Even Silence Has an End Part 5

"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 ident.i.ty-"

"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 Union-Penilla. You will have to get out of here fairly quickly. Did they bring you your things?"

I nodded mechanically. Everything he said was worrying. I wanted a.s.surance that my companions were safe and would be freed shortly. The fighting at Union-Penilla was a source of hope. But if there were confrontations, we risked being killed. How did he know that the general had been dismissed? That general was the one in the best position to mount a successful rescue operation. He was the man who knew the area, he was in the field, and he was the last one to have seen us.

Cesar took his leave. There was nothing to do but wait, without knowing what we were waiting for. The minutes stretched into an oppressive eternity, and to fill them required a determination I didn't have. I could do nothing but ruminate. We noticed a game of chess on the corner of what was meant to be a table. That such a thing could exist in the middle of this self-contained world was both unexpected and surprising. But once I sat in front of the chessboard, I was overcome with panic. We were the p.a.w.ns. Our existence was being defined according to a logic that my abductors were concealing from us. I pushed away the game, incapable of continuing. How long was this going to last? Three months? Six months? I observed the people around me. The blithe att.i.tude to life, the gentle rhythm of routine-it all sickened me. How could they sleep, eat, and smile while keeping us away from our loved ones?

Isabel had finished her guard duty and had come to have lunch. She looked with manifest longing at the red and black-lace underwear still in its packaging. I offered it to her. She turned it over in her hands with childlike delight, then put it back where it was, as if pus.h.i.+ng away too great a temptation. Finally she stood up, driven by a sudden fervor, and said in a loud voice for her comrades to hear, "I am going to make a request."

As I later learned, "requests" were a fundamental part of FARC life. Everything was controlled and monitored. No one could take the slightest initiative or give or receive a gift without asking permission. You could be refused the right to stand up or sit down, to eat or to drink, to sleep or to go to the chontos. chontos.

Isabel came running back, her cheeks flushed. She had obtained permission to accept my gift. I watched her walk away, trying to imagine what life must be like for a woman in the camp. The commander was a woman, but I counted just five girls among about thirty men. What could they hope for here that would be better than elsewhere? Their femininity did not cease to amaze me, even though they were never without their guns and had masculine reflexes that did not appear to be feigned. Just as with this new vocabulary, these peculiar songs, this peculiar habitat, I looked with surprise at these young women who all seemed to be cast in the same mold and to have sacrificed their individuality.

Being a prisoner was bad enough. But being a female prisoner in the hands of the FARC was another matter entirely. It was difficult to put it into words. Intuitively I felt that the FARC was exploiting these women with their consent. The organization worked subtly, words were chosen deliberately, appearances were carefully cultivated, and there was more to everything than met the eye. . . . I had just lost my freedom, but I was not willing to surrender my ident.i.ty.

When night fell, Sonia came to fetch us to watch the news on TV. The camp was convened in the hut that boasted the small screen. She a.s.signed us our places, then left to switch on the generator. A solitary lightbulb swayed from the ceiling like a hanged man. It came on, and the group went into raptures. I had trouble understanding their excitement. I sat there waiting in the middle of a band of armed men, their rifles propped up between their legs. Sonia switched on the television and left again; the picture was fuzzy and the sound full of static. No one moved, all eyes glued to the screen. Sonia finally came back, turned a couple of k.n.o.bs, and a blurred picture appeared. But the sound was clear. The news had started. I saw Adair, my logistics manager, on the screen. He and the other members of our group had just been released. They were speaking emotionally about their final moments with us. I leaped up with joy. My commotion irritated some of the guerrillas, and they called gruffly for silence. I slumped back down on the bench, my eyes moist.

