Eugene eyed the blood on my school shirt, waiting for me to elaborate, but Palillo and I had already agreed: no surnames, no place names and no identifying details. In order to protect our families, it was best that no one knew we’d joined.
Mid-morning, on the highway that led to Los Llanos – Colombia’s eastern floodplains that border Venezuela – we stopped at a gas station to pick up two more boys. Tango, a dirty, unshaven boy of about seventeen, squeezed into the back. His younger brother, Murgas, took the front passenger seat. He had long hair and a missing tooth, and looked like he hadn’t slept for days. When they saw the rest of us they exchanged glances as though doubtful they were in the right car. I wasn’t sure we were headed to the same place either. Eugene was as skinny as a rifle. Tango and Murgas reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. None of them looked like soldiers.
‘You guys going to be working at the finca too?’ asked Tango while Jerónimo filled the gas tank.
‘Same as you,’ Palillo answered. Like me, he must have assumed ‘working at the finca’ was code.
We continued travelling west towards the city of Villavicencio, the capital of Meta and the biggest city in Los Llanos. By midday, the rising heat haze made headlights shimmer for minutes before oncoming vehicles became visible. Metre-long iguanas sunned themselves on the highway’s shoulder, absorbing the road’s accumulated heat.
‘Anyone hungry?’ asked Jerónimo. ‘Everything is paid for by the company: transport, clothing and food.’
The others nodded ravenously. Don Jerónimo pulled into a restaurant that offered mamona – meat smoked over hot coals.
‘But please,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘you can’t go out looking like that.’
I could have changed but I shrugged and stayed in the car with my dark thoughts while Jerónimo bought the others all the beef, pork crackling and chigüiro they could eat.
The trouble began after lunch when Tango and Murgas took too long in the bathroom. Jerónimo honked repeatedly until they emerged, glassy-eyed and smelling of marijuana.
‘Last fiesta before starting work,’ stated Murgas, laughing unashamedly. He took a bottle of aguardiente from his bag, gulped some down and passed it to Tango.
Jerónimo’s jaw clenched. ‘Just don’t vomit on my upholstery.’
Drunk and stoned, Tango and Murgas became talkative. I realised that recruiters had tricked them, offering them highly paid jobs as security guards on a private finca. None of us said anything. It wasn’t our responsibility. As for Jerónimo, he’d already paid for their lunch and wouldn’t receive his commission unless they were delivered.
Two hours later we entered Villavicencio. Concrete high-rise buildings towered over the streets. There were traffic lights on every corner, and dual carriageways of bustling trucks, fleets of yellow taxis and large, inter-provincial buses heading to the capital, Bogotá. I’d never seen anything like it.
‘You guys look young to be working in security,’ said Tango when Jerónimo stopped to check the tyre pressure. He poked Eugene in the chest. ‘Especially you.’
‘Maybe we’re going to different places,’ I said, trying to warn him surreptitiously. ‘You should ask Jerónimo.’
Tango and Murgas looked at each other and seemed to sober up suddenly. When we set off again, they stopped drinking and began watching every passing road sign.
Fifty kilometres beyond Villavicencio there were no longer any roadside dwellings. There were no shops, no towns and no traffic. Just long, flat, grassy plains. We passed a municipal road sign: GUERRILLA ¡NI PÍO! – GUERRILLA, NOT A PEEP! – indicating we were deep in Paramilitary territory.
Murgas signalled Tango, who tapped Jerónimo’s shoulder.
‘I need to use the bathroom.’
‘You used it at the restaurant. We’re almost there.’
Murgas lifted his green sports bag to his knee. He produced a packet of crisps, which he shared around, but he left the bag open so we could see its contents: a tennis-ball-sized chunk of marijuana wrapped in plastic, a second bottle of aguardiente and a black gun.
‘I don’t want trouble,’ said Jerónimo.
‘Neither do we.’ Tango clasped Jerónimo’s shoulder and leaned forward to speak menacingly into his ear. ‘So don’t make me piss on your upholstery.’
