Capítulo 1
1.
THE VALLEY OF THE HUMMINGBIRDS
The rays of light emerging almost lazily on the eastern side of the vast territory put an end to the temporary victory that the darkness had won during the night. Little by little, minute by minute, second by second, the queen of darkness resigned herself to her inevitable defeat, but, not quite giving up, she threatened to return to cover everything under her cold cloak of jet black. It left behind it a thick layer of mist which it impregnated with its subtle, clumsy, agonistic movement, barely perceptible to the eyes that at that hour were beginning to open. The king of light woke up that morning even stronger and more determined, ready to recover even the most hidden corners with his clarity. Once again, the brightness of the morning rose victorious over the dark shadows.
The birds celebrated the majestic triumph by raising their beaks to the sky, singing hymns of joy and rejoicing to welcome the mighty sun. Their musical notes integrated perfectly with the percussion of the morning droplets that moistened and fertilized the ground, in precious anticipation of new life.
Two huge, synchronized rows of ants worked incessantly, as is usual in such industrious insects. Some were intent on obtaining the necessary food for their colony, others were laden with chopped pieces of green leaves and tiny bits of what was most likely an unfortunate animal that after meeting its death became the succulent menu for those who waste nothing.
A few metres away, on the trunk of a tree, a hairy spider of very large proportions climbed up the wood and disappeared almost magically into a hole that was definitely much smaller than the wingspan of its particular body.
Some species of birds flew solo while others flew in numerous flocks. It seemed as if their purpose was to decorate the sky with flashes of different colors, like fleeting brushstrokes of varying shades and short duration, all framed in the strange contrast between the brightness of the sky and the relative darkness produced by the foliage of the dense jungle.
There was a disorderly but beautiful orchestra of sounds that seemed to defy the overbearing silence that until only a few hours ago had reigned even in the very confines of that immense place.
A brightly furred feline walked delicately in the distance. Its lowered head clearly indicated that its attitude was one of searching. The care he took in placing his front paws on the damp morning earth was such that his footprints were barely discernible. It was strange to see one of his species hunting at that hour of the day.
Perhaps it did not have the luck needed to get a good morsel in the evening hours. Now it crouched among the green leaves, waiting for the right moment to attack and strike the deadly blow. Calculating, patient, cautious and silent... One way or another, the four-legged creature seemed to know that it had all the characteristics necessary to be a successful hunter.
At the same time, a butterfly was lying on a fruit that had fallen from above. The happy opportunist took advantage of the fateful effect of gravity that broke the nutrient-dense fruit into several pieces, exposing the juices of her delicacies to the open air and, as an inescapable temptation, seduced the flying beauty with her bewitching scents. She flapped her wings until she reached the place of the poignant collision to become intoxicated with the sublime nectar of her entrails.
Even more fortunate was the toad who, in a strategic position, watched her from the very moment of her descent. Without even the slightest hint of anxiety, it simply waited for the beautiful insect to be caught by the sweet spell of the liquid that promised to quench its thirst. The amphibian unrolled its tongue as only its kind has been allowed to do and, in less than a minuscule fraction of time, the butterfly disappeared. Once free, it was now a prisoner in the visceral walls of its predator.
A strange place where no one mourns their dead, where tears, lamentations and condolences are not the order of the day at the death of any representative of any species. The living struggle to live and the dead serve as food for others to live. Such is the jungle.
A curious landscape rich in trees so enormous that they defy the arrogance of their heights, in leaves so green that they end up melting into a singular monotony, in insects that swarm everywhere and with their different contributions contribute to the continuity of what we know as the cycle of life.
Only God, Mother Nature or both at the same time can be credited with the creation of such a particularly precious place. The species of animals that exist there have not yet been classified. There is even talk of legendary characters that have escaped the eyes of mortals for centuries, of ghostly beings that wander like souls in pain and that, refusing to disappear completely from the immense labyrinths of oral traditions, have become the protagonists of the legends with which, even now, grandparents still entertain those who still have time to listen to them.
Feathers, scales, fins, legs, crests, beaks, hairs, quadrupeds, bipeds, large, medium-sized, small, imperceptible, creeping, slinking, crawling, aquatic, flying, omnivorous, carnivorous, herbivorous, etcetera. Everything can be found in this vast territory; there are even those who claim that, quite possibly, some of the plants that grow there jealously guard the cure for various diseases that defy the cognitive power of scholars.