That night I didn't feel like sleeping. It was a bright, huge moon again, and the temperature outside was pleasant. I wanted to walk to clear my mind. Isabel was on guard. She had no problem agreeing to my request. I set off across the clearing to the chontos, chontos, pa.s.sing in front of Sonia's hut and alongside the shelter. Some of the convalescents had switched on their radios, and echoes of tropical music drifted toward me. I imagined the world without me, this Sunday that had brought sorrow and anxiety to those I loved. My children, Melanie, Lorenzo, and Sebastian, my stepson, had already heard the news. I expected them to be strong. We had often talked about the possibility that I might be abducted. I had always been more afraid of being taken hostage than of being a.s.sa.s.sinated. I had told them that they must never give in to blackmail and that it was better to die than to submit. Now I was not so sure. I no longer knew what to think. What was most intolerable to me was the pain they had to be feeling. I wanted to live. I did not want them to become orphans, and I was determined to restore to them their carefree spirit. I imagined them talking to each other, bound by mutual torment, trying to reconstruct the events leading up to my abduction, trying to understand. I was in pain. pa.s.sing in front of Sonia's hut and alongside the shelter. Some of the convalescents had switched on their radios, and echoes of tropical music drifted toward me. I imagined the world without me, this Sunday that had brought sorrow and anxiety to those I loved. My children, Melanie, Lorenzo, and Sebastian, my stepson, had already heard the news. I expected them to be strong. We had often talked about the possibility that I might be abducted. I had always been more afraid of being taken hostage than of being a.s.sa.s.sinated. I had told them that they must never give in to blackmail and that it was better to die than to submit. Now I was not so sure. I no longer knew what to think. What was most intolerable to me was the pain they had to be feeling. I wanted to live. I did not want them to become orphans, and I was determined to restore to them their carefree spirit. I imagined them talking to each other, bound by mutual torment, trying to reconstruct the events leading up to my abduction, trying to understand. I was in pain.

I understood only too well the significance of the press release issued by the Secretariado. It confirmed that I had been taken hostage and that I was part of the group of "interchangeables."9 My captors threatened to kill me one year to the day after my capture if there was no agreement to release the guerrillas detained in Colombian prisons. To spend one year in captivity and then be a.s.sa.s.sinated- that was my possible fate. Would they carry out their threat? It was hard to believe, but I did not want to be around to find out. We had to escape. My captors threatened to kill me one year to the day after my capture if there was no agreement to release the guerrillas detained in Colombian prisons. To spend one year in captivity and then be a.s.sa.s.sinated- that was my possible fate. Would they carry out their threat? It was hard to believe, but I did not want to be around to find out. We had to escape.

The thought of preparing our escape calmed me. I created a mental map of our environment and tried to reconstruct from memory the road we had taken to get here. I was certain that we had traveled in what was almost a straight line, southward. It would mean a lot of walking, but it was feasible.

I finally got into bed, fully clothed, but I still couldn't close my eyes. It must have been around nine in the evening when I heard them in the distance. Helicopters, several of them, were rapidly approaching. Suddenly the camp went into a frenzy. The sick jumped from their beds, pulled on their backpacks, and started running. Orders were shouted in the darkness as the commotion reached its peak. "Turn out the lights, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" yelled Sonia, her voice like a man's. Ana and Isabel rushed toward us, grabbing the mosquito net and pus.h.i.+ng us out of bed. "Bring what you can, we're leaving immediately! It's the air force!"

My mind went blank. I heard hysterical voices around me and went into a trance: put on shoes, roll up clothes, put them in the bag, take bag, check that nothing is left behind, walk. My heart was beating slowly, as it did when I went diving. The echo of the outside world reached me in the same way, as if filtered by an enormous wall of water. Ana continued to yell and push me. The guerrillas were already advancing in single file. I turned around. Ana had rolled up the mattress and was carrying it under her arm. Wedged under the other arm was the mosquito net, twisted into a roll. She was also carrying her huge backpack, so heavy that it forced her to lean forward. "Talk about a dog's life!" I muttered, more irritated than anything else. I was not afraid. Their hastiness was none of my concern.

About a hundred yards from camp, we were ordered to stop. The moon was sufficiently bright through the trees so that I could distinguish the people around me. The guerrillas were sitting on the ground, leaning against their backpacks. Some had taken out their black plastic sheets and were covering themselves with them.

"How long are we going to stay here?" I whispered to Isabel. We could still hear the sound of the helicopters, but it seemed that they were no longer close.

"I don't know. We have to wait for instructions from Sonia. We could be in for days of walking."

"Days of walking?"

Isabel didn't respond.

"Our boots are still at the camp," I said, hoping to have a reason to retrace our steps.

"No, I have them." She showed them to me. They were folded in a bag she was using as a cus.h.i.+on. "You should put them on. You won't be able to walk in the mountains otherwise."

"The mountains? We're going to the mountains?"

