The floor and walls were light marble with gray veins. Above the arched entryway were five sandstone slabs with running horses etched into them. On the other walls hung framed, charcoal sketches of dated buildings that I envisioned as ‘old Bogota.’
A bellhop brought a trolley and piled our duffel bags onto it. He then led us to one of the two elevators.
Our suites were adjoining—Sue and I in one, Jorge, Ivan, and Mike in the other.
Right inside the entrance to our room there was an inset bar with a mirror over it. To the left was a desk and a black chair, next to a sitting area with a brown couch.
The bellhop took our bags down a short hallway and into the bedroom. Sue and I followed. There was a queen-size bed with a taupe, patterned cover and five white pillows in the center, propped against a dark wood headboard, with a colorful flower painting above it.
When the duffels were placed on the bed, Sue said, “We don’t have any pesos. Would US dollars be okay as a tip?”
The bellhop extended his hand and took the ten-dollar bill. Looking at it, he nodded and smiled before leaving us.
I went to the window to check out the view. Below was a fenced outdoor parking lot paved in brick. Beyond were more brick buildings, with a few white stucco ones thrown in. In the distance, a lush green steep mountain rose below a cloudy gray sky.
There was a knock on the door between the sitting room and bathroom. Sue went to open it.
Jorge poked his head into our suite, from theirs. “When you’re ready, let’s eat and then go for supplies.”
“We’re ready,” Sue and I both said.
The three of them came into our room, and then we all filed out to the elevator and down to the lobby.
We peered into the combination bar and restaurant, Alta Cocina 7-70. The walls were dark, and there was a seating area in front of us and then stairs down to a bar at street level. Orange and green fabric chairs added color.
There was a menu behind glass on the wall. The food choices, being at a Hilton, seemed pretty standard.
Jorge stood behind us. “Do you want to eat here, or would you like to taste authentic Colombian food?”
“Colombian food,” Sue said.
“I am up for an adventure,” Ivan said.
I wasn’t sure if Ivan meant the food or was psyching himself up for what was to come.
We retrieved the Hyundai and drove five blocks to a retail area and parked in an underground parking garage.
“This is the mall where we can get most of our supplies,” Jorge said. “The restaurant I want to take you to is a block away. We can walk there first.”
Mike’s stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear. It’d been more than five hours since we’d had breakfast.
We followed Jorge to a cobblestone plaza, where people were milling about. Small children played while their mothers sat on concrete benches, keeping a close eye on them. The sweet scent of orchids overpowered the underlying acrid smell of pollution.
Still being vigilant, we watched for anyone shadowing us.
Across the street and one block away, we descended five stairs to a small caé. It was as if we were entering someone’s home that had tables in the living room.
A stout older woman with dark features and a shine to her skin greeted Jorge with an enthusiastic hug. She placed her hands on either side of his head, encouraging him to lower it and kissed his forehead. They spoke for a few seconds, and then she pinched his cheek. It was endearing, seeing Jorge blush.
“Come. Sit.” She motioned us to a table. Her accent was thick, but she spoke in English.
“This is my Aunt Clara,” Jorge said. “She is going to make us an authentic Colombian lunch.”
“Hola, Clara,” Sue, Mike, and I said at the same time.
Ivan gave a gentlemanly nod.
She smiled and then exited to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to worry about the food being genetically engineered or pesticide laden,” Jorge said. “All my aunt’s produce and meat come from two farms my uncle owns.”
There was only one other couple seated at the nine tables, being that it was between lunch and dinner time. We were at the table right in the middle.
“What’s the plan after we eat?” Sue asked.
“We go buy the clothes, boots, and backpacks from the list we made on the plane,” Jorge said. “Then we get a good night’s rest and leave for Florencia in the morning.”
Jorge’s cell phone rang. He proceeded to talk in fast, rhythmic Spanish.
I should’ve paid more attention in high school Spanish class. I still remembered some words, but very few.
