by Austin Galt
About White Nights: A Colombian Odyssey
‘God made Colombia the most beautiful country in the world so he had to balance it by inhabiting it with the worst people in the world.’ Old Colombian Proverb
Australian writer Austin Galt arrived in Colombia looking for a life less ordinary. He found it - or did it find him? On Austin’s first day in the country he was hauled off a bus to look down the barrel of a gun as he was detained and questioned by the AK-47-toting Revolutionary Armed Forces. Welcome to Colombia!
In the days, months and years that followed, Austin travelled all over Colombia, tracing the Narcos’ trail and walking in the shadows of drug lords such as Pablo Escobar and the Cali Cartel. While meeting local gangsters and international coke traffickers, he attended underworld parties and was lured into the sex, drugs and danger-fuelled life of an underworld kingpin.
What he discovered in those crazy days and white nights shocked, scared and, ultimately, seduced him.
CONTENTS
Cover
About White Nights: A Colombian Odyssey
Dedication
Abbreviations
Prologue Welcome to Colombia
Part One
1 Guerrillas in the Midst
2 Cold Showers, Hot Women
3 Cali Cartel
4 Patrón
5 FARC
6 Monsters
7 North Coast Cartel
8 A True Paradise
9 The Big Bluff
Part Two
10 No Peace
11 War Zone
12 Morena
13 Without Tits There Is No Paradise
14 Medellín Cartel
15 Right-Wing Paramilitaries Part 1
16 Right-Wing Paramilitaries Part 2
17 Explosive Times
18 Bogotá Cartel
19 Lord of the Mountain
20 Norte del Valle Cartel
Part Three
21 The Uribe Years
22 FARC’s Final Stand
23 The Next Generation
24 Emerald Cartel
25 Peace
Acknowledgements
Notes
Personal Images
About Austin Galt
Copyright page
For my precious daughters
ABBREVIATIONS
ACC Autodefensas Campesinas del Casanare or Peasant Self-Defence Forces of Casanare
ACCU Autodefensas Campesinas de Córdoba y Urabá or Peasant Self-Defence Forces of Córdoba and Urabá
ACDEGAM Asociación Campesina de Ganaderos y Agricultores del Magdalena Medio or Association of Middle Magdalena Ranchers and Farmers
AGC Autodefensas Gaitanistas de Colombia or Gaitanista Self-Defence Forces of Colombia
AMMPB Autodefensas del Magdalena Medio de Puerto Boyacá or Self-Defence Forces of the Middle Magdalena of Puerto Boyacá
AUC Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia or United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia
BACRIM bandas criminales or criminal bands
CGSB Coordinadora Guerrillera Simón Bolívar or Simón Bolívar Guerrilla Coordinator
CIA Central Intelligence Agency
CIAT Centro Internacional de Agricultura Tropical or International Center for Tropical Agriculture
CRS Corriente de Renovación Socialista or Socialist Renovation Current
DAS Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad or Administrative Department of Security
DEA Drug Enforcement Agency
DIA Defence Intelligence Agency
DIM Deportivo Independiente Medellín
ELN Ejército de Liberación Nacional or National Liberation Army
EPL Ejército Popular de Liberación or Popular Liberation Army
ERPAC Ejército Revolucionario Popular Anticomunista or Anti-Communist Revolutionary People’s Army
FARC–EP [often FARC] Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—Ejército del Pueblo or Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—People’s Army
GAULA Grupo de Acción Unificada por la Libertad Personal or Unified Action Group for Personal Freedom
GPS Global Positioning System
JEGA Jorge Eliécer Gaitán Ayala
M-19 Movimiento 19 de abril or 19th of April Movement
MAQL Movimiento Armado Quintín Lame or Quintin Lame Armed Movement
MAS Muerte a Secuestradores or Death to Kidnappers
MIR–PL Movimiento Integración Revolucionario–Patria Libre or Revolutionary Integration Movement–Free Fatherland
MRN Muerte a Revolucionarios del Noreste or Death to Revolutionaries of the Northeast
PCC Partido Comunista Colombiano or Colombian Communist Party
PC–ML Partido Comunista de Colombia–Marxista Leninista or Marxist–Leninist Communist Party of Colombia
PRT Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores de Colombia or Workers Revolutionary Party of Colombia
UP Unión Patriótica or Patriotic Union
PROLOGUE
WELCOME TO COLOMBIA
2001. It was a beautiful, brisk morning, with just a few clouds dotting the sky. As we rounded a bend, my heart leapt. The bus came to a screeching halt as five men in military fatigues jumped into the middle of the road pointing their guns at us. Here we go!