That threw me. I had thought we'd be going south, toward the inmost depths of the Llanos, the tropical plains to the east of the Andes. Beyond that was the Amazon. Mountains meant turning back on ourselves toward Bogota. The Andes formed a natural barrier that was almost impossible to cross on foot. Simon Bolivar had done it with his army but it was considered an exploit!

My question struck her as suspicious, as if I were trying to trap her into divulging secret information. Isabel looked at me warily.

"Yes, the mountains, al monte, al monte,10 the the selva selva11!"

For them, monte monte meant the forest and any land covered by vegetation untouched by man. Curiously, that was indeed the ancient meaning of the word meant the forest and any land covered by vegetation untouched by man. Curiously, that was indeed the ancient meaning of the word monte monte. They had a.s.similated it into the word montana montana and used it without making a distinction. Their dialect tended to be confusing. I started learning it as if it were a foreign language, and I tried to memorize the false friends between my Spanish and theirs. Once I understood that we were headed toward the Llanos, my mind started to race. and used it without making a distinction. Their dialect tended to be confusing. I started learning it as if it were a foreign language, and I tried to memorize the false friends between my Spanish and theirs. Once I understood that we were headed toward the Llanos, my mind started to race.

The helicopters were returning, the sounds rapidly getting louder. They were hedgehopping above the trees. I could see three overhead, lined up in formation, and guessed there must be more. They pa.s.sed right over us, and the sight of them moved me to joy: They were looking for us! The guerrillas were visibly anxious. Their faces were turned toward the sky, their jaws clenched in defiance, hatred, and fear. I knew Ana was watching me. I avoided letting my feelings show. Now the helicopters were moving away. They would not be returning. Those around me had been aware of my moment of hope. They were animals trained to sniff out other people's happiness. I had done the same. I had gotten a whiff of their fear, and I had delighted in it. Now I could smell their satisfaction at my disappointment. I belonged to them. Their sense of victory excited them. They nudged one another, whispering and looking me straight in the eye. I lowered my gaze. I was powerless.

The line loosened up; they all went back to preparing their little s.p.a.ces for the night. I walked over to Clara. We held hands in silence, sitting next to each other on our travel bags, stiff and formal. We were used to the city. The night was closing in, and large clouds were gathering above us, filling the sky. The moon became blurred. There was a flurry of activity. The guerrillas were kneeling before their backpacks, undoing the thousands of straps, buckles, and knots that secured them.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"It's going to rain," replied Isabel as she, too, worked on her backpack.

"And what about us? What are we supposed to do?"

Her response was to hand me a black plastic sheet. "Cover yourselves with this!"

The first drops of rain began to fall. We heard them tapping on the leaves of the forest canopy, not yet penetrating the vegetation. Someone threw us another plastic sheet, which landed at our feet. It came just in time. The storm unfurled like a biblical deluge.

At four-thirty in the morning, we filed back into the camp. Radios were switched on, and familiar voices announced the news. The smell of black coffee marked the start of another day. I collapsed onto the planks before I even had a chance to unpack.

Maria brought over a large plate of rice and lentils plus two spoons.

"Do you have any forks?" I asked.

"You'll have to put in a request with the commander," she said.

"You mean Sonia?"

"No, Commander Cesar!"

He had arrived at the camp earlier in the afternoon in his luxurious red pickup, which was far too luxurious for a rebel. I smiled when I thought of the story he'd told me. He had gotten a FARC militiaman to buy it for him in Bogota and drive it to the demilitarized zone, where he'd handed it over. The militiaman then declared it stolen and received the insurance payment. That was the FARC way. More than insurgents, they acted like gangsters.

A large construction truck full of young guerrillas followed the pickup.

Cesar greeted me, looking pleased.

"There was fighting last night," he informed me. "We killed half a dozen soldiers. They were coming to get you. They have come to realize they will never succeed! You have to leave at once. This place has already been spotted. It's for your own safety. Get your things together."

This time Cesar did not accompany us. The driver was the same fat man who had bought the mattress and other items. The fifteen guerrillas who had arrived with Cesar continued on with us, standing in the back of the truck, holding their rifles. Clara and I climbed into the cab with the driver.

After the previous night's storm, the track had become a slimy mud chute. It was impossible to travel at more than twelve miles per hour. We continued southward, deeper and deeper into the Llanos. The landscape became thickly forested, with just a few open fields lying fallow and some terrain razed by controlled fires. The experts called it the "agricultural frontier." The Amazon rain forest could not be far away.

