by Austin Galt
Having walked all around town, I was in need of a break and popped into a cafe to order a cold drink. Locals already seated inside peered at me out of the corner of their eyes. I knew I stood out but it was as if they made a conscious effort not to be seen looking at me.
As the waitress took my order I engaged in some small talk, such as commenting on how beautiful Popayán was with its colonial architecture. Her bubbly personality shone through as she proudly told me the best of what her city had to offer. I then asked a somewhat darker question.
‘Hay muchas guerrillas aquí?’ Are there many guerrillas here?
By now I already knew the answer but I still wanted to hear it from the mouth of someone who lived there.
As her eyes wandered around the room, she remarked in a much more hushed tone ‘Si, hay muchos’. Yes, there are many.
I sensed some uneasiness and, after thanking her for the drink, made a fairly hasty exit. The guerrillas have eyes and ears everywhere and I wondered if any of those in the cafe were informants. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Nonetheless, I decided one night there was more than enough.
Popayán is also the stepping-off point to a couple of pre-Columbian archaeological sites – San Agustín and Tierradentro – both of which have been declared UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Both of these sites of ancient tombs and statues are located up in the mountains, about four hours drive from Popayán. This was also pure guerrilla territory and I had heard from one traveller who said his bus was stopped by the FARC on the journey to San Agustín. I had already experienced my share of excitement in the country and so I chose not to visit either of them. I put them on my list of things to do in the future if I ever returned to the country.
The next leg of my bus trip took me back to Pasto, the capital of Nariño, and it was on this leg that I had encountered the FARC a few months earlier. I boarded the bus with a little trepidation and we set off. Any fears I had were allayed as the bus arrived safely in Pasto several hours later. Phew!
I noticed there were more indigenous people here and generally throughout the southern parts of Colombia. It was quite cold and many locals wore ponchos to keep themselves warm. A traditional dish in this region is cuy or guinea pig. When in Rome . . . I thought and so enjoyed a plate that night. It has its own unique taste – perhaps a cross between chicken and duck. I’m not in a rush to have it again.
I travelled to Ipiales the following day and immediately crossed over into Ecuador. I had survived! I returned to the little hotel in Tulcán with the two old ladies at the check-in desk. I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. I’m not sure if they recognised me but wanted to have a ‘told you so’ moment – ‘Look. It’s me! I survived peligroso Colombia.’ I didn’t say anything.
Having paid for a room for the night, I was given the key and went and lay on my bed for a while. Wow! What the hell just happened?! What an insane three months!
I marvelled at what a fascinating and memorable experience it had been. I could not have been further away, both literally and figuratively, from the safe little society I had grown up in back in Sydney. It had been the time of my life and it would help to shape my future.
PART TWO
10
NO PEACE
It was 2002 and I was ensconced in the family home on the Lower North Shore of Sydney. This was definitely not a danger zone and my mind continually wandered back to Colombia where things were becoming even more dangerous. The peace negotiations between the government and the FARC were teetering on the brink of collapse and President Pastrana was desperately trying to rescue them as his legacy hinged on a successful outcome.
After three frustrating years, the peace talks finally collapsed on 20 February 2002. The final straw came when the FARC hijacked a commercial aircraft and kidnapped a Colombian senator on board. Aires Flight 3951 had just taken off from Neiva, the capital of Huila state, bound for Bogotá when guerrillas took control of the plane and its 30 passengers, including Senator Jorge Gechem Turbay. The plane was diverted to the southern part of the state where it landed on a desolate highway which had been blockaded by guerrillas in coordination with the hijackers. Once on the ground, the passengers and crew were released except for the senator who was kidnapped and subsequently held in captivity for the next six years.
Pastrana had previously let slide some grave ‘indiscretions’ committed by the guerrillas during the peace negotiations, including the murders of two fellow politicians – Diego Turbay Cote, who was executed in December 2000 along with his mother and five others as they travelled between towns in Caquetá, and Consuelo Araújo Noguera, who was kidnapped and killed by the FARC after they stopped her at a fake military checkpoint as she travelled to her home town of Valledupar in September 2001.
This latest act of sabotage, however, was too much. Having been humiliated, Pastrana really had no other option than to call off the peace talks. His team of negotiators based in El Caguán were recalled immediately and the president gave a televised address to the country later that evening.
The hijacking also brought back memories of a similar incident a few years earlier when six ELN guerrillas took control of Avianca Flight 9463 travelling to Bogotá from the city of Bucaramanga on 12 April 1999. The plane, carrying 46 passengers and crew members, landed at a clandestine airstrip in southern Bolívar state. They released a baby and five elderly passengers the following day, while the others were released at intervals. The final kidnapping victim was released from captivity over one and half years later. One passenger died while in captivity.
Life in Sydney seemed rather monotonous compared to the history being made on the other side of the world. Having been fortunate enough to receive a private school education and a university business degree, I had been working for a US investment bank. Quite frankly, it was rather boring. I didn’t want to have a boring life but that seemed to be where I was headed. Focusing on what was happening in Colombia provided an occasional escape from my own reality and I followed the upcoming elections there with interest. Pastrana’s time was nearly up and his presidency would generally be regarded as a failed one mainly due to the breakdown of the peace negotiations.
