“We have two extra nights paid for. Why don’t you take the room, if you need a place to stay.”
This delighted the duo. Yet again they had found lodging for the best possible price—in this case, free.
Since Bolivia was a country of many revolutions, and the laws were clear that all foreigners had to be registered, every hotel had a firm policy of reviewing each foreigner’s passport and making note of each visitor. Thus Rolf and Max entered the modest hotel very surreptitiously and settled into their free room.
The next day a strike was declared by all communication services—every media worker walked out and shut down each and every newspaper, radio, and television station.
Anxious to set out on their jaguar adventure, they walked to the final gas station heading east on the road from La Paz to Yungas and boarded the “banana boat,” an open-bed truck, where they squeezed in next to fourteen native Indians, including three mothers nursing children ranging from a few months to one who must have been close to five years old. The Bolivian women believed that their best form of birth control was to nurse their children as long as possible, so it wasn’t unusual to see a six-year-old child suckling at its mother’s breast.
The Indians had brought food and drink with them, and they shared it with Rolf and Max, who they scrutinized with some amusement in their faux native garb. There were checkpoints every twenty kilometers or so, but the banana boat never even slowed down. The driver, Jose, was known to the guards, and they seemed to think there was no reason to check the truck.
The ride was one of the most breathtaking Rolf and Max had ever taken—and could easily have been their last. Jose knew every inch of the road, but the drop-offs, ruts, and curves were so severe that no sane person would ever have attempted to navigate it.
Over the next six hours, all the other passengers jumped off the truck as they came to their homes and villages tucked into the sides of the mountains they traversed.
Jose invited Max and Rolf to join him in the cab, asking questions about America and sharing his knowledge and love of his own jungle town of Caranavi. When they reached the final military checkpoint entering Caranavi, the young guard on duty could see that Max and Rolf were not ordinary passengers. He peered at them suspiciously and demanded to see their identity cards. Max handed over their passports to the puzzled soldier, who had never seen such foreigners—or even a passport—in this remote outpost.
“These are international identity cards, just like the ones you use here in Bolivia, but better,” Max explained.
The guard looked at Jose, who smiled and spoke up.
“These boys are okay,” he said. “They have been with me the entire trip. They will not make any trouble, Jorge. It’s okay to let them through.”
The guard turned out to be married to Jose’s second cousin, and just like that, Rolf and Max passed the thirty-ninth and final checkpoint since entering Bolivia, all without being stopped and questioned, defying all the security precautions of the Bolivian military government.
The banana boat continued into the town of Caranavi, and Jose dropped Max and Rolf off at the nearest bar while he headed home to his wife and children. As the two young adventurers enjoyed their beers and meal, they chatted with the restaurant owner, who promised to arrange for the hunting rifles and serve as the guide for finding the jaguars.
That accomplished, they sat back and observed their surroundings.
Although they were in the middle of the South American jungle, they felt as if they were in a John Wayne Wild West movie. There were wooden shacks on either side of the main road, which was dry and dusty, and an elevated walkway almost eight feet above the street that served as a sidewalk. From what they gathered, during the rainy season the road turned into a river, and most of the buildings were built on stilts to protect against flooding.
As Max and Rolf each finished their third beer, a uniformed officer came up to them, saluted, and spoke in Spanish.
“El dice wants to see you. Can you come with me?” the man said.
Max had no idea who he was talking about, and when he pressed the uniformed guard, he was informed that el dice was the equivalent of the director, mayor, and governor of the region, all rolled into one. He had the impression that no one should mess with el dice, so he and Rolf finished their beers and followed the man to the small wooden shack across the street that served as government offices and jailhouse.
El dice was a heavyset, imposing man. The first things he asked to see were their passports, which he examined carefully. Then he questioned Max quietly and without emotion. When told that they were there to hunt jaguars, he smiled and said that he would have his guard take them to the only hotel in town, and that in the meantime he would hold onto their passports for as long as they were in his jurisdiction.
Aware of their dwindling funds, Rolf indicated to Max that he should tell el dice that they weren’t ready to go to the hotel yet because they wanted to explore the town first. In fact, their plan was to camp by the river and avoid paying a hotel bill, which was the way it worked out.
Unfortunately, Max and Rolf lay their blankets on top of an anthill, and in the morning when the ants woke up so did the duo, nursing several major bites.
The morning was ferociously hot, and as they walked back to town for lunch and to meet up with their jungle guide and restaurant owner, Rolf turned to Max and confessed that between the heat and ant bites, he had lost his enthusiasm for the hunt.
“We’ve gotten to see this exotic jungle, and plenty of rare birds and animals,” he offered. “That was really my main goal. It’s not that important to me that we actually shoot a jaguar, and our budget is pretty tight already. Maybe we should just head back to La Paz and then have some extra time to visit Cuzco and Machu Picchu.”
“That’s fine with me,” Max replied.
So with their sombreros perched on their heads and their heavy decorative ponchos tucked under their arms, they headed back to town and sat down to eat.