Blessed magical and exotic land, rainy, humid and rusty. A land of light and shadows, of places that seem to be taken from fantasy stories, of secrets that are indecipherable to the wisest; of infinite smells, colors and flavors; of life, drama, pain and death; of hope, joy, happiness, doubts and certainties.
From time to time, in the past and often in the present, a different sound breaks for a few minutes the natural concert of the wild artists. At first, one felt something like a distant buzzing sound that could perhaps be mistaken for the flying of the dragonfly; however, the approach of the particular instrument let one glimpse that it was not natural at all. It was the single or twin-engine planes that flew hundreds of meters above the immense carpet of emerald green.
The list of contents of those metal, carbon and fiberglass birds coming and going was and still is very long: passengers, tourists, exotic animals, medicines, canned food, household appliances, technology, cell phones, watches, paper, soaps, books, money, condoms, perfumes, handicrafts and, in the riskiest cases, poisons to attack illicit crops. Ironically, other flights carried hallucinogenic substances. In short... in a land of fanaticism, anything could happen, anything could be expected; in such a land it is both necessary and absolutely essential to be prepared to be always ready to be surprised.
A black nun was looking out of the window on the left side of the seat she was assigned for her one hour and forty-seven-minute flight. She was returning to the capital after some time spent working with patients in a remote area. In her right hand, she gently pressed the spheres of her curious rosary, which, after the ten counts of each bead, had a silvery little metallic hand with a red spot in the center that evoked the stigmata of St. Pio of Pietrelcina. The devout nun prayed for the intentions of the supreme pontiff, obeying the penance that a priest placed in her hands his last confession.
A curious priest that one, perhaps someday it would be worth writing his story.
Some above, some below; some good, some not so good... the spiritual woman could only see the treetops without imagining that right there, a few hundred meters below where she was praying in the comfort of her chair, a man punished by the unjust circumstances of life was writing a letter on the paper of the notebook of a few dozen pages.
Sunday, October 1st, 2006, from somewhere in the Colombian jungle, where I would have never wanted to have been in my life.
Mariana:
Hello!
At last, I have been able to write to you again... To tell you the truth, I had what I needed to do this for the past week, but my hands were swollen because of some insect bites. My colleagues attributed it to a strange species of ants, but no matter what it was, the truth is that I could barely bend my fingers.
It still hurts, Mariana, it still hurts. However, I don’t want to stop telling you, or rather, writing to you, how much I love you, how much I want to hold you in my arms and how much I would like you to see me sleeping with my baby, with our baby, sleeping soundly on my chest. How ironic! I keep thinking of Emilio as a baby.
I can’t help shedding my tears as I write to you. At this moment, the hand of some fellow sufferer has rested on my right shoulder, I prefer not to turn around to see who it is, you know that when I start crying, I take a long time to regain control of myself.
I love you, Mariana! I love you as much as I love our son!
It’s so funny... Just a few days ago I was so happy to hear you. Each of your words remained engraved in my mind. The blue streamers, the balloons, the uniform decoration colors, the clowns, the candy sticks, the white chocolate fountain, the huge cake you had made and the half-truckload of soft drinks you requested... My beautiful wife was always so exaggerated when it came to calculating.
When you finished speaking, I felt an evil force tearing at my heart, torturing my soul. Damn it, what did I do to deserve this? What?!
Well, at least my heart is still beating. Systoles and diastoles resist my unconditional, total and absolute surrender. I refuse not to see you again, not to kiss your lips, not to watch that waving of the towel as you dried your hair.
You know, I was standing at the bathroom door just to look at you at that very moment.
Forgive me if I ramble on so much, here the only option is to ramble. I think of so many things: you, him, mom, my brother, my friends, my work. Anyway... I long for Friday to hear you again, I can already imagine listening to you while you tell me in detail everything that happened at the party.
I want to know what your reaction was to the surprise, what they gave you, how the clown show went, what dessert your mother brought, what figures were in the three piñatas your sister brought (as exaggerated as you are... sisters, after all), at what time they finished... Tell me everything, my love.
