Prologue
September 29th, 1976
Roboré, Bolivia
Several seconds after the train had come screaming to a violent halt most of the occupants of the cattle car continued pitching forward, falling on top of one another, sliding on for a half a dozen feet or more.
When everyone had gathered their selves and their things again, they flooded out of the boxcar door like water spilling out of storm drain, myself included.
Still not fully awakened, I tried to fight my way out, dragging my packsack along with the throngs of panicked travelers through the blackness alongside of the now idling train.
Running awkwardly on rubbery legs sixty yards back through the dark, I repeatedly called out “Duff! Where are you? Where are you?” Finally, in a distant, feeble voice, I heard him cry out to me, some thirty yards further down the tracks.
There he lay in a crumpled mess on the ground, a dim shadowy figure in the night, mumbling “Keith, I think it’s broken… it’s broken.” I could only partially make out his leg, which, given the sheen that came off it, seemed soaking wet with what I could only assume was volumes of his own blood, through which shards of bone could be seen protruding from the tatters of his denim jeans.
By this time, excited voices could be heard barking out orders and flashlights were flitting about everywhere, dazzling my site. Before another word could be said, I felt hands seize my arms and shoulders, restraining me as I lashed out to fight off the attack.
A second later I received a blow to the head. When I caught a glimpse of a uniform in the flashing lights, which darted around in the dark, I immediately realized these were not any of the occupants of the boxcar from which we had issued forth.
I felt myself being restrained again, and this time by many bodies in the night. I cried out, trying to draw attention to the fallen American who seemed to have been forgotten in their heat of my being apprehended. I was told to shut up and cease and desist, and that he would be taken to the nearest hospital.
It was at this point that I came to the realization that I was under arrest and detainment by the Bolivian military, which was traveling on the same train as a security detachment for reasons unbeknown to me.
I was taken by armed guard to one of the lighted sleeper cars where I was personally searched and questioned, and my and Duff’s pack sack were scrutinized to the lengthiest degree.
It was about half an hour later before the train began moving again. I was asked to explain what even the most benign of my possessions were, as well as Duff’s own effects about which I knew nothing.
When they had finished, one of the soldiers left the car and the other stayed with me, telling me I would sleep there for the night, sharing a cot with him. We lay head-to-foot, him pinning me in, as it were, to the wall of the car.
Uncomfortable – and unsurprisingly so – I got very little sleep the rest of that night before arriving in Roboré at dawn. Once there, I was transported to a military training facility about thirty minutes by road outside of town. I was led to what appeared to be a small outpost about 16’x12’ square, with a smaller desk and office space about 8’x8’ behind me to the left.
There I was sat on a wooden stool in the center of the room for the rest of the day, left unguarded to twist in the wind, apparently in order to ponder my own missteps and the looming consequences of the cost of association with the ill-fated American I had befriended.
Alpha Highways Description:
When an opportunity arises to explore the last of the new age lost world continents, Keith Stewart is flabbergasted, and at the same time elated beyond words description.
He and his best friend, and benefactor Donald McKinnon, proceed to explore a series of life changing events, that cause the author to revisit the same strange continent again a scant three years later, this time alone, vulnerable, and in the greatest of danger.