I studied a framed black-and-white photograph on the flowery wallpapered wall across from our table. It was of a boy standing next to an aged man holding a pitchfork. They were in a corn field. I wondered if they were relatives of Jorge’s.
“Colombia seems nice so far,” Mike said.
“I will admit that I was nervous to come here, taking into account Colombia’s drug-cartel history and their war with the guerillas,” Ivan said. “But what we are doing is worth the risk.”
“I did some reading before we came,” Sue said. “The bigger cities are as safe as any others now; however, there’s still drug and guerilla activity in the Caquetá region where we’re going.”
“I also read that the jungle right outside of Florencia has been one of the areas heavily sprayed with glyphosate,” I said.
“Why, specifically?” Mike asked.
“To kill the plants and trees and expose the coca plantations and cocaine labs,” I replied.
“They sprayed whole villages in the process and now there are many deformities of the people living there and their offspring,” Ivan said. “It was a joint project by the Colombian and American governments, with the help of Naintosa. It is an indisputable example of how toxic glyphosate really is.”
“I’m interested in seeing that firsthand,” I said.” We’ll have to write about it and take pictures, so we can post the proof on our website.”
The others looked at me. I knew they were thinking—if we get out of there.
Jorge closed his phone. “I have confirmation that the safe house outside of Florencia is ready for us. Also, we’ll have a vehicle switch on the way.”
A pretty girl in her late teens with shiny long black hair accompanied Clara. Each of them held a platter.
Jorge explained the first dish they placed on the table. “These are arepas.”
“Yuca arepas con queso,” Clara clarified.
“These particular arepas are buns made from yuca flour and have cheese filling,” Jorge translated and then pointed from platter to platter. “There are rellenas—a blood sausage. Chorizos. Chicharron—that’s the skin of the pig and part of the meat, my personal favorite. Rice. And to start ajiaco—a corn and potato soup with chicken. Avocados go good with it.”
“Not a lot of just vegetables here,” Sue said.
“The animals who provided the meat ate vegetables,” Jorge said.
Holy crap, Jorge just made a joke.
Jorge’s eyes went wide. “Sue, I’m sorry, I totally forgot you’re a vegetarian.” He said something in Spanish to Clara.
“Si, si.” Clara rushed back to the kitchen.
I really liked everything but the blood sausage, which was too weird for me. The yuca buns and the fried pig skin were my favorites—I could eat them all the time.
Clara brought Sue some steamed vegetables in a sauce and encouraged her to put it over the rice. Sue seemed to like it.
We washed down our meals with Club Colombias, the country’s national lager.
After a great lunch, we thanked Aunt Clara and went to do our shopping.
The mall was like any other mall, this one having many high-end stores, being in the wealthy part of the city. The retailers were the same as the ones you’d find in the US.
It was busy. The vast majority of people were casually dressed, with jeans being the most popular attire.
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All the time, we kept looking over our shoulders. If we were being watched, they’d blended into the surroundings.
It took a few hours to get our clothes and supplies. We were prepared, as much as we could be, for our expedition.
CHAPTER 27
May 20, 2003
Sue and I had awakened at four and tried to meditate, but couldn’t with so much nervous energy flowing through us. We ended up talking about what to expect in Florencia and worked ourselves up even more.
We checked out of the Hilton by 6:00 a.m. and headed to Clara’s caé for breakfast.
The restaurant had opened early just for us. Clara served us tinto—small portions of strong Colombian coffee and tamales, which consisted of a yellow corn paste with chicken, pork skin, carrot, split peas, and potato, all wrapped in a banana leaf. Sue had scrambled eggs with tomato and green onions. For dessert Clara had prepared bunuelos, cakey balls mixed with a feta-like cheese that were deep fried. It was all delicious and the perfect energy source for the day ahead, yet the anxiousness we all felt made it impossible to savor.