Mariana, I want to ask you, when Emilio is asleep, to whisper in his ear that I love him with all the strength of my soul. Ask him to forgive me for not being by his side. Tell him that when I leave here, I will take him fishing, I will teach him how to play football, we will eat our fill of sweets until we choke, we will go horseback riding, we will swim together at the beach and, together with you, my love, we will be inseparable. Promise him, on my behalf, that I will be the father any son would wish to have; tell him that I will be his buddy, his friend, his brother, his accomplice, his confidant.
It breaks my heart to think of the time I am wasting. I dreamed so much of the joy of being a father, I wanted to rest my head gently on his tender chest and listen to the sound of his heartbeat while, with my eyes closed, I imagined his little heart for precious minutes. I wanted to hide in the closet when my sense of smell warned me that an inevitable diaper change was approaching; I wanted to hold him with my hands at bath time while you were both soaping him...soaping me. And this had to happen to me... Well, at least I still have a life.
Yes! I still think of Emilio as a baby. At least that image has stuck in my mind, but reality doesn’t forget to permanently remind me of the whole years I’ve been held captive.
You know, it may seem absurd for me to write this, but I want to tell you anyway. This morning I noticed something strange. It turns out that a curious movement among the leaves particularly caught my attention. After thinking for a few moments that it was a rare species of insects, something like strange cockroaches, I focused my gaze better and concluded that it was two hummingbirds. Beautiful specimens in brilliant blue-green colors, they were sinking their elongated beaks into a small group of flowers, which I had not even noticed.
They flew beautifully and gracefully. At times, they looked like two children playing tag. I imagined myself and my son, hidden behind a bush, watching the choreographic flight of such particular birds. After a few seconds, one of them flew away and, just as quickly as the first one, the other one also flew off into the distance. I didn’t know I could find them here, at least that little distractor in these damned repetitive and interminable days... Why, Mariana? Why?
Tell Millo about what I saw. Make up curious and wonderful stories about this place. Do not allow his innocent heart to be contaminated with hatred at such an early age because of the cruelty of these inhumane people. Avoid generating in him feelings of hatred or desire for revenge, fight so that his tender naivety does not fade into the murky depths of pain. Tell him about the birds. Maybe, because he is my son, he likes them as much as I do. Tell him that I am in a vast valley full of flowers of shapes, scents and colors like no other. Tell him that daddy is, for now, in a valley full of hummingbirds.
Forgive me, Mariana, I would like to keep writing to you, my love, but my hands hurt, although not as much as my soul does.
Again, I want to write to you... I love you.
Always yours,
Andres.
2.
THE BEST GIFT
That night, the heavens opened their floodgates to unleash a rainfall so severe that, after a few hours, it had already flooded some sectors of the vulnerable capital city. That Friday, like so many others in recent years, Mariana was driving her car towards the headquarters of a local radio station that allowed the relatives of the kidnapped to communicate with their loved ones by radio transmission.
The network of traffic lights had collapsed in several places, the congestion was such that the anguished woman could not help thinking that by the time she reached the radio station, the time available for communication would be over.
Cursing and swearing were the order of the day (or rather, night) in the stressed lady’s mostly decent vocabulary. To make matters worse, that afternoon no one had been able to accompany her. Fortunately, Alejandra had agreed to stay home to take care of Emilio while her sister went to her most important weekly appointment.
Obviously, Alejandra had also arrived late at the San Clemente family’s house. She blamed it on the resurfacing of some of the avenues, but her excuses went unheeded. After she parked her small car in front of the front yard, Mariana left in such a hurry and at such a speed that, had it not been for her high heels, anyone could have imagined that it was a relay race.
After driving for a considerable amount of time along those aggressive avenues, there were only eight blocks to go before they reached the parking lot where the station was located. Mariana turned her head to look at the seat on her left side to make sure that the folder with the sheets she had printed out was there. Right next to the document, a small paw print indicated, as irrefutable proof, that a small intruder had been there. She smiled.
“Thank you, my God! Thank you! I am so lucky!” was the happy expression of the flustered woman when, just as she reached her destination, a car pulled out, leaving a free space. She parked, took the keys out of the ignition, opened the glove compartment and unwrapped a green plastic bag in which she put the cardboard folder, which in turn she put in her purse. She grabbed her small umbrella and got out of the car in a hurry. She opened her accessory to protect herself from the rain, then walked a few meters towards the building’s entrance. A gale accompanied by gusts of raindrops caused his umbrella to lose its classic shape and all its ribbons were facing in the opposite direction, pointing to the sky. Another gust of wind tore off the top of the umbrella and Mariana was left with only the base of the umbrella in her hand.
