by Gary Brozek
“Lucho, the guy is the president of Venezuela. How can you expect Uribe to do nothing when he’s talking to the top military man in Colombia without clearing it with him. You don’t go over someone’s head like that.”
Lucho looked near tears, and I wasn’t far behind him on that one.
“Then you reprimand him privately and give him an opportunity to do what you requested him to do. You don’t issue a public statement terminating him. He’s trying to bring down Córdoba and Chávez in the eyes of the people of Colombia and using us to advance his agenda.”
Uribe had done plenty wrong in my eyes, so I hated defending him. In his statement dismissing Chávez, he said the Venezuelan was the only one in the world the FARC would respect and hand over hostages to. If Chávez was out of the picture, what did that mean for us? In the days that followed, Chávez and Uribe abandoned their tolerance of each other and fired off potshots. Chávez called Uribe a liar and put relations with Colombia “in the freezer.” Uribe accused Chávez of siding with the FARC and with having expansionist intentions. Chávez put things deeper into the freezer by saying that Uribe was a bad president who didn’t want peace for his people and was a “sad pawn of the empire.” At the same time, the commentators on the radio were speculating that Uribe had only cooperated with Chávez because the Democratic Congress in the U.S. failed to pass a proposed free-trade agreement with Colombia. The commentators figured that Uribe knew that consorting with our main enemy in the region would give him some leverage in America, or at least could slap our wrists a bit.
We were just sick of the rhetoric; what these politicians forgot was that their actions, their finger-pointing, and their manipulating all kept us in chains. Angry as we were, we also knew that things could change again. This was just the latest chapter in the back-and-forth that we’d been living through for almost five years. It was dry season and the waters were literally receding around us, but in our minds, that was just a part of nature’s cycle. Just as the political climate had taken a downturn, we knew that it would turn in our favor again. At least people were talking about hostages and exchanges. That was more than what we’d seen in years.
About four or five days before Christmas, a guard told us that we were going to celebrate the holiday early since the plan was for us to be on the march on Christmas Day. By this point, we’d all come to feel like Christmas or any other holiday was just a name on a calendar; we weren’t with our families, so the days didn’t have the same meaning. The FARC seemed to share that point of view, though they usually had some kind of gathering for themselves on Christmas.
Our pre-Christmas 2007 celebration started off quietly. Eventually, a guard brought in a bottle of a Colombian liquor called aguardiente. It was a licorice-flavored drink that was pretty potent. To be polite, I had a shot with the rest of the guys and then stopped. Tom and Marc had a couple more. I was a little worried about them because none of us had eaten yet, and Marc, who had been under the weather, hadn’t eaten much for a couple of days. Finally the FARC brought us our food. Instead of just setting a big pot out for us, the cooks served us. For the FARC, chicken was haute cuisine, so that was our special Christmas dinner. This was no succulent Sunday afternoon with the family bird; it was a bit dry and stringy, but better than anything we’d eaten in a long time.
It was then that Enrique came in looking pretty happy. He had one hand behind his back and he told the guard to unlock our chains so we could sit on the ground comfortably to eat. We knew something was up, and as we sat down he brought out a video camera he’d been hiding. We figured what the hell, if Enrique wanted to record us to show the world how well we ate and that we were just chain-free happy campers, then so be it. Of course, it didn’t sit too well with any of us, but if he wanted the footage, he’d have to deal with the consequences. With Tom’s tongue a bit lubricated, he started in on Enrique.
“You think you can bring us food and drink and expect us to just kiss your ass? What the hell happened to you, Enrique, to make you like you are? You must have been a normal kid, what happened? When did you get this corazón negro? When did you choose to follow the dark path?”