Álvaro Uribe was the clear favourite and running on a platform of taking the war to the FARC guerrillas who could forget about any more peace negotiations in the near future. His father was allegedly killed by the FARC during a botched kidnapping attempt in 1983 and Colombians knew this was personal for him – or that is what they wanted to believe as it was personal for so many Colombians who had been directly or indirectly affected by the actions of the FARC and other guerrilla groups.
The FARC was anything but thrilled with the prospect of an Uribe presidency and attempted to assassinate him in April 2002, while he campaigned in Barranquilla. As his motorcade passed by, three cylinder bombs were detonated just a few metres away. Uribe was unhurt in his armoured car; however, a public bus that just happened to be passing by received the full force of the blast, resulting in the deaths of four civilians.
Another minor presidential candidate was Ingrid Betancourt. She was a senator at the time and went to campaign in the town of San Vicente del Caguán which was part of the old demilitarised zone. A few days earlier, the Colombian army had launched an operation to expel the guerrillas from the region, although it was still a disputed area and very dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that Betancourt’s bodyguards were ordered to cancel their mission.
Betancourt left Florencia with her team despite the warnings. They continued past the last military checkpoint, and not long after arrived at a FARC checkpoint where several other cars had also been stopped. The FARC, realising the big catch that had landed in their clutches, kidnapped her and her campaign manager Clara Rojas. Her presidential hopes had been dashed. She would spend the next six years in a jungle concentration camp often chained to a tree.
While Betancourt’s kidnapping was not planned, the FARC did plan an audacious kidnapping just over a month later in Cali. On the m
orning of 11 April 2002, a group of FARC guerrillas disguised as Colombian military officers entered the Valle del Cauca State Assembly building, shouting there was a bomb threat and everyone needed to evacuate. They were able to round up 12 politicians and ordered them onto a bus waiting outside. One policeman on duty noticed the ruse but was knifed in order to silence him.
Once on the bus and headed for the nearby mountains, the guerrillas revealed their true identities, announcing to the politicians that they had been kidnapped. Only one of the politicians would ever see his family again. The successful operation was a massive coup for the guerrilla organisation and yet another shock to the system for Colombians who were now completely exasperated with the crumbling security situation in the country.
Added to that, less than a month before the elections, tragedy struck when the FARC attempted to take over the right-wing paramilitary-controlled town of Bojayá, located on the Atrato River in Chocó. Being near the Pacific coast and the Darién Gap, it is part of a strategic drug-trafficking route desired by the various criminal groups. As the FARC closed in on the town and the battle raged, residents took shelter en masse in the local church. The FARC were launching gas-cylinder bombs at paramilitary positions in the town, one of which missed its mark, landing smack bang in the middle of the church, killing 119 people including many children.
This massacre was beyond the pale. Colombians knew a different approach now needed to be taken. This led to Uribe, whose campaign slogan was ‘Mano Firme, Corazón Grande’ or ‘Firm Hand, Big Heart’, surging in the polls. It was the ‘Firm Hand’ that was most sought after!
On 26 May 2002, Álvaro Uribe was elected the 31st president of Colombia, easily beating out Horacio Serpa who had also come second in the 1998 presidential election. During Uribe’s inauguration a few months later, the FARC fired several mortar shells at the presidential palace from the mountains to the east. Three of the shells hit the palace causing only superficial damage, while another three shells were off target, landing a few blocks away in the Cartucho neighbourhood and killing more than a dozen mostly homeless people including several children. This was just a taste of things to come over the next eight years of Uribe’s presidency.
Meanwhile in Sydney, things certainly weren’t as exciting as what I had experienced during my whirlwind tour a year earlier. I could have continued down the safe career path but life was waiting. I decided to return to Colombia.
11
WAR ZONE
Stepping off the plane, I took a breath of Colombian air and immediately felt alive. I was back!
A few nights before my departure, news had broken of a big bombing in the capital Bogotá. On 7 February 2003, a huge car bomb exploded in the garage of the El Nogal Club located in the north of the city. The government immediately accused the FARC of being the authors of the attack.
The El Nogal Club is an elite social and business club frequented by the upper-class citizens of Bogotá. It was also alleged that meetings between leading right-wing paramilitary figures and government officials were held there, making it a prime target for the FARC. The explosion killed 36 people and injured about 200 others.
The FARC denied being behind the attack, claiming it was a false-flag operation by the Colombian government aimed at uniting the country against the guerrillas. With American help, local authorities were able to determine the bomb was smuggled into the club inside a car belonging to a squash instructor who was also killed. It is thought he was unaware that a bomb had been placed in his car.
The news broadcast back in Australia showed images of the club attack with firemen climbing ladders to rescue survivors from the building engulfed in flames. Bodies lay in the rubble, while bloodied survivors wandered around dazed and confused. Some friends questioned my decision to go to Colombia. The country was in a civil war that showed no signs of abating any time soon. It also had the highest murder rate in the world. I wasn’t fazed. In fact, it added to the excitement. Whatever happens will happen, I thought. If I was to die, then at least I would die happy. I flew into the war zone the following week.