As we were leaving it was heartwarming to see how caringly Jorge acted with his tia, as he embraced her and spoke softly in Spanish. She wiped tears from her eyes when she wished us a safe journey.
He’d never admit it, but was Jorge worried about going into the jungle as well?
“It’s going to be an eight-hour drive,” Jorge said as we sat down in the Santa Fe.
Traffic was already heavy at seven thirty, and we inched along, trying to get out of the huge city. It was easier to maneuver around potholes at five miles an hour.
Again, we couldn’t see anyone tailing us.
Sue was twisted around in the back seat between Mike and me. “Wish we had radar.”
Eventually the snarl of vehicles lightened as we distanced ourselves from the center of Bogota. On the left was a treeless mountainside with tightly packed dwellings that for the most part looked hobbled together.
“Is that a barrio de invasion?” Ivan asked from the front passenger seat.
“Yes, it is a shanty town.” Jorge put both hands on the steering wheel as we passed a truck carrying goats.
Along the side of the road at about one-mile intervals, soldiers stood holding automatic rifles.
Eventually the buildings disappeared as the road started to climb. The landscape on the edge of the valley where we travelled consisted of yellow-orange dirt and little vegetation; across on the opposite side, it was lush and green. We passed several colorfully painted small buses spewing black exhaust and well-worn cars you wouldn’t think would be able to make the climb. Then out of nowhere, a Porsche blew by us.
At the summit was a checkpoint with soldiers and large army trucks, but we weren’t stopped.
“The roads where there are soldiers are safest to travel,” Jorge said. “They keep people safe from guerillas and bandits.”
His comment made me feel more comfortable. Before that, the soldiers were making me nervous.
The descent took at least an hour on a steep and winding highway.
We reached the Desierto de la Tatacoa, which was a low, flat, desert. The road was straighter. The ground surrounding us was brown with a yellow tint to it, and the foliage minimal.
Eventually we were past the desert and the highway wound around as we drove down into valleys and back up into mountains. Every so often we’d go through a small town. Soldiers on the side of the road became less common.
Six hours after leaving Bogota, we arrived at a particular village. Cinder-block houses originally painted white with red clay tiled roofs sat next to the road, most having storefronts or selling fruit. We pulled off and drove around the back of what appeared to be a car repair shop.
“This is where we change vehicles.” Jorge turned off the Hyundai and opened his door. “Everybody out.”
Mike stretched. “Remind me why we didn’t fly?”
“Because flying into Florencia would make too many people aware of our arrival,” Ivan said. “We can drive in without being noticed.”
When we exited from the vehicle, the heat was wilting. The buzz of insects could be heard past the small clearing in the forest beyond.
Jorge went to talk to a man covered in grease that had come out from the back of the shop. They embraced, and Jorge gave him a strong pat on the back.
Mike lit a cigarette. “It’s hotter than fucking hell.” He walked over to a large tree with long branches that provided shade.
The rest of us followed.
It felt ten degrees cooler in the shade. The ground was dry and dusty, and from the tracks it was obvious that many cars had parked there. We stood beside a mid-90s red Jeep Cherokee that had a layer of dirt on it, making it a rust color.
The man Jorge had been talking to gave him a black duffel bag. Jorge walked over to us and opened the back of the Cherokee. He put the bag down and unzipped it, exposing numerous guns and ammunition.
“Who was that?” Sue asked.
“My cousin,” Jorge replied.
Mike’s eyebrows rose. “Uh, that’s a lot of firepower.”
Jorge gave each of us a Glock 18 9 mm pistol and a clip of ammunition.
I was happy we were sticking with Glocks—at least the grip felt familiar when I wrapped my fingers around it.
Sue and I checked that they were in good working order, as we’d been taught.
Jorge was cautious with Mike because other than a few basic lessons at the cabin up Indian Arm, he didn’t have any experience with guns.
“I will spend some time with you once we reach Florencia to make you more comfortable with the weapon,” Jorge said.
