By now I was beginning to see just what a responsibility taking on this assignment had been. It was all very well my progressing one step at a time towards the goal of a successful piece, but there would be no prizes for almost getting there. If at any stage of the journey I fell, then there would be no story and I would have taken ‘Loaded’s money and wasted it. In such circumstances I didn’t expect them to sue me, but I was sure that would be the end of assignments for them. Further, no doubt word traveled quickly in the ‘Lad’s mags’ world, and I wouldn’t get any more work from any of them. Thus, my whole future as a journalist hung on the success or failure of this Colombia trip.
The flight was uneventful enough, although it was difficult to settle back and get comfortable with my arm still sore from all the injections. Nascent paranoia troubled me as I contemplated my coming encounter with Colombia’s CIA-trained customs police. Would they question me about the camera and 40 rolls of film? Did ordinary people travel with 40 rolls of film? A small voice inside told me that it was all academic anyway as they would undoubtedly know exactly who I was.
In the event I breezed through customs without so much as a word exchanged and, within minutes, was in a battered taxi making my way through the equally battered streets towards my hotel. Bogota was a revelation, a large city in terminal stages of urban decay. Virtually every building looked tumbledown or seriously in need of repair. The roads were badly pot-holed so that, every now and again, drivers would have to slow and navigate around a particularly large chasm.
The hotel was a welcome surprise. Whilst being a long way from five-star standards at least it was clean and efficiently-run. With an absolute minimum of fuss I booked in and was soon in my room, the only troubling event being that the receptionist said she would have to keep my passport and return it to me later. Seriously tired now, I barricaded the door with a heavy table; positioned a heavy bed-side lamp within easy reaching distance to clobber any intruder and immediately drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Even though out of jail over two years now I sometimes woke up thinking I was still in a cell. The Bogota hotel room spared me that though. As consciousness dawned I was immediately aware of the awful cacophony rising from the streets below as rush-hour drivers leaned on their horns. Then there was the heat. Bogota is up in the mountains and is supposed to be cool. Virtually the whole of the rest of the country is down in the jungle. Acclimatisation was going to be a problem for me.
Trent wasn’t due to arrive from Miami until the evening. Dangerous or not, I wasn’t going to skulk in my hotel room until then. Bogota was there to be explored. As I mentally prepared myself for the foray into the unknown, I noticed the printed pamphlet on the bedside table. In passable English it advised guests to leave all valuables in the hotel safe and warned that, in the event of being approached by people claiming to be the police, not to go with them but to return to the hotel instead. Very reassuring! Coming on top of the official warnings by both the British and US governments for their nationals not to even travel to Colombia, it served to concentrate the mind wonderfully.
Trent had given me the number of a good friend of his, an English guy who had lived in Colombia for 20 years. Danny was in the music business and his club, ‘London House’, had been the first acid house club in Colombia. He had married a Colombian woman and, after the club closed, had eked out a living importing CDs and DJ-ing.. I remembered that Trent had told me that Danny was fluent in Colombian Spanish. I had already discovered that hardly anyone in Colombia spoke English.
Within twenty minutes Danny was at my room. Or rather, twenty minutes later ‘Hurricane Danny’ hit my room. A big-built, rangy-looking guy in his early forties, he entered almost at a run. Everything was a-hundred-miles-an-hour with Dan, his walking, his body movements and his talking.
I considered myself a good judge of men and weighed him up quickly. There was a decidedly mad look in his eyes, but that was no disbarment, many of my closest friends were quite mad. He had a bluff, easy-going personality and a ready wit. He soon had me laughing. The East End accent was reassuring, as was the, quickly-announced, fact that he was a West Ham supporter. He confessed to having run with their hooligan arm, the ‘Inter City Firm’ for a couple of years when he was younger. For me, this was even more of a recommendation. Not that I had any time for football hooliganism. There were plenty of things to fight over, I just didn’t consider football to be one of them. However, an immature outlook notwithstanding, the ICF were known for courage and loyalty to their mates. I was very big on loyalty.
