Relations hadn’t always been easy with President Pastrana. I had supported him during his campaign on the condition that he implement major reforms against political corruption, in particular by amending the electoral system. But he’d broken his word, and I had crossed over to the opposition. He turned against my team and managed to fracture it by luring away two of my senators.
Nevertheless, I always supported him in his peace process. We met up again earlier that month at a cocktail party at the French embassy, and he thanked me for my unfailing support of the peace negotiations.
Finally the aircraft door opened. It was not the president who stepped out first, but his secretary. I suddenly remembered an incident that had slipped my mind until this moment. During the televised meeting with the FARC commanders nine days earlier, I had supported the idea that both parties needed to show consistency between their words and actions to establish trust between the government and the FARC. There was no doubt that my criticisms of the FARC had been sharp, but no more so than those aimed at the government. In particular, I had explained that a government complacent about corruption lacked credibility in the peace process. And I mentioned a scandal in which the president’s secretary had been accused of insider trading, and I said he should resign. But the two men were close friends. To make his secretary disembark first was a clear message to me from the president: He was furious with me for what I’d said. He made his secretary go first so that I would know that he had his full support.
What happened next confirmed my suspicions. The president brushed past me, not even stopping to shake my hand. Taking the snub without a word, I spun around, biting my lip. More the fool me. I shouldn’t have waited.
I walked over to my group, who waited for me, perplexed.
“We need to get going. We’re already really late!”
My captain was as red as a lobster. He was sweating miserably in his uniform. I was about to cheer him up with a kind word, when he said, “Madam, forgive me, I have just received a peremptory command from Bogotá. My assignment has been canceled. I can’t go with you to San Vicente.”
I stared at him, incredulous.
“Wait. I don’t understand. What order? From whom? What are you talking about?”
He stepped forward stiffly and handed me the paper he was nervously crumpling in his hands. It was indeed signed by his superior. He explained that he had just spent twenty minutes on the telephone with Bogotá, that he had tried his best, but that the order came “from the top.” I asked him what he meant by that, and letting out a long, almost labored sigh, he said, “From the president’s office, madam.”
I was flabbergasted as I began to grasp the implications. If I went to San Vicente it would once again be without protection. It had happened before, when the government had refused us an escort while we were crossing the Magdalena Medio, the banned territory of the paramilitaries. I looked around. The runway was now almost deserted, the last journalists of the presidential committee were boarding a half-empty helicopter, and three other helicopters, blades rotating, remained on the ground with no passengers to transport.
The general came up to me and in a loud, patronizing voice said, “I told you!”
“Okay, so what do you suggest?” I asked him, irritated. After all, if I hadn’t been offered transport in one of those choppers, I would have left for San Vicente long before and would already be there by now!
“Do as you originally planned! Go by road!” he retorted, and I watched him and all his military stripes disappear inside the terminal.
It wasn’t that simple. We still needed armored vehicles. I walked over to my security personnel to find out what the local team had arranged for our transport. They all faltered, not knowing what to say. One of them had been sent to find out what was happening and came back looking contrite. “The guys of the local team have gone, too. They were ordered to abort the mission.”
Everything had been orchestrated to prevent my going to San Vicente. The president probably feared that my appearance in San Vicente might reflect badly on him. I sat down for a moment to think things over. The heat, the commotion, my emotions—my mind was a blur. I wanted to do what was best.
What would become of our democracy if presidential candidates had to accept that for security reasons their campaign strategy needed the government’s approval? If we agreed not to go to San Vicente, it would mean accepting suicidal censorship. We would lose the freedom to express ourselves on war and on peace, lose our ability to act in the name of the marginalized populations who did not have a voice. Whoever held power could quite simply appoint his successor.
One of the security men had managed to establish a good relationship with officials from the airport’s security division. There was a vehicle at the airport that might be made available to us for the trip to San Vicente. He went off to obtain more details and came back with the authorization.
It was a small, four-by-four pickup truck. There was room for only five people; it was a far cry from the armored car we’d been counting on. I turned to the group. Some laughed, others shrugged. My logistics manager, Adair, stepped forward, offering to drive. Without hesitating, Clara said she would come, too. Our press officer declined. He wanted to leave room for our cameraman and one of the foreign journalists covering the campaign. Two French journalists were deep in discussion. Finally the young female reporter decided not to come. She did not feel safe and preferred that her older colleague go with us, since he would be able to take some good photos.
A member of my security team took me by the arm and asked if he could speak to me in private for a few minutes. He was the longest-serving member on the team and had been protecting me for more than three years.
“I want to come with you.” He looked nervous and uncomfortable. “I don’t like what they’re doing to you.”
“Have you spoken to your superior?”
“Yes.”
“If you come with me, won’t you risk losing your job?”
“It’s bound to cause problems.”
“No, listen. This is not the time for more difficulties.”
Then, seeking his advice, I asked, “What do you think about the road? Do you think it could be dangerous?”
He smiled sadly. And, with a resigned look on his face, replied, “No more than anywhere else.”
