P.S. I hate word limits!
Stuck In Traffic
Flynn Brewer un-wrapped a crudely packaged box. After shuffling through its contents he called to his colleagues to come look. Flynn watched them closely for a reaction. He nervously tugged on his ear and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. After a moment the realization hit and one of them spoke up. “We need to get this to the police.” Flynn corrected,
“We need to get this to the press.”
***
3 Months Earlier:
Lucy Ramo leaned her head against the airplane window. She smiled to herself. I did it! I’m on my way. She could barely contain her excitement. After months of pleading and bargaining with her boss he’d finally conceded. Starting so young in the business, Lucy described her climb up the industry ladder as more of a grapple. But this, this story could change everything! The opportunity was a journalist’s dream come true, and she intended to make the most of it.
Lucy pulled a well-worn journal from her backpack and leaned back in her seat. It was going to be a long flight to Cambodia.
Coming through the terminals, Lucy was reminded how much she hated airports. When she traveled she wanted to feel the excitement of being in a new place but they all had the same feel to them. Any cultural touches were simply there for tourists and gave Lucy no insight on the people she was going to represent.
6 a.m. the next morning Lucy turned on her laptop and loaded e-mail. Her boss had already sent a work timeline. “8 a.m.: Skype into HQ for safety confirmation,” she read aloud. Well that only gives me 2 hours to do things my way.
Twenty minutes later Lucy was walking through the streets of Phnom Penh dressed as a working class Cambodian woman. A trade with the room service maid and purchase of a flimsy straw hat worn low over her eyes let her blend into the crowds. With a close look, her ethnicity would be obvious. Her big inquisitive blue eyes could tip off even the most unobservant viewer. But she didn’t speak the language so couldn’t see a reason for engaging anyone’s attention in the first place.
Lucy was positive the news team back in New York would have a very a precise way for her to go about things and expect her to follow their plan to the letter. And that’s what made the time she had now feel so important to her. If she was going to accurately represent these people she had to have time to observe them unobtrusively. To watch them in their natural lifestyles…get a feel for them.
After an hour of wandering, Lucy decided there was nothing more to see within walking distance of her hotel, and started back to video conference New York.
She didn’t remember her clothes until she was almost to her room. If anyone sees, me they’ll think I’m breaking in. The thought made her stop short and realize in dismay, she just might have to break in. Amidst the maids giggling and her own mischievous excitement, Lucy had completely forgotten to rescue her key card from the pocket of her own clothes. How was she going to explain this to the hotel manager; and more urgently, how was she supposed to get hold of anyone back home before they contacted Foreign Affairs? Not only that, this was her first time trusted with a big story; if she blew it, it could end her career! With that in mind, her only stipulation for this plan was that it kept her boss from knowing about her carelessness.
“What else could go wrong?” she asked herself walking away from the hotel. The boy behind the desk was unwilling to issue a new key without the manager’s consent. And as luck would have it the manager would not be in until evening. “Chill out,” she told herself. “This could be a lot worse.” She had managed to borrow a tourist’s laptop at an internet café and shoot an e-mail to Headquarters. She made it brief. All’s well…hotel mix-up. I’ll video when I’m settled.
“Guess I have plenty of time to get a feel for these people,” she said mocking her morning endeavors.
Because she was now in a mood of skepticism, she didn’t waist the little money she carried on a taxi, and instead walked to the port area of Phnom Penh.
Hours later, as the sun was setting, Lucy started on her way back to the Hotel. The time at the port had done much to relax her and remind her that she actually liked her job. Now if only that manager will be helpful.
Passing a window and catching her reflection, Lucy put the floppy hat back on her head and laughed. “I really could pass as a native.”
At this time of day almost everyone was on the wharf and the streets she took were mostly empty. She was concentrating on how to explain the mixup to the manager and didn’t even notice anyone on the street, until she had a tarp thrown over her and was being shoved into the back of a van.
The setting sun gave just enough light for Lucy to take in her surroundings. The two men in the front drove along as if nothing had happened. As quietly as possible she retrieved her journal from her bag. This doesn’t make sense. She wrote. If these are traffickers, how do they know I’m here? Is it really so important to them that my story doesn’t get out?
The clothes! She realized. They don’t have any idea who I am.”
“So this is rural Cambodia” she muttered under her breath. The village buildings stood in two rows with a dirt road dividing them. The mountains in the background dashed all the hopes that had risen when she felt the van stop. Out here she would be lucky to find anyone who spoke English.
They moved up the steps of a stilted house. It felt like it could collapse under their feet any second. The inside was no better and there were children everywhere. All of the kids were over five years old, and most of them were girls.
A thin frazzled lady greeted them. Her neck was too long and her eyes too big for such a tiny head. She asked the men a question in a way that befit her overwhelmed appearance, and then led them into a back room.
Lucy looked around her curiously. Her eyes met those of a boy, one of the few, who looked to be about 12. He moved closer and perched himself on a stool.
“Are you American?” he asked.
She started to answer him, then stopped: “Wait, you speak English?”
“No.” he shook his head.
“But you…oh, you speak American?”
The boy’s face beamed “Yes! I’m the only one here that can,” he said, gesturing towards the room.
Just then a woman and her four children walked in. She placed her hands on the shoulders of the oldest and gave her some kind of instruction. The two embraced, and then the mother turned away and stood by the door while the daughter, a girl of about fourteen, knelt down and hugged her little brothers and sister. The youngest started crying and it was obvious that the girl was choking back tears of her own. The mother, with a forced firmness, came over and grabbed the younger ones by the arms. She swiped up the money that had been sitting on the counter and headed out the door.
