The Sounds of the River
By John Greven

John Greven (RCD 64) was stationed in Magangué,
Bolívar, on the Magdalena River. Working to develop
town meetings and projects in outlying towns, he traveled
up and down the river and back into the bayous in
his small motorboat. This is from his Peace Corps memoir,
working title FRAGMENTS OF THE CORPS.

When you listen to the broad, majestic Magdalena
River, you hear the massed weight of all that water moving,
the living things in and on it, the boats plying its surface.
Sometimes I would turn my engine off and float
for awhile, listening to everything and nothing. At dusk,
clouds of bats emerged from their roosts in the thatch
of the huts. Swarms of them swooped and dived over
the river, looking for insect prey. I learned to run my
boat through these clouds of bats, knowing that they
would never hit me. At dusk, the palms along the river
became dark silhouettes enveloped by orange light.

Certain scenes are etched into my consciousness—
the river men standing on the river bank by their canoas;
a canoa with a Johnsonista making a bow wave as it
coursed downriver; the women of the villages coming
down to fetch water or pound their clothes.
Running the river at night was peaceful and serene.
Guided by the moonlight, the water turned light gray,
the bank jet black. I learned to find my way by sound,
but something helped me—the lighted statues of the Virgin.
The priests in my part of Colombia were mostly
Spaniards, foreigners like myself. In the towns where
they lived, they put a statue of the Virgin by the river,
with a string of light bulbs leading from it to the priest’s
house. The padre was the only one to have a generator.
The rest of the town was in darkness. I used to think
about the injustice of that.

The river was alive—an entity that moved,
stretched, and exhaled. All manner of dead things
floated in it and were carried along: big tree trunks,
dead steer carcasses, coconuts. Sometimes it seemed the
dead lived in that river, were always there just below
the surface ready to take me with them. I think I was always
a bit afraid of that.

One night they did reach for me and almost succeeded.
I was running to a town upriver on a moonless
night when suddenly my engine quit. It would not start,
no matter how hard I tried. At first I just floated to see
where I would go—just downriver, but eventually out
to the sea. I was bent over working on the motor when
I first heard it. Slight, but there—a hissing sound unlike
any other. I tried to see the source. There it was, a large
high black shape moving toward me and closing. My
mind raced. Then, without further thought, I ripped off
my T-shirt, doused it in gas, held it on my paddle and lit
it. It flared up brightly and I heard bells clanging. The
hiss slowed and stopped. I saw it as it drifted by me, a
river push boat with a large black barge in front. If you
don’t hear it, it can run you over and no one on board
will realize it. You become mixed with the other dead in
the river.

But my strongest memory of the river is not of that
night, starkly memorable as it was. Rather, it was of quieter
times—floating peacefully in the sun with my motor
off, listening to the sound, always the sound of the river
itself, and then a soft “thwup, thwup” just above me.
I’d look up to see a flock of brightly colored Macaw parrots
passing over at 50 feet. One loud “caw!” would resonate
in the impossibly beautiful scene. I would like this
to be my last vision on earth.

Contact John at woodyboatman@comcast.net.