She ran a few steps to catch up with him, but stopped in the middle of the downpour and thought, “I never ran after any man in my life and now I’m going to run after you? Fuck you!“. Turning around, she ran again, now completely wet, her hair flattened by the action of the water. Only a few meters were enough for her feet to hit an oil slick that the rain had reduced, but not completely, and completely losing her balance, she fell face-first to the ground.
In the fractions of a second that were enough to experience contact with the ground, the “lucky woman” pressed the car keys with her left hand and, with her right hand, the piece of the umbrella’s base that had remained, so that when she made the reflex act of protection against the fall, her fingers were closed. Therefore, her knuckles received the blow and the corresponding scrape on the cement floor. Her new beige dress took care of the grease stain that had not succumbed to the power of the downpour. She rose slowly, holding on to the bumper of the parked car that witnessed first-hand the cruelty of her fall. She looked down at her clothes blackened with grime and engine grease and tried to wipe some of it off with her hands. She had barely shaken herself two or three times when she noticed the blood emerging from her knuckles and now adding a messy red stain to her dress. She looked at her hands, now with their fingers spread open, and realized that only three of her very long natural fingernails had survived. She didn’t run anymore, she simply walked under the relentless downpour, but she felt limp, unsteady in a way. Looking down at her feet, she noticed that one heel of her favorite shoes was missing.
Juan Carlos Plata, the person in charge of the radio program Las Voces de los Ausentes (The Voices of the Absent), was insistently checking his watch. Mariana was usually several minutes early for her weekly appointment with the microphone and, although he had already called her three times on her mobile phone, the call was immediately diverted to voicemail. “What happened to her?” he wondered.
The studio door opened slowly. Mariana pushed with one hand on the wooden structure and revealed to Carlos a very despondent sight.
“Mariana, what happened to you?” he asked.
Without answering, she entered, leaving a trail of water where she walked. She sat down where she did every Friday at that hour. Finally, Juan Carlos was able to approach her and cover her with his jacket while asking her if she wanted a coffee or an herbal tea and reiterating his interest in what had happened.
The distressed woman left the silence behind and just before bursting into tears, she said:
“I’m a failure!... I’m a failure!”
“I’m sorry to tell you that you will have two minutes to calm down because you are about to go on the air, have some water and then tell me what happened to you.”
Mariana knew how to manage her two minutes very well. She cried for a few seconds, drank a few sips of water, took a deep breath, took out of her purse the cardboard folder that was also damaged by the rain and from there she took some sheets of paper that were already battered and stained due to being soaked. She filled and emptied her lungs a couple more times, then waited for Carlos’ signal, who, with his particular hand movement, let her know that they were now on air.
From his microphone, the radio announcer made, as usual, a brief introduction before giving way to the words of his guest:
“Good evening, dear listeners of this, your radio station, Frecuencia Andina. Today, Friday, October 13th, 2006, we greet all the listeners of this program, The Voice of the Absent, but especially our brothers who have been unjustly deprived of their freedom and who at this moment are surely listening to us from somewhere in our Colombian jungles or from whatever their place of captivity may be. We begin this program by reminding you that we will continue on the air every day until the longed-for dream that all good men and women in this country hope for is fulfilled: that in all of our national territory, there will not be one more kidnapping or kidnap victim. Without further ado, I will give the floor to those who make this program a reality, to the families of those who suffer this torment and who constitute the other side of the story in this problem that has afflicted our society for so many years. I have in front of me Mrs. Mariana San Clemente, who accompanies us every Friday to send to the kidnapped, and especially to her husband, engineer Andrés San Clemente, a message of hope. Mariana, welcome back, the microphone is yours.”
Now much calmer, but still soaked and shivering from the cold, Mariana said:
“Thank you very much, Juan Carlos. As you yourself have said, I am just another Colombian who prays to heaven for this nightmare to end as soon as possible. First of all, I want to send my greetings to all the hostages who are listening to me. I want you to know that we never tire of waiting for
them and to dream of that beautiful dawn when we can finally enjoy the blessing of seeing them free. Secondly, I would like to greet your kidnappers, to tell them that we never tire of praying for you too, so that you may be aware of the great harm you are doing to so many families and society in general. I, personally, pray for you every day that you will open your hearts to understanding and understand that through peaceful means great goals can be achieved.”