The sky was ablaze as the sun set with great ceremony. We had gone many hours without stopping, and the farther we traveled, the more my heart constricted. It meant even more miles separating me from my home. I tried to stay calm by calculating that we could put aside enough provisions for our escape to last for one week's walk. We would have to get away at night when the guards relaxed their vigilance. We would walk until dawn and hide during the day. We wouldn't ask civilians for help. They might be working for the FARC. The driver's att.i.tude was revealing: Like many in the region, he was bound to the guerrillas in an almost feudal relations.h.i.+p that was based on dependency, submission, allegiance, interest, and fear.

I was deep in thought when the vehicle stopped. We were at the top of a b.u.t.te, the full splendor of the sunset spread before us. On the left were hacienda-style gates. The property was enclosed not by a wall but by green oilcloth, which circled the perimeter and completely concealed from the road what lay inside.

The guerrillas jumped out of the truck and, in groups of two, dispersed to each corner of the property. A tall man with a thin mustache opened both entrance gates wide. He was very young, probably in his early twenties. The truck entered silently. The sky was turning green, and night fell swiftly.

The tall man walked over and held out his hand.

"I'm honored to meet you. I'm your new commander. If you need anything, you come to me. My name is Cesar. And this is Betty. She will look after you. She is your receptionista. receptionista." Betty was not her real name. The guerrillas all had aliases chosen by the commander who recruited them. Often it was a foreign name, or a biblical one, or a name from a national television show. Ugly Betty Ugly Betty12 had been a favorite soap opera in Colombia for years. And here was another commander called Cesar. had been a favorite soap opera in Colombia for years. And here was another commander called Cesar. Hardly surprising, all the commanders here are Cesar Hardly surprising, all the commanders here are Cesar, I mused.

Our Betty was not ugly, but she was so small she resembled a dwarf. She switched on her flashlight and asked us to follow her. The truck, empty, went away, and the gates closed. Betty led us toward an old shed with a rotten roof, half of which had fallen to the ground. Under the half that remained were two beds, similar to those we had used at the hospital, except that the boards were also rotten and crumbling.

Betty set down her backpack in a corner and with her Galil rifle over her shoulder began the task of recuperating the few planks still solid enough to make one bed. She held the flashlight between her teeth to keep both hands free and work more quickly. The beam of light followed her movement. She was about to put her hand on one of the planks when she jumped back, losing the flashlight, which rolled onto the floor. I saw it at the same time: an enormous furry red tarantula, puffed up on its fat legs, ready to pounce. I grabbed the flashlight to look for the beast, which had since bounced under the bed and was scuttling toward the rotten roof and a pile of straw. With her machete Betty chopped the creature in two.

"I can't sleep here. I hate those beasts. What's more, they live in pairs, so the other one can't be far away!" My voice was shrill, betraying my anxiety. It was astonis.h.i.+ng. I sounded just like my mother. She She was the one who dreaded "those beasts," not me. I found them fascinating because it seemed as if their ma.s.sive size took them from the world of insects and bugs to that of vertebrates. was the one who dreaded "those beasts," not me. I found them fascinating because it seemed as if their ma.s.sive size took them from the world of insects and bugs to that of vertebrates.

"We'll give the place a thorough cleaning. I'll have a good look under the bed and all around. And then I'll sleep here with you, don't worry." Betty was trying her best not to laugh.

As soon as the mattress and mosquito net were in place, Clara lay down on the bed. Betty came back with an old broom she'd found lying around, and I borrowed it to help her. I put our belongings on a plank of wood that Betty had fas.h.i.+oned into a shelf, then got into bed, although it was dawn before I was able to sleep. My insomnia gave me the opportunity to locate the positions of the guards, and I soon formulated an escape plan for the following evening. I even spotted a knife in Betty's backpack that could come in handy.

But our hopes for escape were short-lived. El Mocho turned up around noon, and we took to the road again, still traveling southward. I was once again gripped by anxiety; I figured that it would now take us more than a week to retrace our steps. The situation was becoming critical. The farther we traveled, the fewer our chances of success. We had to act as quickly as possible and equip ourselves to survive in a region that was becoming more hostile by the mile. We were no longer crossing flat country but starting on the climbs and descents of an increasingly rolling landscape. The peasants were now a population of lumberjacks, whose presence you could detect from the damage they left behind. Helpless spectators to an ecological disaster no one cared about, we crossed the ravaged s.p.a.ce as if we were the sole survivors of a nuclear war.