My mind began to race and my first reaction was to hide some cash and my bank card in my shoe under the arch of my foot. Now it was just a matter of facing what came next. One young man boarded the bus and immediately spotted me up the back. I was the only foreigner on the bus and, at 6 foot and 3 inches, a bit taller than the local folk so not that hard to spot. With his rifle slung over his shoulder, he made his way directly to where I was seated.
‘De donde eres?’ he asked. Where are you from?
‘Soy Australiano,’ I replied, heart palpitating.
He seemed to like that answer, judging by his smile, and he replied, ‘Bienvenido a Colombia’. Welcome to Colombia.
PART ONE
1
GUERRILLAS IN THE MIDST
‘God made Colombia the most beautiful country in the world so he had to balance it by inhabiting it with the worst people in the world.’
A Colombian once told me this joke and for a joke to be funny there needs to be an element of truth to it. After a decade of living in Colombia, I’ve pretty much seen it all and I understand the nuances of that truth. Now, of course Colombians are not the worst people in the world but there are certainly many nefarious characters who have helped give Colombia its reputation. What I believe to be completely true, however, is that it is indeed the most beautiful country in the world.
For a long time, and still to this day, so many people have foregone the opportunity to see this beauty due to the danger, perceived or real, associated with the country. There was no better evidence of this than when I was travelling the Gringo Trail in South America back in 2001. This was something I had wanted to do for a while, and at age 27 this was likely to be my last chance to do so before settling down to a career in my home town of Sydney, Australia.
I began in Chile and made my way north through Bolivia and Peru and into Ecuador. Backpacking tourists were everywhere every step of the way right up to the Ecuadorean capital, Quito. That is where the Gringo Trail ended. Actually, Quito is where the trail both ended and began. Travellers from all parts of the world flew into and out of this highland city. It was rare to find one who then went north to the border and into Colombia. But that was where I was headed.
I arrived in the Ecuadorean border city of Tulcán late one sunny afternoon and told the taxi driver to take me to Parque Ayora or Ayora Park where I could get my bearings as I knew of some hotels nearby. I took in the atmosphere of this tranquil spot for a few minutes. Young couples strolled, enjoying their time together away from
the prying eyes of their respective families. At an altitude of nearly 3000 metres, the sun’s rays didn’t have as great an effect as I would have liked and it was already becoming chilly. It was time to check-in to a hotel and my South America on a Shoestring Lonely Planet guidebook led me to some cheap but comfortable accommodation a couple of blocks away.
I contemplated heading straight over the border and getting the overnight bus from Ipiales to Cali. I had been warned, however, never to travel at night in Colombia due to the real threat of robberies along the way. That sounded like good advice which I decided to heed.
Two old, chatty ladies sat side by side at the check-in desk of the small but quaint three-storey hotel. Their greying hair and wrinkled faces belied their spritely demeanour. I handed over my identification and asked for a room for one night only. One of the ladies asked where I was off to the next day. I told her I was heading for Colombia. Her eyebrows rose and she replied with one word – peligroso which means dangerous in Spanish. It was actually one of the first Spanish words I had learnt during my trip.
‘Peligroso?’ I quizzed, although of course I knew what she meant.