“I now turn to my husband. Hello, my love! You know well that I always write down what I am going to tell you, and with that, I have managed to prevent many things I want to tell you from being forgotten. Here you go.”
At last, Mariana’s face smiled again and, looking at her written message, she began to read.
My love:
Once again you have me here, as usual, reading the words that I am writing for you and in which I want to tell you about everything that has happened during the last week. Today I will focus especially on our son’s birthday. As you well know, it is not easy for me to prepare this kind of thing if you are not here, but at the same time, I believe that the boy has the right to feel that we are happy for the blessing of his life. If in any way you perceive that I am failing, please forgive me.
Last week I told you in detail about the preparations that we made with Alejandra for the party. We invited a total of 30 children, but in the end, 25 came, because two of them got sick and the parents of the other three didn’t even give an explanation.
You can imagine those little terrors running all over the place. Some screaming, others crying, others laughing, well... there was nothing to regret except that Santiago, Emilio’s best friend, fell and got a bump on his head as a result of the blow. The father of Felipe, another of the invited children, who works as a doctor at the central hospital, checked him out and said there was nothing to worry about.
Later, when the magicians and clowns arrived at the house, they managed to maintain the attention of the little ones and gave us space to serve refreshments and cut the cake while they made the children and adults laugh. In total there were three clowns and a magician; you know I don’t like clowns very much, but these were fantastic. They juggled, did magic, played games, told jokes and, with the help of puppets, taught the children how important it is to obey their parents.
Alejandra kept her promise and brought three piñatas: one was a Spiderman; one was Rene the frog and one was a giant ball. I never imagined that you could fit so many candies and toys in each one of them. Sweets, dolls, plastic watches, balls, chocolates, key chains, dice, lollipops, chewing gum and other things fell everywhere. Not only the children, but also the adults left with plastic bags full of everything you can imagine.
My mom showed up with two giant buckets of ice cream, you’ll realize that how exaggerated you always say I am may have its origin in some genetic inheritance problem. Your mom came in with three containers full of curuba dessert. When I saw it, I couldn’t help remembering that it is your favorite, I looked her in the eyes and, without being able to say anything, we both cried hugging each other for a few moments. Finally, she herself said to me: “Stop crying, my dear, stop crying, we have already cried too much. I know that one day this nightmare will end and our tears will turn into joyful laughter.
The cake was three-tiered, decorated with strawberries and peaches, garnished with luscious, smooth cream. If only you could have seen the children eating it: their smeared faces and their respective mothers chasing them with napkins; total madness.
My love, Emilio was so happy, they gave him so many presents, I’ll tell you: a soccer ball (as they say... hide all the porcelain!), a remote control car, two raincoats, a piggy bank, a set of plates and special cutlery for children of his age; my mother gave him a bicycle, I don’t remember who gave him a wallet, he also got shoes, a ladder set, and a battery-powered guitar. My sister gave him a photo session, the photographer will come next week to do it at home. He also got a painting kit, a camera, a set of seven marked vests for each day of the week, and a doctor’s bag for him to play doctor.
Imagine that, at about half past six in the evening, when the guests were starting to leave, I was very surprised that José had not arrived at the party, I think you know very well the paternal attitude that your brother has assumed towards the child since you have been gone. I called him on his cell phone, but I couldn’t get through, and finally, at almost seven in the evening, he arrived home with a beautiful gift box. When I opened the door, he looked me in the eye and asked me to excuse his obvious lateness. He explained that he had no choice but to wait a long time until the child’s gift was delivered. The box I am talking about had two circular holes that caught my attention, but I could not imagine what it contained.
Your brother carefully placed it on the floor and told Millo to open it.
My love, you can’t imagine what came out of there... A miniature grey and white Schnauzer, one of those that have thick whiskers and let the hair grow on their paws. It is tenderness transformed into a dog. Our son was so happy, so very happy... I regret not having filmed the expression on his face when he saw him, or at least taking a picture at that precise moment. He opened his mouth, touched his face with his two little hands and jumped for joy while shouting: “A puppy, mommy! A puppy!“.