While Tango and Murgas urinated by the side of the road, or pretended to, they argued back and forth. Through my open window I overheard Tango’s last words as they returned to the car: ‘If we go back, we’re dead.’
Murgas opened the front passenger door but didn’t get in. ‘Listen, old man,’ he said. ‘You better tell us where we’re headed.’
Jerónimo sighed. ‘I’m dropping you off at a finca called El Filtro. You’ll stay there for a few days. After that, you’ll be doing a four-month Autodefensas training course. If you want to turn back, tell me now.’
Tango and Murgas stepped away and debated in a furious whisper. Finally, they got back into the car.
‘We’re in,’ Murgas said tersely, but neither of them looked happy.
Soon afterwards, Don Jerónimo turned onto a minor road that led to a run-down farmhouse and a long, dormitory-style building where we’d be staying. We were introduced to the owner, Doña Amanda, a tough woman of about forty with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and pink slippers on her feet.
Before departing, Don Jerónimo paid us fifty dollars each as an advance on our salary. ‘Good luck, boys,’ he said.
The money reassured Tango and Murgas. They now seemed resigned.
I remained silent. Palillo thanked Don Jerónimo and shook his hand. Eugene waved goodbye. They had full bellies and more money in their pockets than they’d ever had in their lives. I knew that to Palillo this seemed like the beginning of a grand adventure. But to me, it was the beginning of a long quest for justice.
20
EL FILTRO WAS where the first-stage filtering process for the Paramilitaries occurred – cutting out the unfit before training commenced. The next day, a doctor examined us for hernias, poor eyesight or illnesses that might prevent us from becoming good soldiers. Five other boys had already been waiting a week. One was covered in soot and blood.
‘What’s with him?’ whispered Palillo to one of the others.
‘We call him El Psycho. He won’t talk or even wash. The Guerrilla killed his family.’
Apparently, the first thing El Psycho did after finding his family dead was to torch his own house. Kicking through the ashes the following dawn, he uncovered his mother’s china intact. He lined the pieces up and stomped on them one by one. Neighbours took him to the police, who handed him to the Paramilitaries.
Training couldn’t commence until they had sufficient numbers. So for six days, we rested, ate well and talked little since we didn’t know each other or what to expect.
While Palillo and the other boys treated El Filtro like a holiday camp, I hung back and brooded. The shock, adrenalin and anger that had been sustaining me wore off, and I began to grieve for Papá and for my old life.
To someone who has not had a parent stolen from them, I can only attempt to explain how it feels. It’s like having part of yourself hacked off without warning. Afterwards, they become like a phantom limb: you’re sure they’re still present because you can feel them, you communicate with them, but you just can’t see them.
When I was eight, the boy I’d sat next to in class was hit by a truck. Devastated, I refused to go to school. But knowing there had been a time before our friendship made it possible to imagine a time after. A parent is different. There is no time before a parent. A parent is always.
During that week in El Filtro, I had terrible dreams. Each night, Papá was executed by the Guerrilla right in front of me. I woke, gasping, with tears on my cheeks. Then I felt the sheets against my skin and a wave of relief washed over me. It was only a dream. I went from panic to elation. The worst possible event in my life hadn’t actually happened. Then I’d look around and my mind would begin to focus.
Slowly, very slowly, the wave sucked back out. When you’ve lost someone close, the most painful dreams are memories.
Tango and Murgas smoked their tennis ball of marijuana. We were supposed to remain at El Filtro, but they came and went as they pleased. Doña Amanda said nothing. Don Jerónimo must have told her about the gun.
Because I’d warned them in the car, the brothers trusted me with their story. They had six brothers and no sisters, and had been born ten months apart to two different fathers. At fifteen, after a few years spent committing petty crimes, they bought a gun and moved to armed hold-ups of jewellery stores and finally sicario work – killing people for money. They boiled their bullets in holy water stolen from a church so they’d fly straight and true. They observed their target for weeks in advance for the best time and place. Then they stole a motorbike and one drove while the other shot. They paid off the police, who finally warned them that local storekeepers and residents were pooling together money to perform a social cleansing – eliminating known criminals, drug addicts and undesirables from the suburb. If they didn’t leave, they’d be disappeared.