I arrived in Bogotá glad that I wasn’t risking a border crossing and travelling up through guerrilla territory as I had done on my first trip. I grabbed a taxi and headed for the Platypus hostel or Casa Platypus as it is actually called. I intended to stay there only until I was able to organise some more suitable accommodation. As it happened, the hostel had another property a few doors up the road which provided long-term accommodation. It consisted of six bedrooms, a lounge room, kitchen and bathroom all situated around a beautiful little courtyard. Perfect. I asked the friendly owner, Germán, to put me on the waiting list for a room and luckily one became available a few days later.
Next, I needed to find myself a job. My Spanish was certainly not up to a professional standard, ruling out working in the financial industry. Teaching English seemed the only option and I had taken a brief English teaching course before returning to Colombia. I wasn’t overly thrilled with the idea, but if I wanted to live in the country then that was what needed to be done.
Chris, a fit and motivated Englishman I had met in Cali over a year earlier, had his own English teaching business and I’d made a point of getting his email address. I shot off an email hoping he would remember me. He did and we met up the next week at his residence in the northern part of the city. Chris taught professional executives only and, while it felt a bit daunting, not having to deal with a bunch of rowdy kids was a relief.
I needed to obtain a working visa which required me to leave and re-enter the country; the Colombian embassy in Quito, Ecuador, was the most convenient option. I flew to Cali first to catch up with Pedro, who met me at the airport.
‘Hey, mate!’ said Pedro.
‘Compae!’ I replied. Mate!
It was good to see him. We both embraced each other. The friendship was sealed. He seemed to be in a happier state of mind than when I had last seen him which I put down to his finding a new companion. Her name was Carolina whom I would meet later on that evening.
I had been thinking of getting a bus to the border but Pedro advised against it. If it was dangerous when I was first in the country, then it was even more dangerous now that the peace talks were off. Instead, I bought a ticket to fly to Ipiales the next day.
After a quick visit to his father’s office to say hello, we went to buy some liquor at the local San Andresito shopping mall. These malls are found throughout the country and are known for their discounted items such as televisions, computers, cigarettes and alcohol. It is alleged they are used by drug traffickers who are paid with these types of products overseas before importing them to Colombia where they are sold at cheap prices to launder the money.
We returned to Pedro’s apartment for some drinks and as we got out of the car, he said, ‘Hey, check this out’. On the other side of the garage was his neighbour’s car covered with a tarpaulin. He lifted off the cover revealing a red Ferrari Testarossa. I can tell you that the only people who drove such ostentatious cars in Colombia back then were out and out narcos. Pedro told me his neighbour was just that – and a big one who owned the top two floors of the building but was on the run from the authorities.
Once inside, Pedro brought out his new toy – a pistol with a red laser pointer. Nice. I’m not a gun aficionado and have no idea what make it was but I thought it was impressive. We shared stories as we drank the local aguadiente. Firewater, as it translates into English, is an anise-flavoured liqueur made from sugar cane with around 25 percent alcohol content. It is Colombia’s most popular alcoholic beverage and each state makes its own brand. In Cali, the liquor stores are stocked with Blanco.
Carolina, an attractive brunette, arrived to say hello. She was friendly but probably a bit curious about me. Pedro was filling me in on the latest developments in Cali’s narco war. He often swore as he explained how the Norte del Valle Cartel were ‘dangerous motherfuckers’. Carolina, from another well-known local family, remarked on hi
s constant swearing. I had found Colombians who could speak English would often use the words fuck and motherfucker. It was, I suspect, their way of showing off their grasp of the lingo.
The drinks flowed as the good times rolled, and it was then that Pedro apologised to me for his previous suggestion of setting up a cocaine channel to Australia. I told him not to worry about it as I had no problem with it anyway. Still, he insisted he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He recognised that our friendship was real and mixing that with drug trafficking would likely have an adverse impact on the relationship. Carolina also recognised the friendship and took a photo of me and Pedro arm in arm.
By the following afternoon, I was in Tulcán. I returned to the hotel with the two old ladies who were both still fighting fit behind the check-in desk and, after a quick dash to Quito, I was back at the homely hotel a few days later. I decided to take a flight from Ipiales to Bogotá so, after crossing the Rumichaca Bridge, I got a taxi to the local airport. I decided not to tangle with the moneychangers this time.
The Aires flight to Bogotá included a couple of stops along the way – Puerto Asís and Neiva. The aircraft was fairly small in size and flew at a lower altitude, allowing for a great view of the rugged terrain below. Puerto Asís is located in the state of Putumayo which shares a border with Ecuador. The state is largely jungle and lightly inhabited. It was also FARC country with a lot of coca grown in the region.
While the FARC roamed the Colombian countryside, including the area over which I was flying, the guerrillas often retreated to the safety of neighbouring countries, especially now that the El Caguán DMZ was no more. It had acted as a safe haven for the guerrillas, who would carry out crimes outside the demilitarised zone and then retreat back into it where the Colombian army would not pursue them.
