by Gary Brozek
If I were Marc, I would have had the same reaction. Mario had brought him a hideous pink shirt.
Keith tossed his down as well. “Not going to do it, either.”
Mario shook his head and left.
We were certain that Enrique would come back later that day and read us the riot act, but he didn’t. Two days later, he did come to our camp, but he was calm.
“Here is the news. An international commission will be arriving. They are going to look you guys over to make sure you are well. Medical checks. They will want to speak with you.”
We all quickly glanced at one another. This was our chance to get the letters we’d written to our families out of the country. We were just going to have to figure out how to get them in the hands of the commission without the FARC knowing.
Enrique continued, “You will be allowed to write letters. Be very careful what you write. If you do anything that gives away our location, I promise you this. If you fuck us, we will fuck you.”
Enrique’s pupils narrowed to BBs behind his thick glasses. “You understand me? We’re trying to be nice to you. We bring you clothes. Some of you aren’t accepting them. You don’t want those clothes, then we’ll have problems.”
Marc spoke up. “I’m the one who didn’t accept the clothes. Don’t get on these guys for that. I’m not going to wear them. I’m an American. Let me dress like an American. I’m not a Colombian. I’m not a campesino.”
Enrique set his jaw and pursed his lips. “You should be so lucky as to be a campesino and not an imperialist.”
He went on for a bit, but we tuned him out. All we could think of was the great news. We’d be able to get word out to our families. Over the years, we’d written so many letters in our heads and on paper; until now they’d never had a chance of getting out. This time would be different. It had been nearly five and a half years since I wrote something thinking that others would read it. Now all I had to do was press my pen to paper and I could make myself heard.
SEVENTEEN
Freedom
July 2, 2008
KEITH
As we came up on July, we were staring five and half years in captivity right in the eyeballs. Knowing that some international observers, medics, aid workers, or whatever were coming to see us for the first time could have signified one of two things: Either the FARC had caved in to pressure for a more strenuous proof of life so that our value could be upped, or a deal was in the works and our new “owners” wanted to be sure they weren’t getting ripped off before they put down their cold hard cash. Either of these was good enough for me. Ever since the flurry of activity with Chávez and Córdoba, I figured that in about a year’s time we’d be out. Knowing how the FARC stalled, how they’d messed up with the first proof-of-life videos (we learned eventually that the Colombian military had seized them), and how their organization was riddled by deaths to their leaders, my estimate was conservative but one I was comfortable with.
Like everybody in the camp, I was excited about the visit. To actually be able to talk to someone face-to-face who wasn’t involved in this mess was enough to have me riding a small high. We were all busy working on letters, conferring with one another on what was appropriate to say or to not say—we weren’t concerned about Enrique’s warning; we just wanted to be sure that we didn’t do anything to alarm anyone.
July 1 brought us one day closer to our favorite holiday—the Fourth of July. We’d heard a rumor from one of the guards that members of the international committee had already been on the ground in our area trying to make contact with the FARC. If they were that close, we figured we didn’t have long to wait. Each time the guards came to us with new instructions, they seemed more relaxed and let a little more information slip. We were each brought a small knapsack and told to bring two changes of clothing and any other essentials. That was it. We’d get the rest of our gear when we returned. One of the guards let me know that we’d be taken to a permanent structure where there would be mattresses, a pool table, and good food. All of that sounded fine with me, and I had to laugh when the guard told us that we’d be spending a night in an old whorehouse.
We returned to the structure where we’d first been held with the other Colombians. Everyone was eager to get going, and anticipation was at an all-time high. We’d been joined by four other hostages—Jhon Jairo Durán, Julio César Buitrago, Javier Rodríguez, and Erasmo Romero, bringing the total number of hostages in the camp up to fifteen. We were especially glad to see more of the military and police guys with us. If anybody deserved the chance to be in contact with their families, it was them. They’d been held for so long and yet they continued to carry themselves with dignity and character. Durán was the most selfless person I’d ever met. From the very beginning, he’d been great, and he and Tom had developed a special bond that just amazed me. Two guys of very different ages and backgrounds, one a devout Christian and the other a professed atheist, but none of that mattered. Durán walked the walk in ways that humbled me—the only one among us who wouldn’t snag extra food from the FARC’s supplies.
