Her English was near perfect, her Spanish nothing to be ashamed of. She recounted to Liam how she had finished studying medicine and was taking a sabbatical before deciding what to do next. She had been travelling mostly alone, or meeting up with friends like those she had met in one of the town’s many scuba bars.
Gisele spoke enthusiastically of her twin passions, scuba diving and undersea hunting, the first with breathing equipment the second without. Liam knew next to nothing about diving; the coastal waters of Ireland were too cold for the sport to appeal to him as a good way of spending weekends.
Her next stop was Santa Marta in Colombia. The oldest city in Colombia, she told him, surrounded by beaches and the mountains of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, its coast bordered by coral reefs, a fabulous spot for diving enthusiasts.
By the end of the afternoon Liam was captivated by his new friend and excited to discover their routes crossed in Cartagena. They had no difficulty in deciding to make the next leg of their journey together. In the meantime Gisele told Liam she would teach him something about diving.
Gisele was not the hot Latino he had imagined finding, but she was a great alternative, she had a stunning figure and together they could speak English and Spanish, though Liam’s German was limited to the point he preferred not to voice his Dad’s Army imitation for fear of being ditched out of hand.
He was completely absorbed by his breathtaking, adventurous, new friend. She exuded health: as a diver she did not smoke and unlike a certain number of the girls they met in Bocas, she was neither tattooed nor decorated with body piercing. He later discovered all that was frowned upon at medical school, not only was it unhealthy, but the risk of infection for her and her patients made the fashion strictly off limits.
BOCAS DEL TORO – PANAMA
The following morning Liam newly equipped with a mask, snorkel and flippers, they set off for the jetty. There they boarded one of the waiting motor launches, joining half a dozen other snorkellers for a day’s diving off one of the many small islands that lay to the west of Bocas. The archipelago formed part of the Isla Bastimentos National Marine Park, which covered more than thirteen thousand hectares.
After half an hour’s ride with the sound of the motor ringing in their ears, their tee-shirts wet from the waves that slapped the hull and the spume that flew through the air as they sped over the water, the launch slowed. Before them was a low lying island, the boat turned towards an opening in the reef that surrounded and headed towards a shallow landing point. Beyond the white sandy beach that lay before them was a wall of dense vegetation, mangroves, tropical hardwoods and tall palms that leant out over the sea.
A few metres offshore the boatman dropped anchor and pointed to the beach. Gathering their lunch boxes and diving material they slipped into the shallow waters and waded to the shore, there they turned and waved to signal all was well. The boatman made a sign of goodbye, then pointing the launch towards the reef he gunned the motor and sped off with a roar in the direction of one of the nearby island where he would drop the other divers.
A couple of minutes later the only sound that could be heard was that of the waves and the cries of the birds. Strangely enough there were no insects, it was probably not the season.
“We’ll stay here, there’s plenty to see in the lagoon,” Gisele said looking left and right along the blinding white sandy beach.
“What’s in there,” asked Liam pointed towards the dense vegetation.
“Nothing I suppose, I mean there’s mangrove and forest, mostly swamp forest.”
“Swamp?”
“You know, the ground is covered with water and natural debris, palm fronds, coconuts, tree trunks and all that.”
“What happens if the boat doesn’t come back.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll live on langouste and coconuts.”
“And water?”
“We can collect that, it rains most nights.”
“There was a silence as Liam contemplated being stranded on a tropical island alone with Gisele. After a moment he smiled.
“What’s up?”
“I just thought it would be nice.”
“For a time.”
Gisele was a realist.
“We’ll start by exploring the lagoon.”
She pointed to the mask and snorkel, then the flippers.
“You know know how to use them Liam?”
“More or less.”
They waded into the sea as Liam experimented different positions for his snorkel. The water was as clear as crystal. Small fish fish darted off as they moved out into deeper water. Liam shouted and pointed to a starfish about a foot in diameter.
“There’s lots of them, just be on the lookout for caymans.”
“Caymans!” exclaimed Liam wondering what offshore banking had to do with their swim.
“Yes, crocodiles.”
“What!”
*
A couple of days later the Adriatico sail out of Bocas. It was early evening as the sun set over the hills that formed the frontier with Costa Rica when the huge ferry turned east. Three blasts on the horn and it left the magic of unspoilt beaches and the small charmingly ramshackle Caribbean town behind. Soon latter day hippies, rastas and backpackers would be replaced by package tourists as developers set to work building hotels and all inclusive resorts. Given another ten or fifteen years it would probably be ready to compete with Phuket, Punta Cana or Varadero.
I
sland off Bocas del Toro
But that was the least of Liam’s worries as he was not on the ferry. He was wondering whether he had made a mistake in not taking it to Colon and from there to Panama City by train. The trouble was he had reached the point where he accepted almost anything Gisele suggested. Not only would the bus be slower, but he was certain it would be more uncomfortable.
The next morning they were up at dawn for the launch that left Bocas for Almirante on the mainland at six. The trip took thirty minutes speeding across the sea in semi-darkness, past the shadows of mysterious forest covered islands.
