She then took us over to the large shelter. At the end of one of the tables, a couple of girls were rummaging through the contents of some large black plastic bags. Next to them was a rolled-up mattress tied with string and a thick roll of mesh.
“Isabel and Ana! Take turns guarding them. Make up the bed and get them settled.”
The low tables were beds. At the opposite end of the shelter, some guerrillas were starting to set up mosquito nets or lying down to sleep on black plastic sheets they had laid over the top of the wooden planks. At each corner of the shelter, a man stood watch. It would have been difficult to leave without being seen.
The girls finished making up one bed. I looked around and saw nothing with which to make up a second. I asked about this, and one of them replied that the order was for us to sleep in the same bed.
A huge moon lit up the camp. I asked Clara if she wanted to walk with me a little. We were soon outside, breathing in the light air of a beautiful tropical night. I still felt free and refused to think of myself as a hostage. The girls who were following us gave each of us a flashlight.
“Only use it if absolutely necessary. Never point it toward the sky. Switch it off as soon as you hear the sound of a plane or helicopters, or when we tell you to. You have to go back now. If you need anything, call us. One of us will stay at the foot of your bed.”
The girl who had spoken moved a short distance away and stood in front of us, setting down her rifle and leaning her elbows on the butt. I assumed she was our personal guard and that the four others were sentries standing at their usual posts.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, lacking the energy to look inside the bags containing our new clothes. I had eaten nothing all day. I saw Cesar’s plastic bag—it was empty. The limes were floating in the water from the cheese. Clara was already asleep, stretched out under the mosquito net, fully clothed and covered by a beige sheet with brown flowers. I lay down myself, trying to take up as little space as possible. I examined the mosquito net with my flashlight. I did not want to find any bugs on the inside. Then I switched it off. Where were the others? Adair? The French photographer? I was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow. I wept silently.
FIVE
SONIA’S CAMP
I lay awake all night. I watched the guards more carefully than they watched me. Every two hours new men arrived to take over. I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it was brief. A slap on the back and one group left, leaving the others standing in their place in the dark. The girls taking turns at our bedside ended up sitting on the empty bed opposite, and gradually they succumbed to their drowsiness. How could we get out of there? How could we get to the road? How could I get home? Would there be more guards farther away? At the exit to the camp? I had to watch more closely, ask questions, observe. I pictured myself leaving with my friend toward freedom. Would she agree to follow me? I would go straight to Papa. I would surprise him in his room. He would be sitting in his green leather armchair. He would be wearing his oxygen mask. He would open his arms wide, and I would snuggle into them and cry from happiness at being with him. Then we would call everyone. What joy! Perhaps Clara and I would have to get a bus along the road. Or walk until we came to a town. That would be safer. The guerrillas had spies everywhere. We would have to find a military base or a police station. When he had stopped to get the cheese and beers, Cesar had pointed toward the right. He’d laughed and explained that there was a military base nearby. He said the chulos were stupid. I didn’t know that guerrillas called the soldiers “vultures.” It hit me, as if it were an insult directed at me. But I didn’t say anything. From now on I will always be on the side of the military, I thought.
How would the country react when they learned of my abduction? What would the other candidates do? Would they show solidarity? I thought of Piedad Córdoba, a colleague from the Senate. She had arranged for me to meet Manuel Marulanda, the leader of the FARC. We had traveled together by taxi from Florencia to San Vicente. It was the first time I’d been there. We took a terrible road, a real roller coaster. On several occasions we got stuck in the mud, and at times we were forced to get out and walk to lighten the vehicle’s load. We had all pushed, pulled, and lifted before arriving covered in dust at the meeting place, which was at a camp on the edge of the virgin forest. I saw how the old Marulanda had absolute control over all his men. At one point he complained about the mud beneath his chair. They literally picked him up in his chair like an emperor, while other commanders laid planks of wood on the ground, crafting an improvised floor for him. Six months after our visit to the FARC, Piedad Córdoba was abducted by the paramilitaries. Castaño, their leader, accused her of being an ally of the guerrillas. I had gone to speak with an old farmer who was said to have the ear of Castaño. I asked him to intervene in favor of Piedad’s release. Many had pleaded in her favor. A few days later, she was released. I hoped my own case would be similar to hers. Perhaps it would just be a matter of a few weeks before my freedom was secured. All these questions that blended fantasy and reality preoccupied me the entire night.
Day was breaking, the first day of my life in captivity. The mosquito net we had been given was white, with tightly woven mesh. I gazed through it, following the strange world awakening around me, under the illusion that I could look out but no one could look in, as if I were protected in a cocoon. Contours of objects started to emerge from the darkness of the night. A chilly breeze caused me to shiver. It was four-thirty in the morning when one of the guerrillas switched on the radio loud enough for me to hear it. The talk was about us, and I strained to get closer to the radio without daring to leave my refuge. The voice confirmed that I’d been taken hostage by the guerrillas. I heard Mom’s appeals, and my heart contracted in pain, so much so that I was unable to listen properly. Then they were talking about Clara. I woke her so that she could follow the bulletin with me. The guerrilla kept changing stations, and every time he did, he landed on a station broadcasting news about us. Someone else, farther away, tuned in his radio to the same station, as did a third. The sound reached us in stereo, which made listening easier.