El Mocho stopped the vehicle on a hill. Down below, half-naked children played on the floor of a small house built in the middle of a cemetery of trees. Smoke rose wearily from the chimney. El Mocho dispatched a group of guerrillas to fetch some cheese, fish, and fruit. Fish? I examined my surroundings. I couldn't see any rivers. At our feet stretched a vast expanse of green: trees as far as the eye could see. I did a complete turn, 360 degrees-the horizon was a single, continuous green line.

El Mocho stood next to me, following my gaze. I was moved without knowing why. I felt that he was, too. He put his hands on his forehead to protect his eyes from the glare, looking far into the distance, and after a long silence he said, "This is the Amazon."

He said it with great sadness, almost resignation. His words echoed in my mind. There was something about his voice and his tone that this time really set me on the edge of panic. I looked out before me, incapable of speaking, my heart pounding, searching the horizon for a response. Yes, I was very frightened. I sensed danger. I couldn't see it. But it was there, before me, and I didn't know how to avoid it.

Once again, as if reading my mind, El Mocho said, "That is where you are going."

SIX.

THE DEATH OF MY FATHER.

MARCH 23, 2009.

I am alone. I am here. No one is watching me. In these hours of silence that I cherish, I talk to myself and reflect. That past, entrenched in time, motionless and infinite, has vanished into thin air. None of it remains. Why, therefore, am I hurting so much? Why did I bring back with me this nameless pain? I followed the path I set for myself, and I have forgiven. I do not want to be chained to hatred or resentment. I want to have the right to live in peace.

I have become my own master. I get up at night and walk barefoot. There is no one to blind me with a flashlight. My noise does not bother anyone, my behavior intrigues no one. I do not have to ask for permission, and I do not have to explain myself. I am a survivor. The jungle remains in my mind, even if there is nothing around me to bear witness to it. Except for the thirst with which I drink life.

I stay a long time under the shower. The water is scalding, barely tolerable. Steam is everywhere. I can take water in my mouth and let it run slowly, warmly, down my face and neck. No one is disgusted by it; there are no sidelong glances. There is no longer anyone judging me. I am no longer accessible. I turn the faucet. I want the water to run cold now. My body doesn't flinch. It has been trained by too many long years of freezing water.

Seven years ago today, Papa died. I am free, and I weep. From sorrow and happiness, from bitterness and grat.i.tude, too. I have become a complex being. I can no longer feel just one emotion at a time. I am torn between opposite emotions that inhabit me and shake me.

I am my own master now, but I am small and fragile, humbled through force of circ.u.mstance, and all too aware of my vulnerability and inconsequence. My solitude relaxes me. I can accept my inconsistencies without worrying about other people. Without having to hide and without the burden of someone who mocks, barks, bites.

Seven years ago, on this very day, I saw the guerrillas gather together in a circle. They looked at me from a distance and talked among themselves. We had settled in a new camp. The group had grown in number. Betty was joined by other women: Patricia, the nurse, and Alexandra, a very pretty girl with whom all the boys seemed to be in love.

Ten days before that, there had been a warning that the chulos chulos were on the river. We were on the run. We walked for days. I was sick the entire journey. Patricia and Betty stayed nearby to help. The road was wide enough for two-way traffic and linked the bank of one river to the mouth of another, miles away. In this labyrinth of rivers that make up the Amazon, the guerrillas had built a network of roads that they kept secret. They knew exactly how to use a GPS and computerized maps to find their way. were on the river. We were on the run. We walked for days. I was sick the entire journey. Patricia and Betty stayed nearby to help. The road was wide enough for two-way traffic and linked the bank of one river to the mouth of another, miles away. In this labyrinth of rivers that make up the Amazon, the guerrillas had built a network of roads that they kept secret. They knew exactly how to use a GPS and computerized maps to find their way.

At one point we had to cross a new river. I couldn't see how we were going to do it. It was less than a month since I'd been captured. I had a few small things the guerrillas were carrying in a bag of provisions that I saw change hands throughout the journey. It had been set down on the riverbank, as if the bearer had had enough. I was about to take it when the girls pushed me roughly into the scrub. I lost my balance and found myself on the ground.