They ordered two platos americanos—thin steaks served over rice, fried bananas, eggs, and a type of bean indigenous to Bolivia. Of course, this was accompanied by several beers, and after a leisurely meal ordered some of the rich Bolivian coffee. Just as they were finishing their first cup, a Jeep drove up and stopped smartly in front of the restaurant, kicking up a large cloud of dust.
A uniformed guard stepped out of the jeep, entered, and walked over to their table.
“There seems to be some irregularities with your papers,” he said brusquely. “The lieutenant at the military barracks wants to talk with you.”
Max just looked at Rolf to see what he should do or say. Rolf smiled and called the waiter to come and pour him a second cup of coffee.
Not knowing what else to do, Max ordered a second cup as well. He then turned to the guard.
“Just let us finish our meal, and we will be right there.”
The uniformed man left, and ten minutes later Rolf ordered a third cup of coffee. So did Max.
“Rolf, what are we going to do?” Max asked nervously. “I can’t drink a fourth cup of coffee, and I think those guards in the jeep are getting fed up waiting for us.”
“Don’t worry,” Rolf responded confidently. “They’ll wait as long as they have to. I’ve been in the army in Holland, and this is just fun and games to them. The lieutenant probably just wants to check and see what plans we have since we never showed up at the hotel last night.”
So the two leisurely paid their bill and headed to the front of the restaurant, where four uniformed military men had patiently remained seated in the jeep with heavy rifles at their sides.
The sun was still high, and it was hot. Rolf peered at the bumpy, dusty road and turned to his friend.
“Max, tell them that after such a big meal we need to walk. They can just follow us in the jeep, but I know we will both feel much better if we walk the two miles to the barracks and not squeeze into that bumpy jeep.”
He relayed th
is to the head guard, who had been patiently waiting, and it was at that moment Max realized that it was no longer a game.
The commander barked an order, and all four guards leaped out of the jeep, then trained their rifles on Rolf and Max.
“You will get into the jeep, and you will get in now,” the commander informed them in a loud, firm voice against which there would be no resistance. Max was now frightened, but Rolf still seemed to think it was a big joke.
“Relax,” he said. “This is just what they’re trained to do. No one is actually going to shoot us.” He smiled, and they climbed into the vehicle.
It only took five minutes to reach the military barracks, the largest military outpost in all of Yungas. More than four hundred men were stationed there, but at that particular moment there seemed to be a lot fewer on hand.
When a young lieutenant greeted them upon their arrival, Max asked him where the rest of the men were. The lieutenant explained that they were hot on the trail of the final members of Che Guevara’s rebels. The entire region had been closed to foreigners the very day he and Rolf had jumped on the banana boat—something they hadn’t known, thanks to the media strike. Upon hearing this news, Max and Rolf shared worried glances but said nothing.
The lieutenant was a well-groomed young man with an easy air. He practically apologized for being there, while all the senior officers had joined with the general in the expedition to round up the last of los banditos aquellos. After all, he said, there would be glory in making these final captures.
He explained that they had no formal jail, so he would have Max and Rolf placed under guard in the officers’ quarters, where they would spend the night. He further informed them that they would be dining with him and the general’s wife that evening, since that would be the most convenient way to keep track of them.
Given their sombreros and gaudy blankets, he seemed to think that they were actually who they said they were—tourists who had wandered off the beaten track and had managed to avoid thirty-nine separate checkpoints, completely unintentionally.
But it was a hard story to believe, and since all of the senior officers were off-site, he had no choice but to wire Section 5—the highest security section of the Bolivian central army headquarters in La Paz—and ask for orders.
He said he would let them know their fate at dinner.
***
On the drive over, Rolf had noticed that there were some beautiful clay tennis courts, no doubt reserved for the use of the officers. He goaded Max into asking if it would be all right to play some tennis later that afternoon. Seeing no reason to object, the lieutenant granted permission.
As a result, a short time later they had two guards chasing after the tennis balls—serving as ball boys as if they were at a tennis club—while two others kept machine guns trained on Max and Rolf to ensure that there would be no attempt at escape.
Later that evening, over one of the most delicious meals Max had ever eaten, with pleasant conversation from the general’s wife, the lieutenant told them where they stood.
“Section 5 doubts the veracity of your story,” he revealed. “They have asked me to send you to La Paz tomorrow morning, so they can question you properly. As long as your story checks out, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Well, we certainly aren’t spies,” Max confirmed anxiously.
“I know that,” the lieutenant acknowledged. “I will be sending Raul with you as your guard, on the 6:00 a.m. bus to La Paz. The bus will be free, but you will have to buy your own food along the way.”
With that, he rose.
“I have enjoyed our dinner together and hope all goes well in La Paz,” the lieutenant said.
As they left, Rolf shot Max a wry look.
“Wow, this is even cheaper than the $2.00 we paid to get here,” he commented. “You can’t beat a free ride!”
Max was less certain that this ride was really going to be free, but he smiled and remained in good spirits.
He found it difficult to sleep, however.