The bus station was exactly as he imagined a small Central American bus station would be like. Travellers with their oversize piles of baggage waiting for their buses to Panama City or other towns along the route to the east. The drivers left their motors running for the aircon ejecting poisonous diesel fumes into the air around them. It was a stark contrast with the lush green forest covered islands that lay just a short boat ride behind them.
COLOMBIA
In the tumult of City & Colonial grab, Barton, to the dismay of Pat Kennedy, after abruptly liquidated his holdings and vanished, however, it did not take to much effort to discover he had taken a flight to Bogota in Colombia of all strange places.
The question was why Colombia?
Kennedy knowing Liam Clancy enjoyed friendly relations with Barton decided to transform the young banker into his unsuspecting pawn. Barton’s disappearance raised a number of questions and whilst Kennedy had an implicit trust in his friend it was of importance to remove any lingering suspicions as to the motives for his disappearance if only to protect the bank from unwarranted charges.
As to his own presence that would be justified by the bank’s interests in Panama and his interest in the canal project in neighbouring Nicaragua.
*
The idea of Central America excited Kennedy’s imagination. He remembered his discovery of the Caribbean more than fifteen years earlier and despite its disastrous end the experience had been filled with adventure.
In 2000 Kennedy had left Barranquilla on the Caribbean coast of Colombia on a journey to the south, deep into the country’s isolated jungle regions bordering Ecuador. He remembered the Lear Jet as it climbed over the Andean cordilleras stretching out before him, then the vast jungle regions that covered the major part of the country, the home of the Farc guerillas and Pablo Escobar’s successors.
Kennedy recalled the intense feeling of isolation and distance from the rest of th
e world on his arrival at what he had been led to believe was a coffee plantation: which it was, but not only. The people he met were different, rugged and hard, wild looking Indians, and Europeans, most of whom bore no much more than the thinnest veneer of civilisation.
The hacienda was magnificent, as in a Western he remembered, though more exotic, green and without the dust. There were horses and what looked like cowboys, though he saw few cattle. To his consternation many of the men carried arms.
That first evening they ate a parilla of beef chuletas to the buzz of insects flittering in the lighting over the tables set out before the grand house. He remembered Delrios, Dan Oberman and their pilot Peter Davy, as well as the omnipresent army officers in battledress. Delrios had informed Kennedy that an early visit to the coffee plantations had been organised for the next day where an army operation had been planned in the nearby jungle to close down an illegal coca paste factory. He had reassured Kennedy there was not the slightest danger.
Kennedy wondered why the army should be employed to close down a factory, confused by the meaning of coca: was it another version of cocoa, a chocolate drink, or coke as in Coke Cola? In any case why should it be illegal. Not wanting to appear stupid he kept his questions to himself and nodded his agreement to Delrios, who snapped out orders in Spanish to one of his subalterns for the next day’s operation.
They set out for the coffee plantations, at six thirty in morning, which lay on the surrounding hills. These turned out to be disappointing and of only mild interest to Kennedy once he had seen the plantations were nothing more than endless rows of uninteresting green bushes, with the berries ripening on their small branches. It was too early to be up for the likes of inspecting berries on coffee bushes. The essential was that he had seen them and could be considered an expert back in Ireland.
In the not too far distance he saw the mist clinging to the mountains and the canopy of the dense jungle that stretched out like a green carpet before his eyes. The view looked menacing as he imagined his helicopter crashing down into the endless jungle. He was no longer sure that his presence was all that important for the army operation. He had no choice as he was quickly driven to the airstrip and put aboard an army helicopter. They flew low over the jungle and thirty minutes later they circled and landed in a clearing, where they joined a small army unit ready to leave for the jungle factory.
From there they set out in Jeeps over a muddy laterite trail to a meeting point about an hour’s drive away in the jungle covered hills where they met up with a larger group. There he was introduced to an officer who explained in rapid Spanish to his guide the outline of the operation.
Kennedy was uneasy when he saw how heavily armed the men were, and could not help noting their tightly clenched jaws, it was clearly not going to be the kind of rabbit shoot he was used to.
Dimly he began to understand that he was about to witness a military operation against an illegal drug factory, but was confused by the roles of Delrios and Ortega, which seemed vaguely ambiguous. The army was in effect protecting their interests against encroachment by right wing independent paramilitary groups that fought both the Farc and sometimes the government.
It was a complex arrangement with the territory divided into a mosaic of rival interests, where the army, whilst looking after its own business activities, tried to maintain a certain status quo between the warring factions.
The English spoken by the officer in charge and the guide was difficult to follow. Kennedy wished that that Oberman or Davy had remained with him. What at first glance had seemed to be an interesting outing was beginning to take on an alarming air. The other two men had left that morning on a trip up to Barranquilla and back, to deliver some important packages for Delrios and pick up communications equipment that had just arrived from Panama.
They continued a short distance by jeep over the slippery trail to a clearing where they proceeded on foot. They followed heavily armed soldiers who advanced cautiously towards the site of the suspected narcotics factory.