He did nothing but play with his dog. The empathy between the two was absolute, it was as if in a split-second Millo had forgotten all the presents, even us, and in just a few minutes they became the best and dearest of friends.
Andres, I confess, his excitement was such that it even erased from my mind that I don’t like dogs at home and I became his friend too. Well, his second best friend.
Jose told me that it was an animal abandoned by its owners or lost in some strange circumstance. He is at most one and a half or two years old, but, if you see him, he looks like he has lived with us all his life.
The first night I had a hard time getting the boy to go to rest, he insisted on sleeping in the bed with his pet. I taught him that it was not good to do so and, although it took some work, he finally accepted my reasons and accepted that the new arrival slept on the floor on some old towels with which I improvised a doggy bed while I went into his room to check on him.
You can’t imagine what happened the next day, I went into his room to see how he was doing and the very comfortable animal was lying there, sleeping on the bed at Emilio’s feet. This time I didn’t miss the opportunity and took pictures so that one day we could see them together. I wasn’t able to move it away... I simply left them there until they wanted to get up.
You don’t know, love, how I regret not having you by my side to share this joy with you. You don’t know how much I miss you and how much I wish I could do more than resign myself to impotence.
Andres, I love you.
Otherwise, the week has been like so many of those in which I have lived this chapter of the history of my life without you. Patients, cavities, extractions, root canals, whitening, cleanings, smile designs. Paying for services, bank returns, home repairs, etc.
I miss you, my love.
Your mommy sends you a very special greeting and a big kiss, I didn’t want her to come with me today, Bogota is very cold and it has rained a lot. You know how vulnerable she has been to the cold weather and I don’t want her to have to go back to the clinic.
My mother, on the other hand, sends you to say that you are like the son she always wished she had had, but didn’t, and who always remembers you in all his prayers.
I say goodbye again, harboring in my heart the hope of never speaking to you again through a radio studio and remembering that you have a very important place in my heart.
Ah!... I almost forgot. Your brother had already named the dog, he told Millo that if he didn’t like it, he could change it, but the boy didn’t show the slightest intention of doing so.
Our miniature schnauzer is called Spike. See you soon, my darling.
Yours,
Mariana
Juan Carlos took the microphone again and said:
“Thank you very much, Mariana, I am sure that these communications are the ones that give a reason to live for our brothers in captivity. But before we continue with our next guest, we will go to a commercial break.”
Once off the air, the announcer looked her straight in the eyes and, displaying his unmistakable black humor, said to her:
“You know, if your husband were here, he would tell you that he had never seen you so beautiful.”
Mariana looked at him in the meanest way she could for a few seconds and then, almost at the same time, they both burst out laughing.
3.
DISPLACEMENT
For some time now, many things had changed. The implementation of a new territorial security policy gave strong and decisive backing to the forces of law and order, which week after week were recovering areas lost in long years of tortuous internal armed conflict.
Thus, the advance of the Army, the Air Force, the Police and the Navy meant nothing more than the geographic retreat of the guerrilla groups. Helicopters, intelligence planes, interception of communications, destruction of drug processing laboratories, fumigation and elimination of illicit crops, bombings and soldiers advancing camouflaged in the thick foliage were all part of the new chapter being written on the pages of the immense book of the Colombian armed conflict.
The illegal groups were not the same as before. The routes by which they obtained supplies were obstructed by the joint action of the military forces. The airstrips, which were used to send illicit substances and receive dollars, were relentlessly punished by the action of the explosives; the lands that were illegally expropriated from the peasants were gradually recovered thanks to the action of the State’s presence.
Nervously, the terrorists retreated like animals sensing the dangerous proximity of hunters. Many of them did not flee in time and paid with their own lives for their mistakes; others laid down their arms and tried to reintegrate into civilian life. Some preferred to remain part of the senseless conflict because, having been unjustly recruited from an early age, they did not learn to be anything else in their lives but guerrilla subordinates who were inordinately anxious about-facing life with a different vision. Certainly, many of them thought they were fighting for a good cause, many others fought because they had nothing else to do and their reduced conceptual universe did not seem to have the necessary elements to accommodate a different alternative to human development.
Andres and his companions, from very early in the morning, noticed strange movements in those surroundings. A lot of tension was flying all over the place. It was something like a negative premonition; those days when one way or another one notices that something is not right, although one does not know what it is for sure.
