A Cut Above (12 page)

He smiles. “My country has worked very hard to eliminate the war that raged years ago. It allows us to explore new veins in relative peace.”

I know more than I ever wanted to know about run-ofthe-mill bandits. “Any new strikes here?”

Mr. Cruz gestures us into his SUV. “We’re working some white calcite veins in the shale rock, but we haven’t hit a new strike yet. The old veins are still producing, even though not as much as two years ago.”

“Any albite in the new veins?” Albite is usually a strong indicator of emerald material.

He looks at me with a touch of admiration. “Not yet. But we’re sure we’ll find emerald.”

The SUV roars to life, but before we pull out of the parking area, the cook runs toward us, three lunch pails in his hand. He and Mr. Cruz chat for a moment, Mr. Cruz passes the pails to me, I place them in the large, ice-filled cooler in the rear, and we leave the camp.

“We won’t have to return for lunch this way,” our host says. “The road down is long and very steep, and it would take more time than I think you want to spend in a car. The food is not fancy, but it should be good.”

“I don’t need fancy,” I say. “I’m thrilled about the opportunity to see the mining operation, as well as the stones you mentioned.”

“As you will.” He handles the SUV with the ease of a man used to doing this on a regular basis, even though the terrain is fast getting scary.

“Thank you, Jesus, for his expertise,” I whisper.

We eventually approach a chewed-up looking part of the mountain, where the black carbonaceous shale has been removed in the fervent search for green gold. As we come closer, I hear the rumble of heavy machinery. Soon, I see a bulldozer take another bite of rocky mountainside. By now, the sun has done its thing, and the
neblina
has burned away.

Mr. Cruz parks. Two miners come out from yet another cinder block and tin building. The men speak, and I wish I’d retained a whole lot more of that vanished Spanish.

I walk to their side. “Could you ask them if they’ve found any more indicators in that new vein?”

Our host turns to the miners, asks, and then listens to their responses. He wears a broad smile when he faces me again. “Emilio says the best indicator of emerald is emerald. And the new vein hasn’t yielded yet. But we do have excellent product. You’ll see.”

I chuckle. Emilio is totally right on, and probably knows better than the best geologist what’s what in the mountain of rock. “I can’t wait to see the stones.”

“Before we go,” Mr. Cruz says, “do you mind getting a bit dirty? He suggested I show you a few interesting spots.”

At my side, Max laughs. “She doesn’t mind any amount of dirt if she can look at rocks.”

“Excellent!” Mr. Cruz gives me an admiring look. “Smart woman, Miss Andrea. Very smart.”

I slant a glance at Max, and realize he’s grinning from ear to ear. Is he making fun of me or is he agreeing with the Colombian?

But as Mr. Cruz heads toward the far end of the cleared slope, I realize this isn’t the time to worry about Max’s reaction. Not if I want to see whatever the gemstone vendor wants me to see. I hurry after our host.

Ten minutes later, after we’ve scaled a nearly perpendicular path up the wall of rock, Mr. Cruz points toward a shale ledge on the mountain. A few hardy, stray vines have clung to their spot, and we use them to help us approach the ledge. When I’m close enough to see anything more than the rocky shape, I notice it’s been worked in the past.

“Are you digging here?” I ask Mr. Cruz, surprised by how inaccessible it still is.

“No, not really. Most likely, a local
campesino
—a farmer— has probably brought his pick and done a bit of looking on his own. We can run the best mine operation in the world, but sometimes these folks are the ones who are most successful at finding new emerald veins.”

“That makes sense.” I glance back down the way we came.

Getting down’s going to mean I can’t look—the flat starting point is farther down than I thought. I squirm as a drop of sweat works its way down the middle of my back. Since we left the camp, the bright sun has warmed up the air, and by now, the jungle is becoming steamy.

Oh yeah. It’s hot. By the time we get down from our mountain goat impersonation, I’m back to extreme “dewing.” I swipe the worst of the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and give a longing thought to that marvelous invention, central air-conditioning.

