Black Collar Crime - A Short Story

Outside the airport, the Peruvian sun melts the loose crowd of suitcases and languages as it pushes forward in a fight for a taxi. I’m caught at the edge of the carnage and thankfully am not part of the haste to get to a poolside resort. I’m here for a proper adventure; one with bug repellent, a student budget and a thirst for the road less travelled.

A lonely blue mini is cast outside a pod of black lacquer cars - no one gives it a side glance. The bumper is hanging loose on one side and the exhaust is spewing out a cloud of black smoke, but the man inside is wearing a poncho with a chullo so I take it.

‘Make friends with the locals’, after all, is the one piece of advice everyone has to offer when you tell them you’re going backpacking.

The driver tenses in his seat as I get in, like his body is held together by a bunch of unseen bolts and each had just been tightened by half a turn. He quickly offers me a warm smile.

“Aye! You from New Zealand!?” he points to the All Blacks logo on my shirt. Patriotic? A bit.

He’s older than I initially thought, his body the remnants of someone that used to be fit but has now lost himself to cake and a steering wheel. I quickly update him on my background, the last All Blacks game score and that I’d like to go to the nearest town with a backpackers hostel. He nods and the car chugs forward and out of the airport carpark.

We follow a long dirt road that winds through the Amazonian lowlands, the rainforest growing thicker as we push our way towards the town. I’m convinced I can hear the cries of monkeys above the sound of the car rattling and lurching, and the driver I now know as José explains that it isn’t all I’ll be able to hear, and to keep my ear out for jaguars and other creatures of the forest.

Forty-five minutes pass and the scenery doesn’t change. I’m about to ask José where it is we’re going, but before I can open my mouth we round a kink in the road and the town opens up ahead of me. I say town, but I mean temple. A single man made structure among the green of nature, with a red slated roof that stretches out over a ladder of gold plated balconies, its architecture detailing the work of the world’s nimblest fingers.

“All Black; we here,” José exclaims proudly.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place? A backpackers? Like a youth hostel, or hotel only cheaper?”

“Yes, yes backpackers. We here.” He waves his arms at the building, then ushers me out of the car.

“I take you,” he says, and together we make our way up towards the building.

Inside I am greeted by an array of men who don’t waste time taking my bag and jacket. The ceilings are as high and intricate as they look from the outside, with large wooden floors that seem to stretch out forever.

“José tells me you’re from New Zealand?” a man asks as he escorts me up a flight of stairs towards my room.

“We have great relations with New Zealanders. We like them very much. Tonight, we will perform our traditional Amazonian welcome dance for you,” he tells me, beaming proudly.

And that they did…

My expectations were to watch a small, substandard performance over dinner, but when I walk downstairs at 5PM I am greeted by a room full of people standing in a circle formation around the room.

“New Zealander, here. We welcome you.” 

My heart lurches up into my throat - I don’t do well with crowds – but I start to relax as all eyes and smiles are drawn from me and towards a man carrying a large gold tray, handing each member of the circle a small possession. When he reaches me, he quickly scans his tray and hands me a long piece of plaited material woven from silk and lace.

“For you.” 

He takes the silk and ties it loosely around my neck.

After the last person is handed their gift, the music begins to play. A slight beat of a drum, almost too quiet to hear. A man steps into the centre of the circle.

“Today, we celebrate the rainforest. We celebrate the moon, the sky, and we celebrate our life. Today, we say thank you. Let us begin.”

The drumming increases in speed and volume. A man cloaked in black silk enters the room carrying a chicken. He breaks through the circle and comes to a halt in the centre, drawing out a knife. 

Before I have a chance to blink, the chicken’s neck is cocked to one side; a blood splatter meets the floor. The room smiles.

Next is a goat, lead with a black silk leash and collar. I want so badly to run into the circle, to save the goat, to stop the butchery, but my body has turned to stone. I will myself to scream, to run, but I stay standing, eyes fixated on the knife dragging across the goat’s neck. 

Then a cow’s neck. Blood soaking their black silk collars.

And then the crowd turns to me.