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MARCHING POWDER

the wallet from Camacho's friend in Prefectura. Camacho complained the whole way, calling me a gringo lover and a traitor. He said I wasn't a tour guide but a zookeeper.

When we reached his section, he insisted that Cartagena wait at the entrance because there were lookouts. Three of us entering together would look suspicious. Before we reached his friend's room where the wallet was being kept, Camacho made me an offer: 'Let's split the money, fifty-fifty. I won't say anything to Lucho or Cartagena. Tell them the money wasn't there.' I didn't answer him. I tightened my grip on his elbow and we kept walking.

On the way back, Cartagena made me the same offer. 'Is it all there?' he asked. 'Let me count it.'

I nodded and held up the wallet, then put it back in my pocket. I had already counted it. Ten notes of one hundred bolivianos with the ATM receipt still wrapped around them.

'Well?'

'Well, what?' I snapped back at him. When he realised what I was thinking, he started to protest.

'You're not going to . . .?' But he couldn't finish his question. And he knew the answer by my silence.

'But why?' was all he could say as he chased after me up the stairs, putting his hand on my shoulder to slow me down. The money that Jerome and his girlfriends spent in one night out drinking could feed an entire family in San Pedro for a month. I could have used the money myself. I tried to think of how I could answer him, but all I could hear were Jerome's words and sarcastic voice playing over and over in my mind: 'You just don't get it, do you, Thomas?'

I almost gave in. Then I saw a little girl sitting by herself on the steps carefully peeling the skin from a piece of fruit. I looked at Cartagena.

'I don't know. He brought me some bananas, man,' I said. 'They looked like nice bananas.'