We gave one another some shit about the civilian clothes the FARC was making us wear. It was like we were all going to a school dance, or something. Ingrid was off with William and not mixing in, but the rest of the guys all stood around busting one another’s chops, talking about what was to come, and burning off a whole bunch of pent-up energy.
Arteaga let everyone know about my wedding plans.
“Patricia has invited dozens and dozens of people, every day more, as the news says. It is going to be a grand celebration.”
Talk turned to my new life situation, and I let the boys have their fun with it.
Apparently Lucho had taken it upon himself to propose to Patricia on my behalf. He greeted her at the airport in Bogotá with a bouquet of flowers and my “declaration of intentions.” The first I learned of said intentions was during a radio broadcast. When I heard about the captive American who had proposed to his Colombian girlfriend, I was stunned, but knowing Lucho, and remembering his words—I know how to handle this. I am a Colombian man—I should have guessed what he was up to. After the proposal, Patricia’s messages took on an even more tender tone, and her declarations of love hit me hard and in all the right places. I wasn’t sure that a wedding was in our immediate future, but I was eager to see her again, and she wasn’t going to be simply a monthly notation in my checkbook—she was going to be someone I would spend significant time with.
The FARC fed us lunch and it was as loud as a school cafeteria in that little enclosure. Arteaga and Armando were among the most vocal in their delight that we were being given the opportunity to do another proof of life. We all speculated about what the international aid workers would be like. I didn’t think a lot about it, but every time any of the FARC mentioned the visitors, they always used the word international. Typical of them, they were jacked up simply because they were getting some attention and “good press.”
After lunch, we were loaded into a bongo and taken up a good-size river. Though we were moving during daylight, the FARC didn’t cover us up, and I was able to take in the scenery. No matter how many times I was out on the river, I never got tired of getting out from underneath the jungle canopy. In some ways, those river trips reminded me of being out in the Everglades—the air smelled the same, a mix of mud and fish and rotting vegetation. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor—it just seemed as if everything was either fully alive and blooming or dead and decaying. We were clipping along at a decent pace, and the fresh breeze made it seem like the whole world was exhaling along with us.
The building where we were brought might have been a whorehouse at some point, but now it looked a lot more like a warehouse. We were taken into some kind of stockroom where long, wide shelves lined the walls. On top of the shelves were some thin mattresses on which the guards told us to sleep. There weren’t enough mattresses, so some of us had to double up, but considering I hadn’t been on one in years, I figured it w
ould be like sleeping on a cloud. Our field trip was just beginning, and until well past dark, we chattered excitedly like kids at a sleepover.
The next morning, we got another surprise. Instead of being served breakfast in a large metal pot from which we had to fill our own small cups, the guerrillas brought out our meal in actual porcelain bowls. Marc, Juancho, and I were seated together, and you would have thought they’d brought out their heirloom silver serving bowls the way we reacted. They also set out some decent silverware. It felt odd to be touching something that wasn’t pitted, gouged, or dented. Marc tucked his new spoon away.
“That’s just rude, bro. Our hosts bring out the good china and silver and you’re going to swipe it.”
Marc laughed and then turned serious. “I’m going to need this thing. The first one I had lasted me five years. Who knows how long I’m going to have to eat with this one.”
After breakfast, Tom and I sat and watched as Marc played chess with Jhon Durán for a bit. None of us knew where things were going from here, but Arteaga seemed to be the center of attention among the group. Eventually he walked over to us and said, “We are going to go on a helicopter today. One of the guards told me. Expect helicopters.”
“Really? Helos? They’re going to take us out of here to do the exams and stuff?” I suddenly felt the urge to pee, and I walked away from everybody to do my business. Suddenly, as I was standing there, I heard the familiar noise of helos dropping down.
