The following morning I was up with the lark. If I was going to go down, I might as well go down fighting. If I upset a few guerillas in the process, then so be it, but today I would get a few decent interviews no matter what. Rousting Danny from his room, we headed for the Yokomo Café.
Danny was like a child sneaking off from under a parents control. “What about Trent”, he said, looking back over his shoulder. “He’s not going to like us going off without him.”
“Fuck Trent”, I replied. “If he wants to lie in bed whilst there’s work to be done, then that’s his look out. Anyway, I’m beginning to get the hump with his bad attitude.”
Danny didn’t look convinced. He had a worried look on his face all through eating breakfast. I had brought my own camera with me, as had Danny. Neither of us were photographers but we had taken scores of photos of everything of interest. If Trent really threw a tantrum I was looking at a situation of life without him.
I had just finished telling Dan that Lucero was top of the interview list when, as if on cue, she appeared. She collected a cup of coffee from inside FARC’s office, then settled down to drink it in one of the chairs on the veranda outside, her AK47 leaning against a nearby wall. Beckoning Dan to accompany me, we sat down in two chairs close by. In quick succession I showed her my National Union of Journalist’s card, a copy of my first book, ‘Parkhurst Tales’ complete with my photo on the back and a copy of February’s issue of ‘Loaded’.
I was slightly concerned about her reaction to the latter. Whilst being very professional and impressive in it’s layout, with well-written features and stories, there was no getting away from the fact that there were numerous photos of young, scantily-clad women in provocative poses. You didn’t get much more liberated than a female guerilla in FARC. Would Lucero be offended by what she might feel to be such less-than-serious treatment of women?
As she leafed through the pages, a broad smile spread across her face, revealing her perfect white teeth. She obviously couldn’t understand the words, but the photos spoke for themselves. For a several minutes she was lost in the magazine. At last she looked up, her eyes sparkling with humour. She pointed to the picture on the cover and asked Danny about it.
February’s issue had Martin Kemp on the cover and a story inside about his role as one of the Kray brothers in the recently released film. As Danny explained that he was a film- star playing the role of a gangster, she suddenly pulled a .45 automatic from her waistband and held it to the likeness of Martin Kemp. “This is what FARC does with gangsters”, she announced, still smiling broadly.
It was a great moment and just what I needed for the story. After asking her permission we photographed her in several poses with the ‘Loaded’ cover and the .45. It led nicely into the interview too. On being asked how long she had been in FARC Lucero replied, I was born a revolutionary.” From anyone else it would have sounded trite and smacked of melodrama, but delivered with her beaming smile and sparkling eyes, it sounded just right from Lucero.
I mentioned the US involvement and asked if she was worried about the Americans and their superior technology. “They are tall, with blue eyes. They will make good targets”, she retorted. When I asked about the reception for the delegation at the airport the previous day, she stopped for a moment and looked at me as if she were weighing me up. “That was FARC’s peace delegation returning from peace talks in Madrid. We were concerned that the Americans would try to assassinate them so we insisted that several Colombian government ministers travel with them on the plane.“
So perhaps that explained why Mauricio was taking us out to see the road works. Not really knowing who we were, maybe they just wanted us out of the way.
I asked if being a guerilla in FARC meant that a woman had to give up any hopes of a husband, children and family life. Lucero explained that many of the female guerillas were married, with their children being looked after by relatives. That was exactly the situation with herself. Her husband was one of the peace negotiators and their seven-year- old child was being looked after by her mother’s family in her home town.
At this point, another uniformed guerilla came out of the office and whispered something to Lucero. She quickly made her apologies and said that she had to leave, because she was wanted elsewhere. Without further ado, she mounted one of the several motor-bikes parked outside the office and roared off in a cloud of dust, AK47 strapped across her back.
In the absence of Lucero, Danny’s thoughts now turned to Trent. “I suppose I’d better go and see where Trent is”, he said, a concerned look on his face.
“He’ll still be in the bathroom, mate”, I replied with the beginnings of a smile on mine.
Danny responded with a weak grin and, shaking his head, set off towards the hotel.
In no time at all he was back. “He’s got the right fucking hump, Norm. I’d better warn you.” Now Dan was clearly worried.
“Fuck him, Dan. I’m beginning to get a bit fed up with this guy.” The annoyance was clear in my voice. “Who does he think he is anyway. I tell you something. I’ve been very tolerant up to now and tolerance is something I don’t do very well. But I’m supposed to be in journalist mode. So I’ve put up with some of his bull-shit. Back in England, on the street, I’d have steamed into him by now.”