She raised her arms and motioned as if firing a rifle and went ‘Bff, bff, bff’, to simulate the sound. She added, ‘Muchos bandidos’.
She was right. I knew there existed many bandits on the other side of the border but I was quite nonchalant about it. Both women looked at me and I sensed a lot of wisdom behind their glinting eyes. They were probably looking at me and thinking I have absolutely no idea of what I’m about to get myself into. And they were probably right. Nonetheless, I was intent on heading into that danger zone the following day.
*
I had already been travelling for six months as part of a nine-month excursion across the South American continent that had now brought me to the gates of a country with an extremely violent reputation of which all I knew was what I’d seen on television or read about in newspapers and magazines – none of it particularly good! I woke up very early in the morning, perhaps due to a combination of excitement and apprehension. Back then it didn’t matter where one entered Colombia for the first time, whether overland at a border crossing or by flying into the capital Bogotá. There always existed a certain amount of apprehension and with good reason.
The Colombian government had spent the last four decades at war with the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—Ejército del Pueblo (FARC–EP) or Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—People’s Army, commonly known as FARC. These were communist insurgents who had gripped the country with fear in recent years, extorting the population and kidnapping, on average, 3000 people each year.
Led by their almost mythological leader, Manuel Marulanda, the FARC were also engaged in large-scale drug trafficking. In response, the Colombian government allied with the US government to form Plan Colombia in 2000. The Clinton administration initially committed over US$1 billion to support the fight against left-wing guerrillas and drug cartels in general. The incoming Bush administration continued the program.
Plan Colombia would go on to play a vital role in the country’s decades’ long civil war. Not only were the FARC at war with the Colombian government, they were also now at war with the US government. It was during this period that I would enter Colombia for the first time.
With no hot water in the hotel, it was the freezing shower that really woke me up and got me primed for a big day ahead. I checked out, jumped in a taxi and headed for the border. After a short 10-minute ride, I arrived at the Rumichaca Bridge. On the other side lay Colombia and a host of adventures.
The Rumichaca Bridge is located at the bottom of a ravine which slices through the undulating hills of this border region. I crossed over and made my way to the customs office. My passport was stamped and I had officially commenced my journey in Colombia. Bring it on!
Before going any further, however, I needed to change my US dollars, the currency used in Ecuador, into Colombian pesos. Standing conveniently near the customs office were several moneychangers eagerly seeking tourist business. I had heard these moneychangers were a crafty lot and to be careful not to get ripped off.
I approached one moustachioed middle-aged fellow and asked him the exchange rate. Back then US$1 would buy just over 2000 pesos.
‘1900,’ he replied. This seemed reasonable taking into consideration his commission. I told him I wanted to change $175 as that is what I had on me. He got out his calculator and held it in front of me so I could clearly see the numbers he pressed – 175 × 1900. The result of the calculation came out as 311,719. Hmm.
I did some quick calculations in my head and something didn’t seem right. The number seemed a little short. I queried the number so he punched in the numbers again for proof. Once again the same number came up. I was still not satisfied so I asked if I could use the calculator myself. I punched in the numbers taking extra care and still the same number came up. I decided to try a different tack. I punched in the simple calculation of 2 × 2. Hey presto! The result came back as 3.75.
We both looked at the obviously incorrect number and I told him there was a problem with his calculator to which he sheepishly agreed. He had altered the mechanisms in his calculator to pay out less. Crafty indeed! They say you should never trust a man with a beard but perhaps it should be any man with a moustache.
I reverted to calculating the correct number in my head and we came to an exchange that was satisfactory to both of us. In hindsight, I should have just changed $100 as that calculation would have been much easier. With the money-exchange drama finally over, I made my way to a bank of taxis waiting nearby to take tourists up the hill and into Ipiales. One of the drivers grabbed my attention and asked if I was going to the airport or bus station. I told him I needed to catch a bus and we were off and away.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at the bustling main street in Ipiales where a large billboard had been erected above a building with the faces of six important FARC leaders including Manuel Marulanda. A phone number was given for those wanting to provide information on the whereabouts of these guerrilla leaders in exchange for a reward. One of the faces was marked with a big cross, which I understood to mean he had already been captured or killed. It hit me. I really was in the danger zone now.
