Roque made a rookie mistake: he told us he was going to make something. All he wanted was to cross the river and pick some blackberries. Easy enough. Unfortunately, ten Magikitos had nothing to do and plenty to say. The poor sod never stood a chance.
He'd found a plastic bottle among the ferns. He picked it up, cut an opening in the top and made a mast from a twig. Some scraps of an old shirt would do for the sails. It was turning into a cracking little boat.
“You and me are going for a lovely little cruise, darling,” he told it, adjusting the sail.
Here Come the Experts
Bartolo turned up with his hands in his pockets and his chest stuck out. He hadn't held so much as a piece of string, but he was already pulling faces.
“Without an engine, that's a bit shit.”
“Bartolo, the other bank is right there. One decent sneeze and I'll be across.”
That wasn't good enough. He went off to fetch a motor from a remote-controlled car and dragged it back, determined to squeeze it into Roque's seat. When we asked where the passenger would go, he pointed at the mast. Hanging off it, apparently. The cheek of the bloke.
Then Pepa arrived. She ran a finger over the bottle, inspected the dirt and looked as though she'd found a dead body.
“I'm not getting in that. It's filthy.”
“Wash it, then, love. There's a whole river next to you.”
She was deeply offended. She'd come to point out the muck, not scrub it off. Roque ended up washing the bottle while Bartolo explained that he wasn't doing that properly either. We sat on a root and waited for him to lose his rag.
Celso arrived with two enormous leaves under his arm. Going across on the water was thinking too small, he reckoned. The boat needed wings. He tied the leaves to the sides and spread his arms to show us how it would fly. Then he smacked his forehead on a branch. The wings got the go-ahead anyway.
Roque was still holding his string. Every time he tried to tie a knot, someone took it off him to demonstrate a better one. He'd been holding the same bit for ages without managing to tie a bloody thing. By then, even the sight of our hands annoyed him.
Now the Boat Had a Patio
Someone brought half a walnut shell for a toilet. Someone else insisted on a canopy. The canopy blocked the sail, so the wing enthusiast demanded a taller mast. To balance all that height, another genius brought a stone anchor. The bottle crumpled the moment he dropped it inside.
By now, all ten of us were giving advice. Two were arguing over the name and another wanted to sell tickets. The last arrival appointed himself captain because he had a blue hat. He couldn't swim, but he could shout beautifully.
Roque picked up the contraption. The toilet rolled out, the canopy snagged his ear and Bartolo told everyone to stop touching things because he'd nearly fitted the motor. Nearly fitted it onto Pepa's foot.
Roque looked at us one by one. Slowly. He put the bottle down and took off his boots.
“Where are you going? We haven't decided who's in charge.”
“You can all piss off. I'm swimming.”
He jumped in and crossed on his own. We stayed on the bank, arguing about his swimming technique. Being that much of a pain takes commitment, and we were absolutely smashing it.
A while later, he came back with the blackberries, sat well away from us and started eating. Bartolo wandered over, picked one up and examined it.
“We could make jam with these.”
Roque shoved the rest into his mouth. Every last one.
“Can't understand you with my mouth full, mate.”