Our lunches are cold, though, thanks to the cooler in the back of Mr. Cruz’s SUV, and my can of icy-cold Coke tastes better than any I’ve had before. Once I’m done with my rice, meat, potatoes, and
arepa
, I dart a look at the single structure here at the mine site. The promise of emeralds is proving a powerful lure.

Not so much for the males. They’re discussing, of all things, the PGA. Golf ? Out in the Colombian jungle? Only Max. And another man. Show me gems.

Finally, Mr. Cruz gestures toward the building. “We should go to my office now. I’m sure you want to see the emeralds.”

“Finally!” The word is out before I can stifle it, and both Max and Mr. Cruz laugh as we head inside. Unfortunately, the heat goes with us. On the upside, I notice the large fan in the office window the moment I walk in.

I also spot the four-foot-square iron safe behind the desk. My heart speeds up at the thought of beautiful green bling. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth and watch our host twirl the safe’s lock.

First, Mr. Cruz withdraws a small plastic bag. “Miss Mona told me the network has recently contracted with a jewelry manufacturer,” he says. “You’re now making the pieces you offer in the shows. She said you’ll be wanting small stones for cluster settings.”

He opens the bag, and then turns out its contents onto a white velvet square. The small stones tumble out, ranging from one millimeter to three millimeters in size. I draw in a deep breath at the sheer beauty of their color and clarity.

Once I’ve chosen a sizable lot of stones for future rings and pendants, we move on to the large loose pieces. And that’s when a girl wonders if diamonds really are her best friends. The spectacular near perfection of Mr. Cruz’s inventory has my head reeling in no time. I start to pick out the best stones, buying pieces that range in price from $100 per carat to one magnificent, crown jewel–worthy emerald on which Miss Mona authorizes me to spend, get this, $30,000 per carat. I feel faint.

At my side, Max sucks in a sharp breath when he hears Miss Mona’s okay. But, true to his word, he stays otherwise out of my negotiations. By the time I’ve racked up a solid, seven-figure buy, I hear the even rhythm of a heavy jungle rain start up against the tin roof.

“Oh no!” I cry. “And we’re still here.”

The road out of the jungle didn’t strike me as the kind that might be the least forgiving of a vehicle’s wheels in the rain. I’m not looking forward to skidding down an Andean foothill, my pockets stuffed with a king’s ransom in green gems.

“Ah . . .” Mr. Cruz says, a twinkle in his eyes. “But the rain is as good as it is bad for us.”

The man might sell the world’s most amazing emeralds, but I think he’s got a loose screw. “Oh, really? How’s that?” “You know the Itoco River’s close to us, don’t you?”

I nod.

“Well, Miss Andrea, rain runs into the river and takes with it emeralds that wash from the matrix that’s thrown away at the official mines. Our
guaqueros
, the men we call ‘diggers for treasure,’ pick up these stones.”

“Hmm . . . wouldn’t that be stealing? I thought the government controls who can mine. Does the government give permits to these
gua . . . guaqueros
?”

“
Ciertamente
, the government controls mining. When we entered the Muzo region yesterday, I’m sure you saw the fences and the checkpoint.”

“Trust me. I could never miss an armed guard.”

Max coughs—I don’t buy. He’s hiding a chuckle.

Mr. Cruz flat out laughs. “Of course, we’re a licensed operation, with paid miners. The
guaqueros
carry on what we call ‘unofficial’ mining. Those of us who pay a fee to run a legitimate mine have made an agreement with the government to permit the local
guaqueros
to work the mine tailings in the river.”

“They’re gleaners then.”

“Gleaners?” Mr. Cruz asks.

“Yes. Poor people who gather whatever’s left on a farm field after the main harvest is over.”

“Oh, I like that word. Our
guaqueros
are just that, gleaners. Letting them do this helps keep our region of the country at peace.” He gives a small shrug. “Whatever they find, they can sell at the river, in the town of Muzo or in Chiquinquirá— another town some hours away. Some even travel to the market in Bogotá.”