***
The bus ride proved to be much more comfortable than the banana boat had been, and there was a small town where they stopped and had lunch. They were given an opportunity to choose from baby mountain trout swimming in natural holding tanks among the rocks along the river, and once chosen, the fish were barbecued. The taste was exquisite, and the guard—Raul—was very happy, since this assignment had generated an opportunity for him to take a quick three-day leave to La Paz, where he could visit with his fiancée.
All was well until the bus reached La Paz and Raul introduced them to Juan, their new guard, who would take them the rest of the way to Section 5. Juan was proper enough, but clearly he wasn’t buying the Mexican sombrero, brightly colored blanket “lost gringo” routine. He led Max and Rolf to a military jeep with a driver and an armed guard.
At 4:00 in the afternoon the two “gringos” were inside Section 5, the headquarters of Bolivia’s security organization. Rolf pulled out his Minolta mini camera and began snapping pictures. A guard grabbed it out of his hands and before he could protest, ushered them into a large room. They were told that a General Anahola would be meeting with them as soon as he was able.
By 9:00 p.m., they were hungry. They asked Juan if they could eat and were surprised when he instructed a guard to accompany them to the officers’ club, where he told them they could order a meal—though they would have to pay for it themselves.
After a short walk from the holding area, they stopped at a nondescript military building. Once inside, the elegance of the officers’ club amazed both Max and Rolf. It resembled an English country pub, with dark, wood tables and tasteful decorations. There were only eight tables, but with four waiters the service was flawless. Three of the tables had other diners, but neither of them thought it wise to strike up any conversations under their present circumstances.
During the meal, Juan was replaced by a new guard, Jorge. At the end of the meal, Rolf still seemed to think this was nothing more than a playful, military exercise, and suggested that Max explain that they were “guests” of General Anahola and that the general would pick up the tab. Against his better judgment, Max offered this explanation, and the waiter smiled as they enjoyed their free meal before being taken back to the holding area by Jorge.
It was close to 11:00 p.m., and still, no sign of the general.
***
As the night dragged on and fatigue set in, Rolf’s ever jovial c’est la vie attitude was replaced with agitation and concern. His Dutch accent became heavier and harder to understand.
“Max, ask Jorge if we can call the Dutch and U.S. consulates and see if they can help us,” he said, the strain apparent in his voice. “We don’t want to spend the night in jail. There has to be a way out.”
“Señor, nos permite una llamada?” Max asked Jorge. The guard sat at a desk in the waiting area where they had been held for the last several hours. There was a phone in plain view.
“Let me check with Captain Morales and see if that would be allowed,” Jorge responded.
Five minutes later permission had been granted, and Max was on the phone with a clerk at the U.S. Consulate.
“The consul went home hours ago,” he was informed. “I will bring your situation to his attention first thing in the morning, but there’s nothing I can do this evening.”
With that, the clerk hung up the phone.
When Rolf called the Dutch Consulate, however, he was immediately put through to the diplomat at his home. The Dutch consul spoke with the head officer on duty at the holding facility, Captain Morales, and arranged for Rolf and Max to be transferred to the responsibility of the Dutch Consulate. He also said that he would guarantee that neither would attempt to leave Bolivia until their case had been resolved.
Within forty-five minutes—just before midnight—the Dutch consul himself arrived at Section 5, signed the necessary documents, and Rolf and Max were escorted to a modest hotel, where a Bolivian army gua
rd remained seated outside their door to ensure that there would be no attempted escape.
The following morning they were awakened at 6:00 and taken back to Section 5. After only a moderate wait of an hour and a half, General Anahola called for Max.
He entered a small room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling—exactly as he’d seen in the old movies he loved to watch. He was prepared for the worst, even torture, but the only element of torture was an old manual typewriter sitting on a desk that made an ear-splitting racket every time it was used.
The general was sitting in front of the typewriter and started to ask him questions immediately.
“How long have you been a member of the NLF?” he demanded.
“What’s the NLF?” Max responded sincerely.
“Los banditos aquellos,” the general replied. “Those who support Che Guevara and his animals.”
“No, I’m not a member of that group. Until this moment, I didn’t even know what it was.”
“Then you must be a member of the CIA,” the military man countered brusquely.
“No,” Max answered, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t think I am even old enough to join the CIA, and I wouldn’t anyway.”
“What is your political party?” the man demanded.
“I am too young to vote in the United States, but I would probably be a Democrat, if I were older.”
The questioning continued for seven hours. Every movement Max and Rolf had made was questioned, every possible motivation was broached. Every person—from the first Bolivian official at the consulate in Arequipa to the bartender in Caranavi—was noted in the report.
At the end of the seven hours, General Anahola produced a two-page, single-spaced document with forty-four points covered. Max read the document and then signed it, asserting that everything written was a true and authentic “confession.”
It recounted exactly how Max and Rolf had slipped through security, how they had worked with Project Friendship, how they had decided to take the collectivo van from Puno, how they “bumped” into Archibald Benson on the street of La Paz, and every other detail of their improbable journey.
The Twelve Page 6