Then, as if to tell me what he was really thinking, he added, “There are soldiers everywhere. It’s almost certainly less dangerous than when we crossed the Magdalena! Call me as soon as you get to San Vicente. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that the return goes more smoothly.”
My team had plastered the vehicle with improvised signs spelling out my name and the word “Peace.” We were about to leave when the man from the security division who had secured the pickup for us rushed back over, visibly agitated. He was brandishing a set of papers and panting as he said, “You can’t leave until you have signed a discharge form! It’s a government vehicle, you understand, and if you have an accident, you’ll have to cover the costs!”
I closed my eyes. I felt as if I were in a slapstick Mexican movie. Clearly they wanted to do their utmost to delay our departure. I smiled, mustering some patience. “Where do I sign?”
Clara took the form. “I’ll take care of it,” she said kindly. “Hopefully, my years in law will serve some purpose!”
I laughed and let her handle things. It was already noon. The heat was becoming suffocating, and we couldn’t wait any longer.
We hit the road, the air-conditioning on full blast. Just the prospect of spending two hours in this small metal oven breathing artificial air was excruciating.
“There’s a military checkpoint at the exit to Florencia. It’s purely routine,” I said.
I had made this journey many times. The military cordon was always a rather tense moment. We reached it very quickly. Cars were lined up one behind the other, waiting patiently. Everyone would be searched. We pulled over, parked the truck, and got out.
At that moment my cell phone rang. I rummaged in my bag to retrieve it. It was Mom. I was astonished that her call had gotten through to me. Usually there was no network once you left Florencia. I brought her up to date with all the details of our journey. “My escort received an order not to accompany me. It seems it came from the president himself. I still have to go, though. I gave my word. I wish I were with Papa. Tell him I send my love.”
Mom had been a senator and knew well how demanding an electoral campaign could be. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll tell him. And I’ll be with you every second. Every step of the way, I’ll be with you. Be careful.”
While I was talking to Mom, the soldiers had taken our vehicle and were meticulously examining the carpets, the glove compartment, and our bags. When I hung up, I refrained from calling Papa. Instead I walked over to the officer who was standing a short distance from all the activity and who seemed to be in charge of operations, to inquire about the traffic situation.
“Everything is normal. Up to now we haven’t had any problems.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I have no opinion to give you, madam.”
“Very well. Thank you anyway.”
We took to the road behind a bus and alongside a small motorcycle being ridden at top speed by a young woman, her arms bare, her hair flowing in the wind, her eyes glued to the asphalt. She was in full throttle but having a hard time keeping up with us; she looked like she wanted to race us. The scene was rather comical, and we laughed. But the noise of her engine was unbearable. We picked up a little more speed to get ahead of her and arrive more quickly at the fuel station at Montañitas, an unavoidable stop-off point. Every time I’d been along this road, I would stop there to fill up with gas, get a drink of cold water, and chat with the owner.
As usual, she was at her post. I greeted her, happy to see a friendly face.
“I’m so relieved they’ve gone!” she confessed. “Those guerrillas moved into the region as if it belonged to them. They gave me a lot of problems. Now the army has cleared the zone. They have done a good job.”
“What about the control posts the guerrillas set up along the road? Are they still there?”
“No, no. The road is completely clear. I am the first to know, because any car that is forced to return stops here to give the alert.”
I got back into the car, feeling satisfied, and shared with my companions what the owner had to say, before confiding bitterly, “I’m convinced they don’t want us to go to San Vicente. Too bad. We’ll get there late, but we’ll get there all the same.”
We headed off, and fifteen minutes later we noticed some people up ahead, sitting in the middle of the road. When we got closer, we saw that a bridge was being repaired. On the previous trip, we’d had exactly the same problem on the way back from San Vicente. That was during the rainy season; the river had burst its banks, and the force of the water had weakened the bridge’s structure. Then, as now, we’d had to bypass the bridge and drive through the river. Today the water was no more than a trickle, and it would mean just a small detour from our route. Two people stood up to show us which way to go. We veered left and drove down the embankment.
In front of us, a Red Cross vehicle was heading down toward the water on the same course we were about to take. Once it reached the top of the opposite bank to rejoin the road, it disappeared from view. We followed suit.
As soon as we crested the embankment, I saw them. They were dressed in military garb, rifles slung across their shoulders, and they had gathered around the Red Cross vehicle. Instinctively I looked down at their shoes. They were black boots, the sort often worn by peasants in the swamps. I’d been taught how to identify boots. If they were leather, it was the army; if they were rubber, it was the FARC. These were rubber.
One of the guerrillas, carrying an AK 47, noticed our arrival and jogged over.
“Turn around!” he ordered. “The road is closed.”
Our impromptu driver looked at me, not knowing what to do. I hesitated for a moment, two seconds too many that would prove fatal. I’d been stopped at FARC checkpoints before. You talked to the group commander, he radioed for authorization, and you were allowed to pass. But that was during the era of the “demilitarized zone,” when peace negotiations were taking place in San Vicente. Everything had changed in the last twenty-four hours. There was a tension in the air I had never experienced before.
