and leaving the Verdans completely on their own. It only took one year or so for the inhabitants to realize what had happened. After a week of consultations, the ruling elite elected themselves to office, wrote a meaningless, unenforceable constitution, and began printing money. Thus began the Republic.

There is, of course, a tendency towards coups and juntas. The military takes over for a while, kills a few journalists, rapes a few nuns, and transfers the treasury into the Generals’ coffers. The resulting military government is no more competent at handling civilian affairs than any military government has ever been, anywhere else in the world. When this becomes embarrassingly apparent, the military leadership holds an election. This allows the youngest and most handsome male from the aristocracy to be declared president long enough for him to abscond with the treasury himself.

That’s what Tierra del Verde is like today. Our story, however, takes place back in the mid-50’s. It was a time of change for this tiny republic. After six years of hard drought and ten years of protracted civil war, the country was now in ruins. A guerrilla army in the mountains had tried to wrest power from the aristocracy-supported military. Continual and sometimes bloody fighting created an atmosphere of chaos. Once the fighting dwindled to a stop, the combatants were able to slip into lethargy. Interest in continuing the war evaporated with the heat. By that time, there was little left to fight over. Many villages have been destroyed, thousands of young men, who would ordinarily be tending crops, were either in uniform, in the hills, or in the ground. What economy once existed was in shambles. And the surviving populace held its government in the same high regard as can be seen in any other South American country.

Martial law was in force, because no one with authority had declared the hostilities ended. No peace treaties had been signed, no agreements reached. No governing body had taken power. Roving bands of renegades and marauders still harassed the countryside in outer areas, but most people had been left alone, to work out their own arrangements. Few citizens could give a coherent explanation of the causes of the war. Few cared. It was a time to lick the wounds, plant the gardens, rebuild the stone walls, and put a new coat of whitewash on the cottages. Life, after all, goes on.

TWO

THE CAPTAIN

A HARSH NOON-DAY SUN beat down with awful supremacy on the rutted dirt road, as a small column of military vehicles slowly crawled along it, bouncing over the colorless profusion of scattered stones. Dust swirled up into the day’s atmosphere, covering the sweating soldiers in a thin muddy film. The countryside had the parched yellow color of thirsty late summer plants, and the broad glossy dark leaves of the few towering trees shone in the day’s light. Here and there a few birds flitted about, but most creatures had better sense than to try to accomplish anything until the day had worn on, and the coming of night saw a drop in temperature. The three vehicles moved like lazy bugs slowly up a hill until they reached the top, and the jeep in the lead came to a stop on the crest. The two following trucks came to a stop also, heaving exhausted mechanical sighs, as if done in by the heat.

Captain Geraldo Neihardt stood up in his jeep for a better view. The windshield was too cloudy with road-colored dust. He passed the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat, and was surprised for a moment at how dirty his hand had become.