“Keith! Helos! Keith, helos!” I heard Marc yelling for me. I zipped up, confused as hell about what this meant. For years one of the worst sounds coming out of the jungle was the bhwhup bhwhup bhwhup of a helicopter’s blades slicing up the air. The adrenaline started pumping, and the hairs stood up on my arms. As I looked out over the tops of the trees ringing our clearing, I saw two Russian built M–17 helos descending and going into hover.
If Arteaga hadn’t told me just minutes before that helos were coming I would have run. As it was, I was torn. I kept looking at the guards, waiting for them to fan out so they could cover all of us with fire. Instead of doing that, each guard called out a single name: “Raimundo with me,” “Erasmo with me,” “Flores with me,” “Tom with me”—all the way down the line. I wondered if this was how they did it. All of us paired up with a guard who would then shoot us. I could see they’d prepared for this and were ready for us. For once, the FARC seemed disciplined and organized. Maybe that was all they were good for, killing hostages when the rescue helos showed up. Tom was taken near the front of the line, while Marc and I were at the back end.
Marc looked at me. “Do we go?”
I shrugged. “At this point, yes. But we’ve got to be smart.”
We were all loaded onto a boat and ferried directly across the river, where we waited near a small shack on the border of a coca field. Standing there was César, whom we hadn’t seen in more than a year. He lingered by us, watching the helos prepare to land.
I didn’t understand why the first Front’s leader was there, but I had a more immediate concern on my mind. Now that the helos were close, I could see that they were painted white and the wheel wells were red, but something was missing.
“Where are the crosses?” I yelled to Marc above the noise of the motors.
Marc frowned and shrugged, signaling that he couldn’t hear what I was saying. As one of the helos landed, its engine settled into an idle. I led Marc to the very back of the irregular line of hostages and guards that had formed. Tom continued to stay toward the front near Durán and Juancho.
“If that’s the Red Cross, then where the fuck are the crosses?”
Marc kept pivoting his head between me and the helo.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, bro, but we may be fucked.”
MARC
Keith and I stood frozen, weighing our options. Nearly everything in me said to run, but something held me back. Maybe it was just the idea that as far as we knew, the FARC had no helicopters. Whoever was coming in would likely be better than the guerrillas.
“Getting on a helo can’t be a bad thing. Let’s see how this plays out when we get off the helo,” Keith said, echoing my thoughts.
“I’m with you.”
When I first heard the helos approaching, I thought it was the sound of freedom. Now that we were waiting for the clamshell doors to open, I wasn’t so sure. When the international team filed out, all of them were wearing brown vests, but one man caught my eye. He had bleached blond hair and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. His mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses obscured his eyes and reflected the jungle behind us. The sun glinted off the earring he wore, and when he raised his arm to shield his eyes, I saw that he had a bandanna wrapped around his wrist. He was followed by a journalist carrying a microphone and another with a large professional video camera. They went straight toward the guerrillas and began to interview them.
A guy wearing square-framed glasses broke from the group. He approached us and said in Spanish, “I’m the doctor. Is everybody okay here? Does anyone need immediate assistance? Any emergencies?”
We all shook our heads no. Whether it was the reality of seeing someone other than a hostage or a guerrilla or the smell of aviation fuel was getting to me, I don’t know, but I was suddenly feeling excited at the prospect of being able to fly somewhere.
“Marc, this has got to be good,” Keith repeated. “They wouldn’t be here with these helos and flying us somewhere unless this was good.”
One of the humanitarian workers stepped up to us. “Cross the barbed-wire fence and we will load you in the helicopter.”
We all stepped over the low strands of wire and into the coca fields. We collected in a small group. I looked back and saw César being interviewed. I could see that the camera had a Telesur logo on it—a Venezuelan media outlet. We took a few steps toward the helo. Another aide worker raised his arms and a couple of other guys and one woman spread out alongside him.