A stale loaf of bread, a portion of tasteless rice dough and a little water was what the insurgents offered their captives to usher in the day. The hostages tried to listen, while they ate, to the words exchanged by their kidnappers, but the sounds of the jungle distorted what little they were able to pick up. In the end, instead of paying attention and hearing nothing, one of the guerrillas approached them and said:
“Well, gentlemen, all of you get ready to move. We are leaving here. Take your things with you because we are not coming back.”
The one who spoke up was a feared terrorist known as Freddy, alias “The Claw”.
“Where are they taking us now?” Andres asked.
“You just walk, I ask the questions here, big asshole, and hurry up to see him, if you don’t want me to make you walk flat out,” answered the insurgent, looking him defiantly in the eyes.”
The Claw did not always express himself this way with the hostages. Although he was far from being a kind and conciliatory man, his verbal and nonverbal attitude that morning seemed to be more hostile than usual, which confirmed the position of those who perceived that something out of the ordinary was going on.
Certainly, the belongings of those deprived of their liberty were not many. Within minutes, their handmade backpacks were ready with their few possessions.
A few armed guerrillas surrounded the confinement area while others lined up outside the rustic gate, evoking a street of honor that was really a ring of security that would permanently accompany the hostages during this new stage of their grueling experience.
“Today we will walk for a long time, gentlemen. Just in case, I remind you that it is not worth trying to escape. If we have to kill one, two or three, we’ll kill them and that’s it. Our order is very clear: “Better dead than running away,” said The Claw with the particular cruelty that characterizes the ignorant type who has acquired some power by violence.
The walkers set out on their march, mixed between kidnap victims and guerrillas. Their steps were directed to the south, who knows where. It was not the first time that they had had to walk along the unmarked paths of the virgin territory, but it should be noted that for some months they had remained in the same place.
In previous walks, guerrillas and hostages talked about many things, but this new journey was characterized by something different. The order was very clear for both sides. They were to remain silent and, should they need to say anything, they were to speak very quietly. The atmosphere was still very tense.
Uninvited, the rain made its appearance for a little more than two hours. Its presence did not prevent the group from continuing on their way, although it did considerably reduce their performance and speed. Some and others had learned to take advantage of the precipitation to place the holes of their canteens under the tip of a leaf, used as an improvised funnel that filled the container of the essential fluid.
The rain had its good and bad things. Good because on a day of hiking like that, it refreshed them and provided hydration. Bad because the fungus on their feet thrived on the accumulated humidity and reappeared relentlessly through discomfort, scratching and bad odor which, added to the precariousness, the poor living conditions and the lack of adequate medicines, became a real ordeal.
Andres walked, like everyone else, where his abductors pointed. If he had not eaten the stale bread and the rock hard rice, he would not have had anything else in his guts to face the energy demand of the difficult day. In his thoughts was present the crumpled hundred-sheet notebook that had become his most precious treasure, the one in which all his thoughts for the woman and the child he loved so much were written down.
“Hopefully it didn’t get wet,” were the five words that, like a broken record, echoed inside his head.
Curiously, in extreme conditions, when we are tested by the crucible of adversity, it is the smallest and most unthinkable elements that take on such a vitally overwhelming force that we wish to protect them as our most precious possessions.
How could that prestigious engineer ever have imagined it? The same one who wore a gold and diamond watch (his favorite, for he had a collection of more than forty), who spent his vacations in the best and most sophisticated tourist destinations, who under no circumstances would admit to being a guest in a hotel unless the presidential suite was reserved for him, who designed his own house of more than a thousand square meters because no other place was spacious enough for him, who had half a dozen cars that he changed several times a year until he got tired of driving and hired three drivers for shifts of eight hours each because he did not know in which of the twenty-four hours of the day they would be required. He was a man with a fierce temperament who, on many occasions, mistreated his employees, and fired them without giving any further explanation, simply because he had woken up in the morning with the desire to renew his entire staff. The one who shouted without the slightest mercy at a cleaning lady because when he slipped the tip of his index finger on the surface of his very fine desk he found that a tiny residue of dirt hindered his desired encounter with total neatness, which on a very strange occasion greeted someone other than his family or his small and exclusive circle of friends. Precisely that man, the successful and renowned engineer Andres Gabriel San Clemente y Gongora, now lay curled up, in full view of two guerrillas who watched him as he defecated in the middle of an unnamed place, holding on to a branch so that his ass would not meet the ground and trying to find in the foliage a few leaves benevolent enough to his buttocks to clean the rest of his feces and continue on his way to another place, who knows where.