Acting like he couldn’t hear what Tom was saying, Enrique just kept taping. He was shooting the whole area while Tom narrated the story of Enrique’s decline into being an abusive piece of shit. I was sitting back loving all this, when I saw Marc get up. He grabbed a few of the chains that were on the ground, and he wrapped them around his neck. He started walking around with them and rattling them like a ghost out of A Christmas Carol. He wanted to ruin Enrique’s little sorry-we-can’t-be-home-for-the-holidays video. The rest of us were laughing and hooting. Tom continued to read Enrique the riot act while Marc kept inserting himself into the frame of the video. I could tell Enrique was getting pissed. The camera started to shake, and every time he turned it in a different direction, Marc would pop into view with his chain scarf.
Tom was speaking for all of us at that point, and all the disappointment at the unraveling of our expectations came pouring out, along with a lot of pent-up frustration about being put in chains. It was a classic bit of rebellion. We piled up all the junk like it was stacked under our tropical Christmas tree. Enrique slunk out of camp like a cartoon character with steam coming out of his ears.
We knew that he would exact his revenge on us, but we had no idea he would distribute it so unequally. He put Tom in a second set of chains but did nothing to Marc or me. Tom knew that was the nature of the beast. The dark road that Enrique traveled always seemed to lead back to Tom.
Our Christmas “celebration” behind us, we prepared to move out. Enrique came to us on Christmas Day to tell us that we were going to start the march that day.
“We have a ways to go. These marches are difficult sometimes, as you know. I’m sure you will be concerned about your condition. You are responsible for yourselves. We are responsible for ourselves.”
Without being direct, Enrique was making it clear that he wanted us to help carry the food supplies. We’d been down this road before. Technically, we, as captives, weren’t responsible for ourselves. The FARC were responsible for feeding and supplying us. But his implication here was clear: You don’t help us carry food in addition to your own gear, then you won’t eat as well. The first rations to be cut, in other words, would be ours. We knew we didn’t have much choice. We were in chains and being led on a march. The chains were heavy, about ten pounds, and our packs were far heavier, but if we wanted the one thing that would sustain our energy, we were going to have to take on an extra load.
“We’ll carry your food,” I said, “but we need something in exchange. Powdered milk and panela. If I get that, you can pile it on me.”
By offering to have it piled on, I was not just getting the milk and sugar I wanted, but something potentially more valuable—the goodwill of the grunt-level guerrillas. Over the years, we’d noticed that the greatest source of dissension among the rank-and-file guerrillas was the perception that some of them had to carry more than others. They were absolutely right. We’d seen guys like Eliécir packed to the gills, while others skated by with light loads. The longer our marches went, the more disgruntled these guys got, leading them to take out their frustrations on us. I figured that if they saw us carrying heavy, they’d be more likely to do us a favor. Usually, if you were transporting food on a march, your load got lighter each day as the supplies were eaten. On this march, I continually asked to be resupplied so that I was always carrying heavy.
As we started out, Tom wasn’t able to carry any extras. Enrique had him in double chains on the march and that was tough enough—especially because Tom had a bad knee. Marc did what he could, but his knee was also in bad, bad shape and he’d been sick. I was fortunate to be in about as good a physical condition as I could be, given the circumstances. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of helping out the FARC, but if it meant keeping our asses from starving, then that’s what I had to do. With us on the cusp of five years as hostages,
we’d become infinitely wiser in the ways of captivity. We were tougher physically as well as mentally, and we knew what the boundaries were.
With the extra weight, the march began rough, but we got a piece of news early on that helped to push us along. On December 28, we got word that the Red Cross and other agencies were pressuring the FARC to release Clara Rojas and her son. What no one on the outside knew was that the FARC had somehow gotten Emanuel to an orphanage, and it wasn’t until Jhon Pinchao’s escape that the Colombian authorities were able to track down a kid of the right age with a telltale broken arm. Emanuel became a cause célèbre in Colombia and the FARC were taking some serious hits for the kid’s condition when he was dropped off and the bad treatment of his arm.