However, to earn a recruiter’s commission, these very same police had sent them here. Tango laughed and snorted some white powder from the webbed skin between his thumb and forefinger. He now felt stupid. They should have known – never trust the police.
‘Want some?’ Murgas asked, holding out the plastic bag.
I shook my head. I’d never tried drugs and didn’t intend to.
‘What about this?’ Tango produced their gun. I later learned it was a Taurus PT92, a semi-automatic pistol.
I hesitated. I’d fired Papá’s .38 rifle on the finca, but never a pistol.
‘Come on!’ urged Murgas. ‘We saw the way you looked at it – like you wouldn’t mind using it on someone.’
I stared at them. ‘Says who?’
‘Says someone who’s seen that look a hundred times. On the faces of our clients.’
I took the pistol. Resting it sideways on my palm, I liked the feel of it. It was small but solid, and felt heavier than it looked.
‘And how much would one of these cost?’
‘A thousand dollars,’ Tango said, snatching back the Taurus. ‘If you knew where to go.’
Tango and Murgas had both been to juvenile prison, where they’d trained homing pigeons, sending them out in shoeboxes with visitors so they’d return with cocaine strapped to their feet. They could shoot. They were older than the rest of us. That made them the kings of our group. Kings, that is, until the seventh morning at El Filtro, when Culebra arrived.
21
CULEBRA WAS AN ex-policeman who would be our junior trainer. He’d arrived in a mini-van to collect us for the remainder of our journey. He was five foot eight with a wiry build and a crew cut. A tattoo of an anaconda wrapped around his neck and slithered over his right shoulder, its broad head ending at his elbow.
He was friendly but firm. He waited until Tango was climbing into the van and then caught Murgas’s wrists in an unbreakable grasp and deprived him of the green sports bag, from which he extracted the pistol. The whole thing took five seconds.
Murgas looked at me. I shook my head. I wasn’t a sapo. Doña Amanda must have snitched.
‘When do we get it back?’ he asked Culebra.
‘When your training is over. Now everyone get in the van!’
Tango and Murgas looked sheepish as we set off.
Culebra had a Smith & Wesson Sigma 9mm in a hip holster. Approaching a military checkpoint, he slipped it under his seat. Slowing, Culebra kept his eyes on the road. The soldiers peered at us through the windows but waved our van through.
An hour into the drive, Culebra showed his kinder side during a stop to buy us all a snack of buñuelos at a roadside stall. The twelve-year-old kid, Eugene, started feeding scraps to a stray dog.
‘You want to keep her?’ Culebra asked.
I was surprised. Missing half of one ear, with patchy yellow and brown fur, she was the last dog you’d choose for a pet. But Eugene’s eyes lit up.
‘Really? But how will I feed her?’
‘No shortage of food on the farm.’
‘Can I call her Mutley?’
Culebra shook his head. ‘We’ll call her … Daisy.’ He opened the trunk and unfolded a tarpaulin already covered in dog hairs. ‘Up, Daisy. Up!’
After driving for another hour, Culebra stopped to collect his superior, Beta, and six more boys. Beta was a burly, muscle-bound former drill sergeant from the army, with a python tattoo coiled around his forearm. As I’d soon learn, he wore the same outfit every day: aviator sunglasses; army-green T-shirt; camouflage pants; lace-up, shin-high leather boots; and a .44 Remington Magnum in a thigh strap. With Beta’s arrival, all kindness ended.
‘Cute backpack,’ he said to Palillo, holding out his hand. ‘Show me!’
Palillo passed it to him, but rather than admiring it, Beta tossed it out the window.
‘Hey! What did you do that for?’ Palillo turned to witness his backpack sailing through the air then bouncing into a ditch.
‘You won’t need it where you’re going.’
‘Don’t worry, boys,’ Culebra said reassuringly. ‘Everything will be provided for you at the finca.’