“I know, Norm. I just don’t want you to fuck up the assignment. To be honest, I’ve had my own fall-outs with Trent in the past. He can be a bit of an arse-hole at times. I know I’ve only known you a couple of days, but we seem to get on well and I’d like to think that we’re mates. I’m not going to take sides, but I’m just trying to avoid any awkwardness.”
“I understand that, Dan. And, yeah, we do get on well together and I appreciate what you are trying to do. But pride is a bit of a fault with me and I’ll only stand so much.”
As I finished Trent suddenly appeared, beetling across the plaza, his arms swinging wildly and his face a study in anger. I sat back in my chair quite nonchalantly, not at all concerned. If it came to a punch up I was confident I could handle him. But I didn’t know what the guerillas would make of the two of us, supposed professional journalists, battling away right outside their office.
Whilst still thirty feet away, Trent beckoned me to come and meet him away from the front of FARC’s office. I was out of my chair like a shot. Now it was my turn to swing my arms as I rushed towards him, serious violence firmly on my mind. “Yeah, what do you want?”, I said aggressively as I closed on him, my face twisted into a scowl.
As Trent suddenly realised that I was right on the verge of steaming into him, his attitude abruptly changed. “Hold up, hold up, mate. There’s no need for this.” He stopped and held his hands out in front of him, as if to ward me off.
“Well what do you want? Coming rushing over here all aggressive, as if you’re looking for a row. If it’s a row you want, well let’s have it.” The anger just flowed out of me. It was a combination of the jungle heat, the failing assignment and Trent’s attitude.
In the event he turned out to be all bluff and bluster. “No Norm, it’s just that I’m the senior man and you left me in the hotel”, there was a pleading tone to his voice now.
“Look mate, don’t give me all that shit. It might be my first foreign assignment, but I’m not a fucking idiot. If you want to lie in bed when there’s things going on, well that’s up to you. Just don’t expect me to sit outside your bedroom door waiting for you. And don’t treat me with disrespect, okay, ‘cause I don’t take that from anyone.”
By now Trent looked thoroughly crest-fallen, his eyes looking at the floor, his shoes, anywhere but at mine. Suddenly I felt sorry for him. I only wanted to put him in his place, not break his heart. “Look Trent”, I said in as conciliatory tone as I could manage, “if we’re going to get this assignment done we’ll have to work together. As far as I’m concerned we’re all equals here, Danny, me, you, because we’re all taking the same chance of getting killed or whatever. So let’s just start again, eh.” As I finished I stuck out my hand. He shook it reluctantly, but I wasn’t going to make an issue out of that. I only wanted to get along with him whilst we were on the assignment and in the jungle. I wasn’t looking to be his pal back in the real world.
We both went to sit with Dan outside FARC’s office. By now there was only one guerilla sitting inside and he said he was too busy to do an interview. So, left to our own devices, we decided to tour the town on our own.
Again, this was where Danny’s fluent Colombian was crucial. We wandered from bar to bar: in and out of various cafes and we stopped people in the street. Everyone seemed to know that we were English journalists. In every instance Danny put them at their ease and very quickly had them laughing.
The story that we were uniformly told about San Vicente came as a surprise. People said that, before FARC came, there were four to five murders a week, which for such a small town was amazingly high. Now there were none and the place was virtually without crime. They pointed out the hospital and the school that FARC had built. The most amazing thing was that, despite being surrounded by coca fields, no one did coke. Neither did they smoke the Colombian grass. They were heavy drinkers, but there was a strong social stigma about taking drugs.
A skeptic might argue that the towns-people were so terrified of FARC that they only parroted the party line to us. But what was quite apparent was that there was absolutely no climate of fear. Unless they were all naturally consummate actors, they seemed like ordinary Colombians going about their social lives. In fact, many of the people we spoke to were in the advanced stages of inebriation, so their answers to our questions were all the more spontaneous. Further, all three of us were experienced in drug culture and the behaviour that goes with it. In all the bars and cafes we visited we would have seen some sign of it, but there was none.
Now whilst this might have been revelatory stuff for a piece in the Guardian, it was bad news for ‘Loaded’ readers. Instead of their intrepid reporters filing a gripping article from Bandit City, capital of Bandit County, it seemed that San Vicente was one of the safest, straightest places on earth.
Last part on it's way....