Just before five o’clock, someone went by our bed making a very loud and unpleasant noise with his mouth, which galvanized the camp into action. It was called la churuquiada, another typically FARC term referring to an imitation of the call of the monkey. It sounded the wake-up of the jungle.
The convalescent guerrillas who were sleeping with us in the shelter all rose immediately. They removed the mosquito nets, quickly folded them, and rolled them into tight oblongs that they secured with the same string used to hang them from the four corners of their beds. I watched them work, fascinated, as I listened to the news bulletins. Clara and I got up, and I asked to use the toilet.
Our guard was Isabel. She was short, about thirty, with long, frizzy hair pulled back in a bun. She had on pretty gold earrings and childish barrettes to keep her unruly bangs away from her face. Slightly overweight, she wore heavy cotton camouflage pants that looked a bit too tight for comfort. She responded to my request with the nicest of smiles, was clearly excited to be looking after us.
Taking me by the hand, she then tucked my forearm under her elbow in an unexpected gesture of affection and complicity. “You’ll like it here with us, you’ll see. You won’t want to leave!”
I followed her to the toilets, expecting to find a latrine similar to the one I had used in the old house along the road and getting ready to hold my breath to stave off the stench.
After no more than twenty yards, we were pushing our way through the thick vegetation. I still couldn’t spot an outhouse in the vicinity. We came out into a fairly large clearing. The earth looked like it had been churned up more or less all over. I was suddenly aware of the sound of an engine running. I asked Isabel what it could be.
She didn’t know what I was talking about; then, listening more closely, she said, “No, no. There’s no engine running.”
“But there is! Wait, I’m
not crazy—there’s a very loud noise. Listen!”
Isabel once again listened intently, then burst out laughing, squeezing her nose like a little girl so as not to make a noise.
“Ah, no! That’s the sound of the flies!”
I looked down in fright. Swirling around my feet were thousands of flies of all species—fat ones, long ones, yellow ones, green ones, all in a mass, so excited that they were bumping into each other and falling to the ground, feet in the air, wings flapping in vain against the earth. I was in the process of discovering a world of extraordinarily active insects. Wasps attacking flies before the latter could get up. Ants attacking wasps and flies and transporting their still-quivering spoils back to their nests. Shiny green-backed beetles flying about loudly before crashing into our knees. I let out a nervous yelp when I realized that an army of minuscule ants was storming up my pants and had already gotten as far as my waist. I tried to shake them off by stamping up and down vigorously on the spot to stop them from climbing any farther.
“So where are the toilets?”
“They’re right here!” Isabel said with a laugh. “These are the chontos. See? There are still some holes you can use. You squat over them, do your business, then cover it up with the earth next to it, like this, with your foot.”
I looked more closely. A number of holes had been dug in the ground. The sight inside each was nauseating. Insects were crawling all over the matter that had not been covered properly. I was already feeling sick, and instinctively I doubled over in disgust, gripped by spasms as the putrid odor filled my nostrils. Without warning I threw up over both of us, splattering even our shirts.
Isabel was no longer laughing. She wiped herself with the sleeve of her jacket and covered my vomit with the nearest pile of earth.
“Right then, I’ll wait for you over there.”
I was hysterical at the idea of remaining alone in this hell. Through the vegetation I saw shadows moving.
“But everyone can see me!”
Isabel handed me a roll of toilet paper. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone near.”
I returned unsteadily to the camp, already missing the latrine of the little house along the road. I would have to wash off the vomit on me and put on the clothes they had given us. There were four pairs of pants, all jeans of different sizes and styles, T-shirts with childish motifs, and underwear, some very plain and made of cotton, some covered with brightly colored lace. Distribution was simple: We each took the size closest to ours. There were also two large bath towels and two pairs of rubber boots, the same ones that had enabled me to identify the guerrillas. Instinctively I put them to one side, with no intention of ever using them.
A very young girl whom I had not seen before came over to us. She appeared uneasy. Isabel introduced us. “This is María, your receptionista.” My eyes widened. I could not fathom how, in the middle of nowhere, there could be a “receptionist.”
“She is in charge of your meals,” explained Isabel. “What would you like?”
It had to be six-thirty in the morning at most. I was therefore thinking of breakfast, the simpler the better.
“Fried eggs?” I ventured.
Panic stricken, María headed off toward the back of the camp and disappeared behind an embankment.
Then Isabel left, before I had a chance to ask her about taking a shower. Clara sat down, boredom written on her face. I looked around. There were no sick people in bed. Every one of them was busy with manual work: some chopping wood with machetes, some sewing straps onto their backpacks, and some using a very bizarre technique to weave belts. Their hands were so quick that it was impossible to follow their movements.
“Let’s go for a walk around the camp!” I suggested to my companion.
“Yes, let’s!” she replied enthusiastically.