The taxi continued on and we shortly arrived at the bus station, just in time too as the first bus of the day to Cali was just about to leave. Cali was the midway point between the border and Bogotá, my intended destination, and stopping there would help to break up the trip. I quickly bought my ticket, hopped aboard and settled into my window seat ready to enjoy the landscapes along the route. The bus left on schedule, although I would soon find out it wasn’t just the landscapes I would be seeing.
We travelled up the Pan-American Highway, known in this part of the world as the Carretera Panamericana, which seemed to deteriorate in quality once inside Colombia. The Panamericana, as it is referred to simply, begins in southern Argentina and stretches all the way up to Alaska in North America, broken only by the Darién Gap which separates Colombia and Panama. The Darién Gap has been a no-man’s-land for decades. It is a lawless region controlled by left-wing guerrillas and right-wing paramilitaries and is a key smuggling route. Several foreigners have been kidnapped and even killed in this no-go zone.
In 1993, three American missionaries were kidnapped on the Panamanian side of the border by FARC guerrillas. Dave Mankins, Mark Rich and Rick Tenenoff were building a church in the Kuna Indian village of Púcuro when they were taken. Their wives stated that they had their hands tied behind their backs as they were marched into the jungle and back to the Colombian side of the border. They were never seen again.
In 2013, Swedish tourist Jan Philip Braunisch was trekking solo through the Darién Gap when he encountered the FARC guerrillas. They discovered a Global Positioning System (GPS) device and geographical maps of the region on him which led them to believe he was a foreign spy. The guerrillas killed him with a bullet to t
he head.
I was not in a danger zone similar to that of the Darién Gap. Nonetheless, danger still existed and being kidnapped was my worst fear. But it was also the clear and present danger that was part of the thrill of being here.
The first leg of the trip seemed to fly by and within two hours we had arrived at the first stop – the city of Pasto. It is situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the Galeras volcano which is the most active volcano in Colombia. The last eruption that caused fatalities occurred in 1993 when, coincidentally, a volcano conference was taking place in town. Six scientists had descended into the crater to take gas samples when it erupted. Three tourists at the summit were also killed.
After a quick refreshment break, it was back on to the bus to head north once again. We had left the outskirts of Pasto behind us and I started to settle in and enjoy the trip. As we pressed further into the interior, the rolling hills of the border region began to morph into slightly more jagged peaks. I was really starting to get a good feeling about the country as I took in the beauty of the mountain scenery. That was about to change. I didn’t know it then but this was prime guerrilla territory, and the sudden appearance of several gun-wielding men in the middle of the road was an instant shock to the system.
It was somewhat relieving that the first man to enter the bus happily welcomed me to his country after learning I was Australian. But these were no friendly folk. These were the dreaded FARC guerrillas.
The jefe or boss of this guerrilla unit entered the bus and stood at the front, surveying the scene with an imposing and threatening manner about him. The subordinate, who was still standing by my side, told him I was Australian and I handed over my passport for verification. The jefe looked over it, flicking through the pages to see where I had been. He asked me if I spoke any Spanish to which I replied a little, but he was still not satisfied and ordered me off the bus.
I got up out of my seat, resigned to the fact that this wasn’t going to be over and done with as quickly as I had hoped. I wasn’t scared, or at least that is what I was telling myself because if the jefe sensed I was then he might think I was hiding something. Once off the bus, I was ordered to stand up against it with my hands and legs spread out. Another subordinate then proceeded to pat me down as I looked up and in through the bus window to see the rest of the passengers all staring out at me. I wondered if I was going to get the opportunity to rejoin them. I certainly hoped so.