“What was that about?” Lucy asked turning to the boy. But he had already moved on to investigate the new arrival. Lucy looked to the door the woman had just left through. No one’s holding me here.
She caught sight of the woman up ahead and decided to follow her. Trying to run away entered her mind but she was curious and really had no idea which direction to run.
The woman headed up a mountain road and Lucy followed. It was a long climb up to the tiny farmhouse. Lucy knew she was standing on the woman’s property and wondered how long it would take before she was noticed and ran off. The woman moved with her children to a shed that Lucy realized with shock had to be their home. It only had three walls; one of them was more of a flap. The roof was crudely patched and there was no furniture to be seen. The woman noticed Lucy and started rattling something off that she couldn’t understand.
The woman continued with hand gestures that clearly said “shoo”
Lucy grudgingly turned. As a writer, her first thought was naturally, how she could tell the story. But she couldn’t imagine expressing this pathetic scene in words.
She looked back at the family and saw them sitting on the floor with small plates of rice. Her eyes lingered on the youngest of the children, a little girl. She was obviously very sick. Her figure was almost grotesque in its frailness. The two other children scarfed down there dinner, but she only stared at her plate, though she had to be starving. Looking at her surroundings, it was obvious to Lucy that the family could not afford medical attention.
Lucy remembered the money on the counter.
The mother shooed her on again, but she never did make eye contact. Before going, Lucy pulled out her journal and camera from the backpack she’d surprisingly been able to hold on to. She scribbled down some thoughts, though she knew her words were inadequate. Looking through the pictures she snapped, Lucy paused …This one is important! She resolved to hang on to the camera at all costs. No one would understand without the picture.
Halfway down the mountain, the van met her. With yelling and shoving, she found herself once again in the
back of the van and on her way to the village.
It was late when Lucy’s friend found her again.
“You sure you’re American?” he asked.
“Yes, why?” She was grateful for anyone to talk to.
“Because I always wanted to meet one.”
“How do you know how to speak…it?”
“I went to school. I learned lots of things. I was very smart but then I had to come home because my mom’s husband died and she needed me.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, the lady here took me when my mom died. She says she’s going to sell me but no one wants to buy skinny boys.”
Everything Lucy assumed was confirmed. Her and the boy talked long into the night. Only a couple of hours before dawn would break, the boy abruptly asked.
“Well, do you want to escape?”
“Escape? How?”
“I know a way,” he said coolly. “A secret way; back to the big city!” The boy started to stand up and lead the way.
“No,” she said, thinking of her journal and camera in the back of the van where the men slept. “No, I can’t go. But will you do something for me?”
“What is it?”
“It’s very important. I’m on a mission from America.” She had his attention. “In my backpack are secrets, secrets that I have to give to the people I work for. If I go with you now those secrets will be lost forever.”
“We need a plan!”
“Yeah.” Lucy paused to think. “When they load us all into the van, I want you to get in with us. As soon as you’re inside, put my backpack on your shoulders. Then just make sure you get kicked out.” Her mind was reeling now. “There’s a little bit of money in there, do you know how to mail a package?” He nodded. “Ok, use that money to mail my journal and my camera to…” she looked around her, “this address.” She scraped it into the wall.
“What about you?” he asked with a maturity that surprised Lucy. She instantly mellowed.
“They’ll find me.” She said as much to reassure herself as the boy. “But the story is more important. The cost of it getting out may be that I endure hardship but how many more will be forced to endure it if it doesn’t?” People might not want to hear. But then, that’s usually the case when it comes to the truth. That doesn’t mean we aren’t obligated to speak it, no matter what the costs.”
Lucy knew she was putting a heavy burden on one boy’s shoulders, that she was leaving a lot up to fate. But no, fate was not involved. She believed God would see her and her story safely home. She had to believe. It was the only way she could make herself take this dangerous risk. Lucy also knew the kind of life she’d be entering. But she felt a kind of strength, derived from doing what she knew was right.
***
Front page of the New York Times:Recently, a journalist was sent to Cambodia to report on the trial of a suspected human trafficker. The job was given to a young Lucy Ramo. Her ability to capture the emotions around her and inspire her readers was the cause for the selection.
Ramo says in her journal, “while my original purpose was to raise awareness on modern day slavery, I find myself more sobered by the poverty and destitution.”
The victims of human trafficking are widespread. Some are taken by force, some are promised employment, and still others are sold by their own families.
You might wonder what circumstances would drive a mother to sell her own child. Ramo attempts to explain with a picture. She had meant to send many but she says, “Only one of these pictures matter. The one of the woman whose eyes clearly say ‘What else could I have done?’” In the background of the picture, you can see the figure of the woman’s sick and dying baby. The family obviously does not make enough money to pay for medical attention. Just hours before the picture was taken, Ramo witnessed the mother exchange an older daughter for an agreed sum of money. Ramo puts the pieces together and asks “What kind of world is it we live in that a mother must choose between two children?”
By a strange turn of events that she believed could not be coincidence, Ramo was kidnapped by human traffickers. We don’t know if we’ll ever hear from Lucy Ramo again but the last words she leaves in her journal for us are these: “My career struggle has always been a point of pride with me, but these peoples very survival is a struggle. Poverty is a problem around the world. We in America have the resources to help…I only pray we have the endurance to face the consequences that always come with truth and sacrifice.”
First edit: 12-26-10
Final edit: 12-31-10
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