Once Emanuel turned up, the FARC, as usual, still dragged their feet and didn’t release Clara, claiming the government had just found any old kid and said it was Emanuel. Clara’s mom submitted a DNA sample and that test confirmed that Emanuel was Clara’s. Only when Uribe went public with that news about the DNA test did the FARC finally agree to let her go. A pair of Venezuelan helos were given the coordinates of Clara and Consuelo’s location. The Red Cross oversaw the operation and the two women were released on January 10.
We needed that bit of good news. By the tenth, we’d been on the march for thirteen days, and the only other positive development for us was the knowledge that other groups of hostages were nearby. We were in the lead, so we had to set up camp whenever we stopped, but instead of tearing the camps down when we moved out, we left them up for the groups behind us. The guards confirmed our assumptions, saying that there were two groups behind us, one including Ingrid, the five others we’d been separated from, and four other military prisoners.
Every one of us had serious issues with our feet, but Lucho was in the worst shape. A diabetic, he was prone to circulation problems in his legs and feet and that kept even minor things from healing quickly. He’d picked the skin off a popped blister and it got infected. He explained to the FARC about his diabetes. One night, while chained to Tom, Lucho thought he was suffering a heart attack until Tom gave him aspirin. Still, the FARC continued to drive Lucho relentlessly, and the harder they drove him, the worse his foot got. The infection was going deep, and he knew that a lot of diabetics had had to have toes and feet and even legs amputated. He wasn’t panicking, but we could all see the legitimate worry in his face.
We’d long known Lucho to be theatrical about his injuries, but it was clear that this was a serious problem. Mercifully, the FARC recognized it, too—the pus and ooze coming out Lucho’s foot was as rank as anything I’d ever smelled. I didn’t know how he kept going. Soon we came to an old camp, one of the first ones we’d stayed in with Enrique, which looked a lot like it did when we left it.
As we got settled in, we noticed that Enrique and several other FARC were talking to Lucho, who looked very agitated. He came over to us, and for a guy who always wore his heart on his sleeve, it was easy to tell that he’d gotten some bad news.
“They are taking me out of the group, gentlemen. I regret to say that I know no more than that. This may be farewell. I may no longer be residing in the Plenitude.”
Marc and I both laughed at his use of the nickname that we’d come up with for the retirement home/hooch that Lucho shared with Tom.
“Well, those of us in the snake pit will miss your presence.” I fed Lucho a straight line about the name he and Tom had come up with for the hooch I shared with Marc. He didn’t take it.
Instead he said, “I wish you well. Tom, if it is possible to say such a thing under the circumstances, it has been a pleasure. To think that chains can bring us together and keep us apart.” Lucho was clearly struggling with his emotions. Marc and I stepped back to let Tom and Lucho have a private moment.
When Lucho was led away, Tom stood next to us and watched him leave. I could sense that Tom was working on something internally. He stood rubbing the back of his neck with his hands, almost as if he wasn’t aware that he was doing it.
Marc asked him if he was okay.
Tom pursed his lips and exhaled. “I didn’t expect that. I hope he is headed to freedom.” None of us expected it, but then again, uncertainty had become our lives. We all shared Tom’s hope.
A couple of days later, we were shocked to see Lucho back, this time joined by the two groups that had been following us. The guards kept us segregated in our marching groups. We could wave and say hello, but nothing much beyond that. In one sense, it was good to see Romero, Jhon Jairo, Buitrago, and Javier after such a long time, but mostly it was sad to know they were still being held. When we came to another old campsite, the FARC still kept us in our groups, separating us by about a kilometer or so.
One night, two weeks after Lucho had rejoined us, he and Tom were listening to the message programs in the coleta next to Marc and me. I heard him say something that sounded like “Hwmphr.” That was followed a moment later by his saying as calmly as if he were telling us the time, “The news announced that I am to be released.”
