The five of us advanced slowly up the narrow earth road, stepping around household articles that had been pulled from the huts and left. The inside of every hut had been ransacked and unwanted items smashed. Here and there fires had been started, evidenced by the blackened timbers and piles of ash. Other huts had had their corrugated tin roofs pulled off. Two dozen or more chickens foraged amongst the ruins. Still there was no one to be seen.
Not one word had been exchanged between us since we had landed. Treading carefully to avoid making too much noise, we were listening intently for signs of life. Although we all must have been aware that we were entering a potentially dangerous situation here, it was as if we were being drawn inexorably onwards by our desire to find out what had happened.
For myself, I saw an opportunity to save a failing assignment. In the absence of a cocaine story, photographic evidence to reveal this latest massacre to the world would suffice. That was why it was worth taking a risk for. Mentally I steeled myself against the discovery of tortured corpses and severed heads on poles.
At its end, the narrow dirt road broadened out into large, roughly rectangular open space that must have served as the village square. In the middle was a wooden hut with the remains of telephone wires running to it. The window openings were all blackened with smoke and the roof had collapsed. Wordlessly I wished ‘goodbye’ to my phone call to Marsha.
On the side of another hut was some more painted writing. Once again the letters AUC stood out clearly. Danny translated. “It’s a warning. It says, “This is what happens to the enemies of the AUC.” He looked directly at me. “We better get out of here, Norm, just in case they’re still around. These aren’t people to fuck about with. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you.”
It was enough to bring all of us to our senses. It was almost as if I had been dream-walking through the village. The full implications of what could happen should we bump into this group finally hit home. Without actually breaking into a run, we hurried back to the boat.
Just as we were pushing off from the bank, an old man emerged from the trees. Edgar got out and went over to speak with him. The conversation was brief and he came rushing back, motioning for the boatman to push off as he climbed in. “The Paramilitaries were here just over a week ago”, he gushed. “They killed ten villagers and the rest have fled. There’s only this old man now. He’s lived here all his life. He says he’s sad and lonely.”
The old man stood in the trees, watching us as we disappeared up the river. I stared for a long time at the forlorn figure, musing that this was the real face of Colombia’s civil war. A civilian population at the mercy of right wing death squads, in league with the Colombian army and indirectly supported by the US.
The river narrowed again and under overarching trees perhaps fifty feet ahead was a jungle-fatigued guerilla in an out-board-powered canoe He immediately set off with us in pursuit. At times it was almost like a chase, as we twisted and turned around sharp bends.
Until now, all the journey had been in the gloom of small rivers overhung by a canopy of trees that served to keep most of the light out. Suddenly the river opened out into a large and most beautiful lagoon. Golden sunlight danced on impossibly blue waters, as countless thousands of multi-coloured, exotic birds swooped and called. It was breathtaking.
We crossed the lagoon and docked near the small group of huts that was San Lorenzo. The four ELN guerillas we had met the day before were sitting amongst the trees with several of their colleagues. We pressed them on their offer to show us a ‘cocina’ and they said they would have to ask their commanders further up the river.
A ten-minute canoe ride took us to ‘The Point’, a fortified bend in the river that served as an ELN command post. We were introduced to Comandante Julian and Comandante Aguado, the two most senior ELN commanders in the area. Both were friendly and helpful, but, in practical terms, there was little they could do personally to show us a ‘cocina’. However, they did say they would make some enquiries. Quite bizarrely, I then found myself discussing the finer points of Marxist ideology with them, whilst we awaited an answer.
All the while I was watching the coming and going of the boats on the river. Many had the tell-tale cargoes of gasoline and cement. All were stopped by the ELN and all were taxed. Noting my interest, Comandante Julian suddenly asserted that the ELN were not involved in the cocaine trade. They only taxed the cattle and gold trades. Bearing in mind I had seen only timber structures since I’d been in the jungle, I forebore to ask what all the cement was being used for then.