I looked at my own backpack, with its Mickey Mouse logo. Suddenly it seemed childish. Winding down the window, I lobbed it out, keeping only my pocketknife and Papá’s Bible. The photos, my driver’s licence, and Papá’s gold cross and chain were in my pocket. I didn’t turn to watch it spin and tumble.
‘That’s the spirit!’ laughed Beta.
Palillo stared at me like I was crazy. But I wasn’t. For what I planned, I needed to be as tough as granite. I wanted no ties to my old life. I would not phone my mother. I would forget Camila. I would watch and imitate the trainers’ every move, because it was from them that I would learn how to kill without mercy.
Three hours from El Filtro we turned off the highway onto a bumpy dirt track.
‘There she is,’ said Culebra.
Situated at the base of a rocky mountain was La 50, the Paramilitary training school. We were in the middle of nowhere. Sprawling away from the mountains for miles and miles were flat, open fields dotted with African oil palms shimmering in the heat.
As we drew closer, I spied men with rifles standing under trees. We passed through two cattle gates that were opened by heavily armed men wearing webbing, grenades, ammunition belts and face paint.
In those days, La 50 was simply an old farmhouse with five tin-roofed sheds that served as barracks. Fifty metres up the slope was a block of four toilets. When the van stopped, Palillo raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Well, this is it.
Outside the van, I stood still for a moment, taking in my surroundings. I was pleased to have finally arrived. On my face I felt the vicious sun that strikes the floodplains during the dry season. I listened to the soft wind and bent down to touch my palm against the parched, baking ground.
‘Quickly! In you go!’ urged Culebra, holding the third cattle gate open. ‘Alfa 1 is not someone you want to keep waiting.’
About a hundred other recruits were already formed up on the parade ground. Confronted by unfamiliar buildings, new authority figures and so many unknown faces, I was reminded of my first day at school. Seeing all those weapons, my excitement was tinged with trepidation. However, for anyone who may have had misgivings, it was already too late. We had accepted their food, their money and their hospitality. We had journeyed hundreds of kilometres deep into their territory. There was no turning back.
We had joined the Paramilitaries.
22
‘NEW RECRUITS, I bid you a very warm welcome to the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia!’ boomed Alfa 1, the senior commander of La 50.
However, there was nothing warm about him or his welcome. An ex-military officer with cold, steely eyes, he was tall and muscular. There was neither an ounce of fat on his body, nor an ounce of friendliness in his heart.
Like the other two trainers, he had a snake tattoo: a rattlesnake inked on his forearm. Among Paramilitaries, a snake tattoo was a badge of honour and a symbol of rank.
‘The United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia were created for one reason and one reason only. Because the Colombian Army is incapable of removing the communist cancer. So we must do their work for them.’
I later learned that Alfa 1 had been a promising army captain in charge of training eighteen-year-old conscripts when a conscript drowned in a foot of muddy water. There were boot prints on his neck, and an internal investigation judged Alfa 1 to have presided over systematic human rights abuses. He’d only done what had been done to him during his own training – practices his superiors were well aware of. However, he was made their scapegoat and discharged in disgrace.
Alfa 1 never got past the injustice, the shame and the massive hole left in his life. The army had been everything to him. He could no longer associate with his friends for fear of jeopardising their careers. Unemployed but with advanced military training, there was only one place for him to go – the Paramilitaries. Although they paid more and he was still fulfilling his patriotic duty, it was not the same as the army. He could no longer return home in uniform and hold his head high in neighbourhood shops.
‘In the Autodefensas,’ he continued, ‘you will be treated fairly. You will be treated with respect and dignity. Here, you will learn to become men. You will learn to fight. You will learn to kill. You will learn to obey orders.’ Then he added ominously, ‘Unfortunately, not all of you will make it through the training. It is a sad fact that in every course I have conducted some men are simply not strong enough, physically or mentally, for war. Make sure you are not one of the weak.’
Alfa 1 concluded, ‘Each one of you arrived of his own free will. However, if you do not wish to be here, now is the time to leave.’ He pointed to the gates. When no one moved, he said, ‘Good. Your pay is one hundred and fifty dollars per month. Fall out and line up for your kits.’