It took a second for his words to register. Everyone—Lucho included—was in complete shock. By the next morning, he was his old self. He went around to each of us encouraging us to write letters, as many letters as we wanted, and he would be certain that they’d get out. We all got to work on writing, and in addition to the letters, Marc asked him to take along a couple of extras for his family. He had carved a wooden plaque with the word family on it and had also made some patches with the names of his wife, his daughter, and his two sons on them. Tom and I both had letters to go home, and I also wrote two more letters—one to Patricia and one to her father.
Ever since I’d heard Patricia’s first message, it seemed pretty clear to me that she was a woman doing the hard right thing under the toughest of circumstances. From that point on, her messages had given me support that I didn’t even know I needed. Before the crash, I’d run from reality. She hadn’t. Even after all the time with no word from me, she was mothering los tigres and standing by me in a way that I wished I could have stood by her.
This situation seemed to test my resolve about whether I really had been changed by captivity. What kind of person was I going to be when I was out of here? There wasn’t anything I could do about the past and the huge hole my absence had put in my loved ones’ lives, but I could let Patricia know what I was planning on doing about the future. I could let her know that I saw things differently. I told Patricia and her family that I was going to do right by them. I was going to see if we could be a family, all of us together in some form.
Before he left, Lucho came to me and asked me about my intentions toward Patricia.
“Do you want me to tell her that you want to marry her?” he asked.
“Tell her that I want to do the right thing and support the boys and her. I’d like us to be a family.”
“Say no more, Keith. I know how to handle this. I am a Colombian man, I know what to do.”
I figured who better than a diplomat and senator to help get my message out. I figured I owed him an honest appraisal.
“Lucho, when we first met, I couldn’t stand you. The things you did to the three of us disgusted me. But you know what? I’m glad I got to spend this last six months with you, the real you. I like the person I see now and I’m glad that I saw this side of you.”
As happy as we were for Lucho, when we learned that Jorge, Gloria, and Orlando were also being released, we were truly overjoyed. To think that anyone—let alone a group this big—was going home was thrilling. Knowing that the FARC were doing this unilaterally just as they’d done with Clara and Consuelo gave us hope that our time might come soon.
On February 26, 2008, Lucho bid us all farewell. There was very little that was bittersweet about his departure. While a part of me kept expecting the FARC to drop their end of things, for once that didn’t happen. With his bags packed and his hope returned, Lucho walked out of our camp that day and did not return.
MARC
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On March 1, the Colombian government announced that they had discovered and attacked a FARC camp in the Putamayo region on the Ecuadoran border. The first reports that came in said that sixteen FARC guerrillas had been killed and that among them was Raúl Reyes, the first of the secretariado to be killed in battle since the FARC was founded. Keith, Tom, and I rejoiced at this news. Reyes was a vital component of the FARC’s engine. Rumor had it that Marulanda was ill and about to step down as the FARC’s commander in chief. Reyes was next in line. If nothing else, his death would send shock waves through the FARC.
While this was a positive development, it could also be a bad deal for us—especially because of how it happened. In subsequent days, the radio had more reports about Reyes’s death and the controversy that ensued. Reyes and his group had penetrated the Ecuadoran border and had been killed there. Some in Colombia and in Ecuador were upset with the military’s crossing the border. After a day or two of angry accusations and denials, Uribe explained that his military had launched a rocket attack from Colombia. Only after they believed that they had hit their intended target did they cross the border into Ecuador—with Ecuadoran president Rafael Correa’s permission. Along with the bodies, they also recovered Reyes’s laptops, and a series of allegations about the damning evidence the laptops contained began to circulate, including verification of Chávez’s longtime collusion with the FARC. If this was true, it could have big implications for us, but all we could do was wonder how it would affect negotiations for our release.
Whether it was because of Reyes’s death, Lucho’s release, or some other force we were unaware of, in the days after Lucho’s departure, we noticed a lot more surveillance aircraft activity. We had been traveling either by boat or by marching along the river. Late one afternoon, deep into a nasty slog a few hundred yards off the river itself, Keith stopped and cocked his ear like a bird dog.