We arranged our things as best we could on a corner of the bed and were getting ready to leave the shelter when a woman’s voice behind me stopped us.
“What are you doing?”
It was Ana. She was holding her FAL rifle in both hands and looking at us sternly.
“We’re going to walk around the camp,” I replied, surprised.
“You need to ask permission.”
“From whom?”
“From me.”
“Really? Well, then, will you give us permission to take a walk around the camp?”
“No.”
Just then María returned with a boiling-hot pot giving off a strong aroma of coffee. In the other hand she was carrying two small bread rolls and two stainless-steel cups. Sonia was right behind her, smiling broadly.
“So, Ingrid, how are you?”
She slapped me on the back, throwing me off balance, and continued, beaming. “All the talk on the radio is about you! The Secretariado”—which was the highest governing body in the FARC hierarchy—“announced that they are going to be issuing a press release this evening. It’s going out around the world!”
The guerrillas were very proud of the media coup that my capture had generated for them. But I was far from thinking about the news capturing international attention. I was hoping above all that the announcement would prompt the government to speed up its efforts to obtain our release. I imagined that now more than ever the government would want to obscure the details of the events leading up to my abduction, as they could prove embarrassing.
“Can we watch the news this evening? I noticed you have a television. . . .”
Sonia grew serious and reflective, a look I had seen before in “El Mocho” Cesar. All faces turned toward Sonia, everyone holding their breath in total silence, as if their lives depended on her response. She took her time, then gave her verdict, carefully weighing each word. “The television is banned because of the air force,” she said. “But I will make an exception this evening.”
A wave of happiness swept through the camp. Lively conversations started up again, and the sound of distant laughter filtered through the air.
“Commander Cesar has informed us he will be visiting. Come and see me in my caleta whenever you want,” Sonia announced before turning to leave.
I stood there trying to digest these new codes, this confusing vocabulary. The caleta must be her hut, just as the chontos were the toilets and the receptionista was a girl who served meals. I supposed that in a revolutionary organization certain words must be taboo. Enlisting in the FARC to end up working as a maid had to be unthinkable. Naturally, it was better to be called a receptionista.
Ana returned with instructions to take us to bathe. She was visibly annoyed.
“Go on, hurry up. Fetch your clean clothes and bath towels. I don’t have all day!”
We quickly gathered up our things and threw them into a plastic bag, thrilled at the idea of being able to freshen up. We took the same path as to the chontos but turned right well beforehand. There, under a tin roof, was a cement tub that they were filling with water from a hose. Ana gave us a bar of laundry soap and went off into the bushes. The pump was silenced, and the water stopped running. “So much for my shower!” I mused. Ana returned, still in a bad mood. Isabel had followed us. She stood there, feet planted wide, gun over her shoulder, watching Ana in silence.
I looked about me; the place was surrounded by thick vegetation. I tried to spot somewhere to put my things.
“Go and cut them a rail,” instructed Isabel curtly.
Ana pulled out her machete and selected a thick branch from the nearest tree. She severed it in a single blow and caught it with astonishing dexterity as it fell. Then she cleaned it and peeled off the bark, transforming it into a broom handle so perfect it could have come straight from a factory. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Next she installed it, placing one end on the edge of the tub and the other on the fork of a conveniently located bush. She tested the soundness of her handiwork and returned her machete to its sheath. I carefully hung my fresh clothes over the rail, still impressed by her performance. Then, looking around for Clara, I saw that she was remo
ving all her clothes. Yes, of course. That was what you were supposed to do. The girls watched her impassively.
“And what if someone shows up unannounced?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Everyone is made the same,” retorted Ana. “What does it matter if someone sees?”
“No one will come, don’t worry,” said Isabel, as if she had not heard her comrade’s remark. Then she added softly, “Use the timbo.”
I had no idea what a timbo might be. I looked around and saw nothing. Except that yes, in the water there was an oil drum cut in half so that the handle and base formed a scoop. The timbo became indispensable. Clara and I took turns using it.
Ana was getting impatient, shuffling around in the bushes, grumbling. She had decided to restart the water pump.
“There, are you happy? Now, hurry up.”
The final shower lasted only a few seconds. Two minutes later we were dressed and ready to receive Commander Cesar.
Cesar’s truck was parked in the clearing. He was talking to Sonia. We walked up to him, escorted by two female guerrillas. Sonia dispatched them immediately.
Smiling, Cesar held his hand out to me. “How are you?”
“Not good. I don’t know what happened to my friends. You told me that—”
Cesar cut me off. “I told you nothing.”
“You told me that you were going to check their identity—”
“You told me they were foreign journalists.”
“No, I told you that the older one was a photographer with a foreign magazine; the young one is a cameraman employed by my campaign and the other, the one who was driving, is my logistics manager.”
“If you’re telling me the truth, I’ll spare them. I confiscated all their video equipment and viewed the footage last night. The military is not too fond of you! Nice discussion you had on the tarmac with the general. That cost him his job! And they are already hot on your heels. There’s fighting near Unión-Penilla. You will have to get out of here fairly quickly. Did they bring you your things?”
Even Silence Has an End Page 8