Minutes into our conversation I discovered the reason behind Dan’s hundred-miles-an-hour approach. “Want a quick line, Norm”, he asked, whipping out a small tin, flipping its lid and revealing its contents of white powder. Back in London, where coke had found its way into every strata of society, this was the prelude to many social encounters. But it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t arrogant enough to think that I could control it where so many others had failed. And I liked to be in control. Especially on this, my first journalistic assignment.
My “No thanks, Dan”, rebuffed him a bit and he looked closely to see if I had been offended. “But you carry on, mate”, I added to show that there was no offence. Dan needed little encouragement. In one fluid movement he pinched some powder out of the tin, placed it on the back of his hand and snorted it up his nose.
Just for a second, as its effects hit him, he wasn’t with me. Recovering quickly, he shook his head, refocused his eyes and broke into a crazy laugh. “It’s only about one pound fifty a gram out here, Norm. It keeps me going through the day.” He laughed again.
No doubt it did, I was laughing with him now. This Dan was quite a character and I would enjoy his company. However, with the serious business of the assignment always in the background I pressed him on his knowledge of FARC’s jungle capital. For a guy who’s main interest was music, he was remarkably well-informed about the politics. But then, as he explained to me, the civil war was so much a part of every Colombian’s life that they followed its twists and turns almost like some TV soap.
Dan confessed he’d never been deep into guerilla-held territory himself, although he had been stopped several times by guerilla road-blocks on roads leading to Bogota when he’d been out doing DJ gigs. He said that they were easy enough to get on with, except if they thought you were working for the government. He also said that the people were very tired of the war and wanted peace, almost at any price.
Over the next couple of hours, Dan took me on a guided tour. His base, which he used almost as an office, was a record shop in an arcade just across the street. The owner was a close friend and the three assistants were all sometime party companions. Everywhere he went everyone seemed to know and like him. As we sat drinking the strong Colombian coffee Dan mentioned my assignment down to San Vicente, the guerilla capital.
Universally, everyone we spoke to was shocked. They strongly advised against it, saying that I must be mad even to consider it. From a social perspective it was all very interesting, but from a professional point of view it was quite depressing. It seemed that my assignment was going to be anything but straightforward.
That evening we collected Trent from the airport. For Dan and Trent it was a reunion of old friends and fellow West Ham supporters. The little tin and its contents took a right hammering. If nothing else it helped them relax in the company of someone who, just a short while earlier, had been a complete stranger.
The following morning though it was down to business. To give credit where it was due, Trent knew when to party and when to work. At his suggestion, we made the rounds of all the agencies for further news of the situation. Reuters and a French news agency dismissed us out of hand as journalistic delinquents, pausing only to warn us of the seriousness of the situation. Clearly, ‘Loaded’ didn’t carry much weight with them. The lady at Medicin Sans Frontieres tried to be more understanding. She warned us to stay close to the center of San Vicente, as the roads surrounding it were contested and, should we be stopped by the ‘wrong’ group, we could expect to be murdered out of hand.
As we sat talking later that evening, Danny was clearly concerned for our safety. We’d had a busy and constructive day, as well as a lot of laughs. Already, a kind of camaraderie had sprung up between us, as often happens between Londoners in strange places. With it also came the rivalry. There was always friendly ribbing between East and West Londoners. At times I had been hard pressed to keep up my end of it with both Trent and Dan from the East, but in general I gave as good as I got.
“Look, I’ve been thinking”, said Dan in a manner that suggested he was on the verge of something portentous. Trent and I stopped whatever it was that we had been doing and looked at Danny in expectation. “You’re my mate, Trent, and you, Norman, you’re a fellow Londoner. I can’t let you go down to San Vicente on your own. I’d never forgive myself if something happened. I’ll come with you. You badly need someone who can speak the language, Trent’s Costa Spanish will get you nowhere.” He stopped abruptly.
It was an emotional moment. Danny was a loyal guy. He, probably better than anyone, realised the dangers of our trip. Yet he was going to put himself in harm’s way just to help us out. We both thanked him warmly and, with that, we all stumbled off to our beds.
part 3 is on the way.....