Ruth Morris and I were on an assignment for the Los Angeles Times when the trouble started. On January 21, 2003, while traveling between the towns of Saravena and Tame in Arauca department, we came across a guerrilla checkpoint. A group of men approached the car and announced: “We are from the FARC’s 45th Front and the ELN’s Domingo Lain Front. Please get out of the car.” We were told that their commander would like to see us. We met with the ELN commander, Gumfoot, his nom de guerre, and he politely asked us to wait while he sought permission to send us on our way.
An hour later, a Jeep Cherokee pulled up. Two men dressed in civilian clothing and carrying AK-47s climbed out and talked briefly to one of the rebels who was watching us. One of the new arrivals introduced himself to us as Geronimo, the political commander of the FARC’s 45th Front. He then said, “You are being detained by the FARC’s 45th Front.” “You can’t detain journalists,” we both told him, our voices full of disbelief. “Why not?” he asked. “There are consequences if you kidnap international journalists,” Ruth replied. To which he laughed and asked, “What consequences?”
Just then, Gumfoot returned. Following a brief private discussion between the two commanders, the two FARC rebels departed. Gumfoot then walked over to us and announced: “I have been ordered to detain you.” After a bumpy ride in an old truck and a 30-minute walk, we came to a small house. We were shown our sleeping quarters by a matronly 35-year-old female rebel who said, “Don’t worry, you’re lucky you are with us. If the FARC had taken you they might have killed you. They have done it before. We will take good care of you. If you need anything to eat or drink, just ask. And oh, by the way, we will have a guard posted all night, so don’t try to escape or we will have to shoot.”
Gumfoot returned the following morning. “You won’t like this,” he said, “You are being detained by the ELN for political reasons. We will move you now to a safe spot in the mountains.” We moved camp six times during the 11-day ordeal. At night, we often heard helicopters flying overhead. Usually, after such activity, we would move camp further up the mountain. This was disheartening because every move up the mountain seemed to take us further away from freedom.
I tried to tell one rebel that he should start offering eco-tours of the Colombian jungle. I explained how in neighboring countries like Peru, Ecuador and Bolivia, tourists pay big bucks to spend a week in the jungle. I tried to clarify that these eco-tours would have to be voluntary, no guns allowed. And when the tourists wanted to go home, that they be free to leave. Both my sense of humor and the concept were lost on the rebel.
One day we talked by radio with a different ELN commander who told us that we were going to be released. The next morning, the rebels ordered us to pack our things and we started down the mountain. Two hours later, we met Gumfoot in a clearing and, to our dismay, he told us that we were not going to be released. The area was too “hot,” making it too dangerous to set us free. We hiked half-heartedly back up the mountain and did not hear from Gumfoot again for four days. It was during this time that some of our rebel guards tried to comfort us with a few words of wisdom. One of our captors told us that we shouldn’t worry: “All experiences are good, even bad ones.” More than anything, I just wanted to end the suffering I knew my family was enduring.
Finally, Gumfoot arrived and told us to pack our things because we were going to be released. We hiked down the mountain again and Gumfoot turned us over to another commander. We were put in the back seat of a four-door SUV. We drove for more than two hours, stopping in many small towns. People approached the car and talked to the commander, asking favors and exchanging information. It occurred to me that the government had a difficult task ahead. To win over these areas from rebel control, it would also have to win the confidence of the people who live here—people who have never had any contact with the police or military, people who have no faith in the government and people who have always turned to the rebels for help.
We finally pulled to a stop under the shade of a tree in the sun-soaked savanna. After a half-hour wait, we were led to a thatched hut and introduced to Commander Pablo, leader of the ELN’s Eastern Front. We remained at this location overnight. The next morning, Commander Pablo told us that representatives of the Red Cross were on their way. Our departure from the ELN was anti-climactic. Commander Pablo signed an official form turning us over to the Red Cross people and we climbed into the back of their vehicle. After an hour and a half-drive to Saravena’s airport, we boarded a plane for Bogotá.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scott Dalton is a photojournalist who has worked in Colombia for the past four years.