“As one of the conditions of your proof of life and evaluation, you must be placed in restraints.” At that point, he held up plastic wire tie wraps—the kind that policemen in the U.S. sometimes use in place of metal handcuffs.
“No way, Keith,” I said. “I’m not letting them do that to me. These are supposed to be humanitarian aid workers. We’ve been chained and they want to do this to us? What is going on!”
We were at the back of the line and several others had already been tied. I could hear Tom’s voice above the engine noise: “Everyone just be calm and cooperate. This is just a precaution. Get in the helo quickly so that it doesn’t burn too much fuel.”
Jhon Jairo Durán was sobbing and yelling, “I’ve been a hostage for ten years. Why are you doing this to me? How can you tie us up?”
He flung himself to the ground and Tom knelt over him, talking to and trying to soothe him. When Jhon stood up, I could see that he was so agitated that foam and spit had coagulated on his lips. Tom put his arm around him and tried to hold him still. Jhon had been such a stalwart throughout his captivity that seeing him like this really shocked me; out of everyone, I would not have bet on him to break down at that point.
Keith walked away from me and stepped in front of the camera. Enrique and the guards started shouting that somebody should stop him, but before anyone could, he shouted, “Tom Howes. Marc Gonsalves. Keith Stansell. We are three Americans being held. We are well.” Keith hustled back toward me and the two of us stood there, still uncertain what to do.
In the meantime, the aid worker with the mirrored sunglasses walked up to Keith and me. He said to us in English, “My name is Daniel. You see this?” He took a laminated card that was hanging from a cord draped around his neck and showed it to us. “This is my ID. I’m Australian.”
Before I could respond, Keith grabbed the ID and looked it over.
“Bullshit. Who the fuck are you and what is going on? You’re not Australian; you’ve got a fucking Colombian accent. What is going on? You are not who you say you
are.”
Daniel stayed very calm and said to us, in English again, “I am going to get you out of here. Do you want to go home?”
“Hell, yeah,” we said in unison.
Keith turned to me and said, “Screw the tie wraps. Put them on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I wasn’t completely convinced. I asked Daniel as he was busy tying Keith’s wrists, “Is this for our freedom?” Daniel didn’t look up; he was too intent on getting Keith’s ties done.
Then he yanked one end of the strap, pulled up his sunglasses for a second, and said, “Trust me. Trust me.”
He stood up, and as the helo’s motor began to wind up, he looked at Keith and me and said loud enough to be heard over the noise, “Do you understand what I am trying to tell you? Trust me.”
I stood there, adrenaline pounding through my veins, as he cinched the plastic bands around my wrists. Keith was just ahead of me and the rest of the hostages were already seated in the aircraft along each sidewall. I could see that Keith had already worked his way out of the ties. I couldn’t believe he’d told me to let myself get tied up and he had already broken out of his. He was holding his wrists together to make it look like he was restrained, but the bands were gone. I sped up a bit and got past Keith, turning to see from his expression if there was something else we should be doing besides boarding. He mouthed words, but in all the noise and confusion, I couldn’t make them out.
Walking up the ramp to the helo, I had no idea what to think. I saw an open seat, and the next thing I knew, someone had lifted me up and tossed me into it. A darker-skinned guy wearing a Che T-shirt yanked my boots off and flung them to the other side of the helo. This is what humanitarian aid workers do?
I was stunned and yelled at him, “Calm down. Stop it.”
I looked toward the middle of the craft and saw Keith about to sit down next to Tom. The next thing I knew, one of the other aid workers picked Keith up and threw him down in the back of the helo. He ripped off Keith’s boots and then tie-wrapped his feet. I could hear the pull of the plastic strap as it ratcheted along the teeth. Keith had a confused look on his face, and when the aid worker turned around, I could see why. The guy had on a Che Guevara shirt just like we’d seen so many of the FARC wearing. What was this deal? Were we being taken by another guerrilla group, the Venezuelans, some right-wing Colombians?