After concluding such a necessary and biological task, Andres rejoined the caravan of hikers moving south, trying to avoid the aggressive men of the national army, who little by little were gaining control of territories that, just a few years ago, were impenetrable to them.
The tense calm experienced throughout the day was broken by a deafening noise.
“EVERYBODY DOWN! QUICKLY!” shouted one of the armed men.
Immediately, everyone dived into the bushes. A Black Hawk helicopter gunship changed the perspective of the area with the monstrous vibration of its propellers. The sound left no doubt as to the war power of this metallic shell probing through the green jungle. Everyone knew they were in danger; if any movements were noticed from inside the craft, they would start firing indiscriminately on guerrillas and hostages. It was essential not to be seen. The rapid rhythmic rumbling of the excessive power of their rotors made those lying on the ground believe that the aircraft would land on top of them. The insurgents clung to their weapons and the unarmed to their handmade camouflages, as well as to their scapulars.
The seconds seemed to have an infinite duration; some guerrillas were already pointing their machine guns upwards, waiting for the moment when they would be told to attack or when they would hear the first shot that would initiate the brutal carnage.
The vibration was now stronger. It felt like the earth was shaking. Dry green leaves, small stones and sticks were flying as if it were a tornado. Now you could not even open your eyes, your hands protected your face from the dangerous impacts of the natural projectiles propelled by the force of the flying giant.
The sound finally began to be less loud, the intensity of the engine did not disappear, but little by little it faded away. A few more seconds passed and a voice was heard shouting:
“Comrades! Tell them that the load is complete.”
The subordinates obeyed and gave a reassuring report.
“We can’t risk stopping, we’ll walk all night. Those capitalist rats are on our heels!”
the same guerrilla shouted again.
The hostages asked each other if they were all right. There was nothing to regret, apart from a few small scratches on the skin of some of them, possibly the result of rapid and disorderly flight of improvised projectiles or some friction when falling to the ground.
Now they were walking faster, perhaps as a consequence of the enormous tension and the strong adrenaline rush, they were subjected to. Neither victims nor perpetrators wanted to be participants in an exchange of fire between the army and the guerrillas because, regardless of which side one belonged to, bullets do not choose guilty or innocent, they simply attract whatever they find in their path.
The guerrillas provided more old bread with a filling of hard meat, from who knows what animal, to the walkers who complained of hunger. The trek continued to be accompanied by thirst and fatigue, sweaty and muddy clothes that made the walk even more difficult.
After fifteen minutes of rest, Andres exchanged a few words with John Fred Piquiao, a deputy superintendent of the national police who had also been kidnapped. They would exchange a few ideas before resuming their journey. While his interlocutor was talking, Andres lost the thread of the conversation because of a strange movement among the leaves.
Two mischievous hummingbirds were playing again, just as he had told Mariana. Now he saw them more closely; a moving event when they met head-on in the air and seemed to be talking. Finally, they flew closer to Andres and, almost without noticing where they were, they disappeared again.
“Why are you smiling, Andres? Do you find what I’m telling you very funny?” asked the deputy commander, waiting for an answer.
“I’m sorry, Fred, I got distracted and didn’t pay attention to what you were saying.”
“Well, let’s see if the landing gear comes out and we get back to reality before it gets dark and we can’t see the runway.”
“I’m sorry, I got distracted watching some hummingbirds.
“I was telling you about my life’s sorrows and you were watching birds. Have you never seen one before?” the deputy commander chided.
“Yes, I had, but never like this.”
“Tomorrow I’ll make you a basket so that you can take down a few and watch them all day long.”
“I wouldn’t be able to do that,” Andres answered sharply.
“Neither would I, it was just a bad joke. But he is so sensitive today.”
“I’d better go and talk to the others, I’ll leave him alone to see his birds,” said the deputy commander with a particular tone, half mockery, half sarcasm.
Andres remained silent, although he knew well that Fred was right. However, he did not object to his going off to talk to the others. Finally, he looked in all directions, waiting for the little flyers to reappear. He would have liked nothing better than to look at them again before beginning a long night walking in the dark jungle.