"Cuidado, carajo! Es la marrana." 13 13 "La marrana?"

I was expecting to be charged at any moment by a rabid pig, and I tried to get up as quickly as possible. But the girls held me down by the shoulders, increasing my panic.

"Arriba, mire arriba! Alla esta la marrana!" 14 14 I looked up to where one of the girls was pointing. Above our heads, through a large opening in the trees and high in the clear sky, was the miniature cross of a white aircraft.

"esos son los chulos! Asi es como nos miran para despues 'borrbardiarnos.'"15 She misp.r.o.nounced the verb for "bombard" as borrbardiar, borrbardiar, like a child who had not yet learned to talk properly. They also used "look" instead of "see." I smiled. Would the plane be able to spot us from such a distance? It seemed unlikely. But I felt that it was not even worth worrying about. For me what mattered was the realization that the military was continuing its search and that this like a child who had not yet learned to talk properly. They also used "look" instead of "see." I smiled. Would the plane be able to spot us from such a distance? It seemed unlikely. But I felt that it was not even worth worrying about. For me what mattered was the realization that the military was continuing its search and that this marrana marrana was the enemy for them-and therefore hope for me. was the enemy for them-and therefore hope for me.

We were moving deeper and deeper into the jungle, and each step was taking us farther from civilization. But the military was following our tracks. We had not been abandoned. After half an hour, the aircraft turned around and vanished from sight. Just as quickly the sky filled with large black clouds. Once again bad weather sided with the guerrillas. The plane's engine faded. The girls handed me a black plastic sheet.

Heavy droplets of rain made circles on the calm surface of the river. I heard the cry of a rooster, not far away, on the opposite bank.

My G.o.d, there must be people around here! I was overjoyed. If someone saw me, the alert would be given and the military would come to rescue us. I was overjoyed. If someone saw me, the alert would be given and the military would come to rescue us.

Young Cesar arrived looking proud. He had found a dugout to cross. On the opposite bank was a large finca finca.16 The forest had been cleared to create a huge pasture, and in the middle stood a pretty wooden house, brightly painted in green and orange. I was able to make out chickens, pigs, and a tired-looking dog, which started barking as soon as we emerged from the heavy foliage to get into the dugout. The forest had been cleared to create a huge pasture, and in the middle stood a pretty wooden house, brightly painted in green and orange. I was able to make out chickens, pigs, and a tired-looking dog, which started barking as soon as we emerged from the heavy foliage to get into the dugout.

Cesar ordered us to cross the river well covered up, so that the "civilians" wouldn't see us. The storm broke overhead, and I was soaked to the skin, walking under the rain for hours until it was pitch black. The guerrillas erected a tent in the middle of the road between two trees, just above the ground. We slumped into it, soaked.

The following day we continued on foot to a spot where other guerrillas had obviously slept before. It was a pretty place. Cl.u.s.ters of colored b.u.t.terflies constantly twirled around us. We were again close to the road, and I told myself that escape was still possible.

But the next day, at dawn, we were told to pack everything up. During the night a large number of bags of provisions had been piled up beside the road; I had no idea where they came from. The guerrillas, already laden with their heavy backpacks, divvied up the extra provisions and, spines bent under the weight, carried them across the jungle on their backs.

After an hour of walking, we reached the trunk of a huge tree that had fallen across the road, so we branched off onto a side path covered with crawling plants. The path wound unpredictably through the trees. I had to concentrate so as not to lose sight of the markers left by those who had gone on ahead to clear our pa.s.sage. It was very humid, and I was sweating profusely.

We crossed a small, half-rotten wooden bridge. Then a second, and a third. The deeper we went, the longer the bridges became. Some were more like roads built on stilts throughout the forest. I was distraught, because I could see how difficult it would be to grope our way along the path at night in the opposite direction.

By nightfall we'd arrived at a sort of clearing on a gentle slope. A tent had been put up at the top. In the middle of the wilderness, they had constructed a proper bed with a forked pole at each corner, some five inches from the ground to support the slats laid crosswise to hold the mattress. The mosquito net was fastened canopy-bed style to tall corner posts they called las esquineras. las esquineras.17 It was in this camp that I saw the guerrillas in hushed discussion in a circle near the economato, economato, the name given to the shelter where they stored the provisions. the name given to the shelter where they stored the provisions.