“Turn around, quickly!” I ordered Adair. It was not an easy maneuver. We were stuck between the Red Cross vehicle and the embankment. He began to make the turn; the pressure on him was intense.
“Quick, quick!” I shouted. I had already spotted the gun barrels trained in our direction. The guerrillas’ leader issued a command and yelled to us from a distance. One of his men came running over, looking menacing. We had completed three-quarters of the maneuver when he caught up with us and put his hand on the door, motioning at Adair to lower the window.
“Stop right there! The commander wants to talk to you. Don’t make any fast moves.”
I had not reacted fast enough. We should have turned around and retraced our path without hesitating. I was angry with myself. I looked behind me. My companions were white with fear.
“Don’t worry,” I told them, to force myself to believe. “Everything will be all right.”
The commander put his head through the driver’s window and looked intently at each of us, one at a time. He stopped when he got to me and asked, “Are you Ingrid Betancourt?”
“Yes, I am.”
It was hard to deny it with my name emblazoned all over the car.
“Good. Follow me. Park the car on the side of the road. You’ll have to pass between the two buses.”
He kept hold of the door, forcing us to drive slowly. It was then that I noticed a strong smell of gasoline. A man with a yellow drum in his hand was splashing the contents over the two buses. I heard the sound of an engine and turned around. The young girl on the motorcycle had, like us, stumbled into the trap. One of the guerrillas made her get down from her bike and took it from her, signaling for her to leave. She stood there, arms dangling, not knowing what to do. Her motorcycle was also doused with gasoline. She understood and hurried away toward the bridge.
A heavyset man with copper-colored skin and a large black mustache, sweating profusely, was pacing up and down across the road, nervously fanning himself with a red handkerchief and wringing his hands until his knuckles were white. His features were distorted in anguish. He had to be the driver of the bus.
After passing between the two buses, we momentarily lost sight of the Red Cross vehicle’s passengers, who were still held on the shoulder of the road, a gun trained on them. They did not take their eyes off us.
The commander stopped our truck after a few yards. On his order, the man who had doused the girl’s motorcycle with gasoline left it at the base of the bus and ran toward us. Just as he was crossing the verge about ten yards away, an explosion made us all jump with fright. I saw the man hurled into the air and fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. He lay in a huge pool of blood, his shocked gaze locked on mine as he stared at me, bewildered, not understanding what had just happened to him.
The commander was shouting, yelling abuse and cursing at the top of his voice. At that moment the wounded man began screaming in horror as he reached behind him and picked up his boot—containing the bloody flesh and exposed bone of a piece of leg that no longer belonged to him.
“I’m going to die, I’m going to die!” he howled. The commander ordered his men to place him on the open bed of our pickup. The man was covered in blood that had spurted in every direction. Strips of dripping flesh had been blasted all over, splattering the body of our vehicle and the windshield. Bits were stuck to people’s clothes, their hair, their faces. The smell of burned flesh, combined with the smell of blood and gasoline, was nauseating.
I heard myself say, “We can drive him to the hospital. We can help you!”
/> I was talking to the group leader in the same way I might have addressed a road-accident victim.
“You will go where I tell you to go,” he said.
Then, turning back, he ordered the wounded man to shut up, which he did at once, whimpering softly like a dog caught between pain and fear. The commander appeared satisfied.
“Go ahead,” he ordered our driver. “Keep it steady, but make it quick!”
Without hesitating, Adair pulled away as the last members of the group were jumping onto the bed of the truck. One pushed my friends onto the rear bench with the enormous barrel of his rifle and sat inside the vehicle, placing the rifle upright between his legs. He apologized for the inconvenience and smiled as he looked straight ahead. They were all wedged against one another, elbow to elbow, trying to avoid contact with the latest arrival.
To the journalist accompanying us, I said in French, “Don’t worry. I’m the one they want. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
He nodded, not at all reassured. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. As I looked through the rear window, I watched a terrifying scene unfolding on the bed of the truck. The wounded man was crying as he held the stump of his leg in both hands. His comrades had tried to make some semblance of a tourniquet with one of their shirts, but the blood kept flowing, seeping up through the already soaked fabric. The car was jerking every two seconds, making it virtually impossible to apply a new tourniquet. The commander tapped the side of the vehicle and shouted something incomprehensible, and the vehicle slowed down. The wounded man’s head was lolling back; he had purple shadows under his eyes and was already half unconscious.
We drove along a small, bumpy, dusty road for twenty minutes in the diabolical heat before the leader gave the order to halt, just ahead of a bend that curved around a promontory.
A group of young people in uniform appeared from all sides. There were women, their hair braided and pulled into buns, smiling broadly, strangers to the drama, all teenagers. Several helped carry the wounded man from the truck toward a semisecluded area where we could just make out the roof of a house.
Even Silence Has an End: My Six Years of Captivity in the Colombian Jungle Page 6