Kennedy remembered the sudden stutter of automatic rifle fire. The soldiers ducked and Kennedy dived into the rain sodden undergrowth and mud. Then the silence, the acrid blue smoke from the gunfire rising in the damp air. The soldiers cautiously continued their advance towards the jungle factory. Kennedy picked himself up brushing the mud and damp leaves from his clothes, his heart beating at a speed he had never before experienced.
The makeshift camp was abandoned, as such camps usually were, a couple of hours or even less before the arrival of the military. Cooking fires were still smoking. The rifle fire had been simply a tactic to frighten those who may have remained in the camp.
He discovered a motley collection of makeshift huts constructed from branches and rough planks, covered with corrugated iron roofs and palm fronds. In a sump dug into the earth coca paste was in preparation and the crude tools necessary lay where they had been precipitously abandoned.
Coca was cultivated by poor farmers and the leaves were harvested by Indians, transported by foot in plastic sacks to the factories where it was transformed into a crude paste. The process was simple; the coca leaves were dried and immersed in a mixture of sulphuric acid and kerosene. The mixture was left to macerate for some hours and then filtered and dried into a paste which could then be transported to laboratories in the north of the country.
The army officer explained through a translator for the benefit of Kennedy that the jungle factory would be burnt and all the material destroyed. Kennedy nodded seriously wondering whether the whole operation had not been set up for his sole benefit.
C
olombian Army drug trafficker’s jungle factory
Another factory would appear in a day or two and business would continue as usual once the military returned to their base.
Informants were everywhere, brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends, both sides exchanging information on operations planned by the authorities. It was a game of hide and seek, where the parties pretended not to know where the other was.
The Colombian armed forces were too small and lacked mobility as well as the means to carry out an effective combat against the narco-industry mercenaries.
The hacienda was situated amongst the vast coffee plantations that covered the nearby hills and plantations surrounded by dense jungle and mountains, in a region only accessible by air, or a long and difficult journey overland. The plantation and its airstrip were also collection points for unrefined cocaine from the surrounding region, where coca growers cultivated and harvested their crop of coca leaves and transformed it into paste before transporting it north.
Police and officials were willing accomplices to the drug traffickers and the drug barons, who continued to operate with impunity throughout Central America and Mexico up to the US border region. Corruption was rampant at all levels in Latin American countries where the traffic of narcotics was aided and abetted at all levels of society.
The coffee plantations were controlled by the Farc and coffee used as a cover for the much more profitable cultivation of coca, the profits of which were used for the purchase of arms and other materials in the futile struggle against the central government in Bogota.
In 2000, the plantations Ortega controlled were an important exporter of Colombian coffee to international markets. They were just one of the many covers for his multiple illegal business activities, which included money laundering on behalf of the Farc.
The production of coca paste in the mountains of southern Colombia by the Farc and their supporters was worth many hundreds of millions of dollars and Ortega’s role was to legitimise the enormous wealth for the guerrillas.
Police, army, political parties and drug cartels were intertwined in a complex tangle of conflicting relationships. The civil authorities needed the money to fight drugs, but also accepted money from the drug cartels to fund election campaigns and buy arms to fight the guerrillas.
The Colombian authorities accepted the billions of dollars in
aid from the US government, in their fight against narcotics and their never ending struggle against the Farc and other opposition movements.
Cocaine commenced its long journey from the mountains in the extreme south of the country to the Caribbean coast in the north. The paste was refined into the finished product in laboratories in Barranquilla and other coastal cities ready for export. From the cities of Barranquilla on the coast, or Santa Marta at the foot of Pico Cristobal Colon overlooking the southern flank of the Caribbean, the cocaine was shipped by sea to North America via the Caribbean islands or by land across Central America and Mexico.
CARTAGENA – COLOMBIA
Barton was enchanted by Cartagena, the city was everything and more than he had expected. He had seen no signs of a war torn country terrorized by the Farc and racked by narco trafficking gangsters, whose combined deeds had so recently supplied the international media with many blood curdling headlines. At least he had not seen anything … yet.
After three months in Colombia he had started to feel at home and his Spanish was improving by the day. Lola had change his life and her country was a land of immense opportunities. To start with he would buy a piece of land near Barichara and build a home with the help of Alfonso, his new architect friend.
London seemed far away and the UK, seen from Colombia, conjured up a strange image in his mind: one that he remembered from a television series he had watched as a child, that of Patrick McGoohan as ‘The Prisoner’ set on an imaginary twee English island, where the underclass was unseeable, which was certainly not the case in today’s Britain, at least beyond Knightsbridge and Chelsea, where the poor thronged.
The politically correct establishment had allowed the millions of additional poor from the third world, to pile into an already overcrowded island. BBC India pontificated, preached the good word, and as a reward splashed out extravagant salaries to news readers and weather forecasters, cramming the upper echelons with political appointees, offering the grassroot masses footy and Topgear.
Cornucopia Page 26