Mike took the pistol from Jorge. “Sounds good.”
“In the meantime, don’t shoot any of us or yourself,” Jorge said. “If you do I will kill you.” He wasn’t joking.
“Ha.” The gun looked uncomfortable in Mike’s hand.
We all put the pistols behind our backs under our waistbands.
The duffel still contained a few rifles and quite a bit of ammunition. Jorge zipped the bag back up and pushed it forward into the cargo area. “Let’s get the rest of the stuff and get going.”
As soon as we got back on the road, Jorge said, “Keep an eye on the green car behind us, just in case. It pulled out behind us just as we left the auto shop.”
We all turned and made note of the small sedan.
“Also, my cousin is going to follow a few minutes behind and then stay outside the safe house overnight to watch for any activity,” Jorge said.
“Great thinking.” I was more comfortable knowing Jorge was able to provide added precautions.
It was uncomfortable sitting with the gun in the small of my back between my ass cheeks when I sat back against the seat, so I kept adjusting its position.
There was no air conditioning. We had to roll down the windows, making it windy and noisy inside the vehicle.
The mountains were higher now, and the jungle thicker on either side of the winding road. Traffic was steady with transport trucks, buses, and military vehicles in among the cars. We passed our fourth checkpoint, but none had been stopping vehicles.
“There is still guerilla activity around here.” The urgency in Jorge’s tone made us all take notice. “When we get to Florencia, don’t ever go out on your own.”
“No plans to go sightseeing,” Mike said.
We came around a switchback and saw a long valley with a river winding through it. A city sprawled, carved out of the vegetation.
“That’s Florencia, right?” Sue asked.
“Yes,” Jorge said.
“I hope so,” Mike said. “My ass is sore from sitting on this hard seat.”
“Do you know the area well?” Ivan asked.
“Yes.” Jorge nodded. “I have relatives here, and I was stationed in Florencia for two years when I was in the military.”
“I read that the population is one hundred sixty-five thousand and the average temperature
in May is eighty-six degrees.” Sue pointed at the rain drops beginning to hit the windshield. “And it rains more this time of year.”
Traffic thickened, and there were people walking on the sides of the road. Buildings appeared—houses and businesses.
We didn’t drive into the center of the city. We turned onto a side road with pavement crumbling at the edges.
“The green car kept going on the highway.” Mike turned to face forward.
“I wasn’t too worried but thought we should watch it, just in case.” Jorge had to slow down and constantly dodge potholes; not all were possible to avoid, sending hard jolts through the vehicle.
“This road leads to the Naintosa-slash-Pharmalin compound,” Jorge said. “My sister lives a few kilometers away. We’re going to stay with her and her family.”
“That’s the safe house?” I asked.
Jorge nodded. “Yes.”
“How convenient,” Sue said.
“Yes, it is,” Jorge replied. “They’ve been doing some reconnaissance for us already.”
I wasn’t sure if involving more people, especially his family members, was such a good idea; now they were in danger as well.
Land had been cleared for farming on each side of the road. Not big industrial farms but what looked like ten to twenty-acre lots with modest homes set in the center.
The road cut into the jungle. The foliage was lush and green, with palms breaking through to the sky.
We turned left onto a one-lane path that had a metal, slatted gate eighty yards in. A closer look revealed that there was a rock wall on either side that was camouflaged by ivy and other growth.
“Nick, can you open the gate?” Jorge asked when we stopped. “It should be unlocked.”
I got out and almost flipped—the ground was hard clay, wet from the shower that had just passed, and greasy slick. From a distance the gate blended into the environment, but up close I could tell it was new and on rollers. It opened easily.
The air was intensely humid, and there was no breeze. Sweat soaked my T-shirt within a minute.
I let the Cherokee pass before closing the gate again.
Jorge leaned out the window. “Lock it.”
There was a heavy lock hanging by the latch. It took both hands to close it.
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