Free The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos by Margaret Mascarenhas

a river or in the ocean, he can take care
     of himself. Good swimmers not only enjoy themselves and get wonderful exercise, they know when it’s time to come out of the
     water. And they also know when it’s wise not to go in. They know how to navigate safely through any watery environment.”
    “Hmmm. Then perhaps, my love, you should also be teaching
me
how to swim,” said Manolo. “Some of our compadres in the rebellion are about to get into some very deep water.”

    After she disappeared, Efraín searched for his mother everywhere, in the bars of San Felipe by day, and in the forest by the
     light of the quarter moon. Of everyone he met, he asked the same question, “Have you seen my mother?” Those he approached
     felt sorry for him. Some, moved by the tremulous lips and the supplicant gaze, tried to pretend as though they believed in
     the possibility, taking note of his description, saying they would keep an eye out. But most thought it a cruelty to feed
     his hope, saying they were sorry and offering him a sweet or a glass of chicha or a compassionate pat on the back. What else
     could they do? People involved in cross-border politics went missing all the time, either because they were in hiding or because
     they were dead. It was nothing extraordinary; it was a fact of life: People disappeared.
    La Vieja Juanita allowed him to carry on with his frantic search for two weeks before putting a stop to it.
    “That’s enough,” she said one evening. “There is nothing else to do but wait; I need you to help me at the stall.” And Efraín,
     waving his hand in refusal of the bowl of soup she offered him, tired beyond words, collapsed into his hammock and tumbled
     into the blessed oblivion of sleep.
    He dreamt of his mother. In the dream he was swimming in the river, and she was standing at the bank. She looked younger.
     He called to her to join him, she shook her head.
    “But you are a swimmer,” he said.
    “You are a better swimmer than I,” she replied. Then she waved and started to walk away.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To find Manolo, of course.”
    “Wait!” he called after her. But he could no longer see her.
    Now, every night when he sleeps, he continues the search for his mother in his dreams.

    Efraín finishes his breakfast, rises from the kitchen table and switches on the transistor radio. Tuning into the eight a.m.
     broadcast of
Buenos días guajiro
is a daily ritual. Apart from the daily news concerning tribal matters,
Buenos días guajiro
imparts useful information, such as the weather and the number of tourists expected on any given day in Sorte. During its
     broadcast, the anchors also randomly insert news from along the border about the rebel insurgency and military raids. They
     pass messages over the airwaves to the loved ones from those on the run. For some,
Buenos días guajiro
is a lifeline.
    “This is
Buenos días guajiro
with today’s news,” says the female announcer. “On the other side of the border, twelve Wayuu men were massacred and thirty
     more disappeared, at least twenty of whom were children. There has been little mention of the massacre in the mainstream media,
     even though the final tally likely totaled more than forty victims. According to humanitarian organizations, another three
     hundred Wayuu are on the run. Pablito says ‘hola’ to his mother, Inez, and that he will see her soon. Alberto has sent money
     for Carolina and the children to the usual place and asks that she collect it as soon as possible. Esteban wishes Graciela
     the happiest of birthdays and wishes he could be there.”
    Again, nothing about Manolo or Coromoto, or El Negro Catire. Catire must be hiding too, Efraín says, hopefully. But La Vieja
     Juanita carries on packing their lunch, behaves as though she is hard of hearing.
    It is common knowledge that the militares from across the border have tried to make Catire disappear, sending secret task
     forces to capture him. But to their