“That does make a strange kind of sense,” I say. “But the government really has no problem with the lack of control over those stones? I can’t imagine they can charge a tax on that money.”

“It’s a trade. Less tax for some peace. And it gets confusing to try and follow them. Some stones sell over and over, at least once in each one of all those places, so following the money is almost impossible.”

When the deluge slows, we get in the SUV and start back to the main camp. I pray all the way up the narrow, slippery road—if you really want to call the glorified path chopped out of the mountain rock a road.

After brief goodbyes to the men, I head to my room. I need a shower before I can think of eating. Forty-five minutes later, I’m in clean clothes, with my scraps of hair dripping random drops onto my forehead and neck. After the success of the day’s buy, I’m pretty pleased, and head for the kitchen building. There, I find Max, who’d obviously been waiting for me.

“Did I abide by your rules, Madame Wheeler-Dealer?”

“Can’t object.”

“So can we return to our truce?”

“I suppose.”

“Will you allow me to break bread with you?”

“I just said we can redo the truce. I don’t imagine you’re going to sit with the miners who don’t speak a word of English. That is, unless you speak Spanish too.”

“I do speak some Spanish, but not enough to carry on a conversation with the locals. Besides, I’d much rather share a meal with you than with a pack of grubby males.”

I squash the chuckle that threatens, then head to the open window of the kitchen proper. There, the cook hands me what I’d call a platter, but when I look around, I realize this is what they use around here as individual dinner plates.

And what a dinner it is! My stomach rumbles, and I murmur my delight as Mr. Cruz joins us.

“This is amazing,” Max says, holding a matching platter.

“It’s what we call a
bandeja paisa
,” Mr. Cruz says as he reaches for his own meal. “A traditional Colombian dinner. Very good, but not good for dieters.”

A quick study tells me the cook likes to fry. Besides the rice, beans, and
arepa
, there’s a fried egg, fried plantain slices, what looks like fried pork crackling with a good-sized chunk of meat still attached, and while it’s not fried, a glistening sausage of some native kind.

“It smells wonderful,” I say, refusing to think where exactly on my hips each individual item of food will lodge.

We have a pleasant meal, and before long, it’s time to head to bed. The generator only runs until nine at night. After I check on the gems I’ve squirreled away, I pray, and crawl into my narrow bed. I fall asleep to the song of the rain on the metal roof.

In the morning, after another breakfast of eggs, potatoes, rice,
arepa
, and excellent coffee, we load up our belongings into the SUV and start back to the capital. This time, we’ll be going by another route, one Mr. Cruz says his mine manager insists will cut an hour off our total travel time. The vendor is staying behind, since he’s expecting another buyer’s visit, so one of his men takes the wheel.

Loaded with our lunch pails, we start out, this time on a road as narrow and scary as the one we took down to the mine workings. For hours, we climb straight up into the Andes peaks, and my ears feel awful from the pressure. When we reach the
páramo
, a highland region at the top of the Andean altitudes, we see the clouds around us again, and on the side of the road, a truly unique span of vegetation.

I point. “Oh, Max! Look at those golden grasses. They’re so tall and wild and exotic. I guess it’s what writers mean when they use the word ‘desolate.’ ”

“It is different out here, isn’t it? I find the shrubs and the twisted trees even more interesting than the grasses. Grab your camera. I don’t think you’re going to be hitting the Andes again anytime soon.”

“Do you blame those poor trees?” I snap a couple of photos. “I can’t imagine trying to grow out of rock in the middle of clouds. How much sun can they get? That’s probably why they twist and turn.”

“I’m no botanist, but I figure that’s about the size of it. No matter what, it’s not very welcoming.”

I shudder. “We won’t get to Bogotá soon enough for me.” Just as I say those words, we go around a tight curve. I hold my breath, sure we’re about to plunge into the cloud-shrouded valley below, but we don’t. As I let out my breath, however, I spot trouble up ahead.