I snoozed for a while in the shade of a large tree and awoke to find Danny exercising a previously unknown talent as a film director. Having decided that the guerillas weren’t actually doing a lot just sitting about in the shade, Dan had decided to get them on manouvres for a photo shoot. He had several in a slit trench pointing guns aggressively and several more were in an attacking formation down by the jetty confronting half a dozen more who were bursting out of some bushes. Meanwhile, he and Jorge were snapping away like crazy with their little cameras with both Comandantes Julian and Aguado looking on benignly.
Our answer, when it came over a badly crackling radio link, wasn’t helpful. ELN in that area couldn’t help us find a ‘cocina’, but they would send us upriver to a FARC post where there was a commander who could.
Once again we headed upriver in the canoe. A 90-minute trip took us to Yanque, another collection of huts, but this time set atop a steep hill. The most welcoming aspect for us was the Coca Cola sign. We sat in the village café, greedily guzzling exquisitely cold soft drinks.
By all accounts, Comandante Yasid was the most senior FARC commander we had so far met. He was a young, intense, yet friendly guy, whose fledgling beard and moustache only served to emphasize his youth. He was introduced as the commander of the whole 24th Front. As Egdar waved his hand expansively to indicate the extent of Yasid’s kingdom I could only muse that never had one so young been in total charge of so many trees.
For a country that was at the forefront of cocaine production it seemed amazing that, despite traveling across hundreds of miles, we had never been near nor by a ‘cocina’. And that was exactly the situation now. Yasid said that there wasn’t one in the area, but he knew of one near a village called ‘Agua Sucio’.
However, there were a number of problems. The direct route was by water to a large town called San Pablo and we could get a jeep from there. San Pablo though, was a Paramilitary stronghold and anyone arriving from FARC-held territory was liable to be shot on sight. I had been following the conversation carefully through Danny’s translation and as we got to the stage of Yasid telling us the alternative, I followed his pointing arm indicating a massive, green-swathed mountain in the middle-distance. Danny was suddenly uncharacteristically tight-lipped.
“Go on then, Dan. What’s the alternative”, I urged.
“Yasid said that it’s a five hour trip by mule over that mountain”, he pronounced grimly.
By now it was all becoming thoroughly ridiculous. I had expected some unusual situations, but a close encounter with a mule hadn’t been amongst my expectations.
“And we’re not used to riding mules”, added Dan, stating the obvious. “An hour’s ride will cripple us.”
“I’ve got too much respect for my bollocks to spend five hours on a fucking mule”, I exploded. We’re going to San Pablo by boat.”
The boatman thought otherwise though. It was only the obscene sum of £100, a small fortune by local standards, that managed to change his mind. I didn’t much care for the way he crossed himself as we set off, but at least we were going by the direct route now.
We arrived at San Pablo just as night was falling. The four of us booked into a small, scruffy hotel, then went in search of supper. Of all the places I had been so far, there was definitely a different ‘feel’ about this place. People looked at us furtively and there was an air of fear. It didn’t help our collective paranoia when we noticed a guy on a motorbike who was following us everywhere. We ate quickly in a restaurant then retired to our rooms for the night..
Breakfast brought another drama. The guy with the jeep, who Edgar had hired to take us beyond Agua Sucio, had backed out. At daybreak, 600 Paramilitaries had driven up the very road we were due to travel on to attack ELN positions in the biggest operation in years. The whole area had suddenly become even more dangerous than usual, ergo, no jeep driver.
Seeing the expression on my face and having already felt the force of my anger on several occasions now, Edgar was apologetic. “I did warn you before we started that, in Colombia, nothing remains the same; everything changes.” And to give credit where it is due, he had warned me. He had also warned me about something called ‘Locombia’, a corruption of ‘loco’, the Spanish word for ‘mad’ and, of course, Colombia. The word itself meant a particularly crazy Colombian state of mind that ran through all things. This latest situation was classic ‘locombia’.