January 26, 2004

Kidnapped in Arauca

by Scott Dalton

Ruth Morris and I were on an assignment for the Los Angeles Times one year ago when the trouble started. On January 21, 2003, while traveling on the main highway between the towns of Saravena and Tame in Arauca department we came across a guerrilla checkpoint. A group of armed men approached the car and reached into the window for friendly handshakes as they identified themselves: “We are from the FARC’s 45th Front and the ELN’s Domingo Lain Front. Please get out of the car.”

We were then told that their commander would like to see us. After a half hour drive, we pulled up to a handful of heavily armed ELN rebels standing beside a parked 4X4 pick-up truck. The commander was standing in the shade under a tree. We introduced ourselves as journalists and he asked, “Who will be responsible for you if you are kidnapped by the guerrillas?” Our jaws dropped. We took a second to examine his face to see whether he was serious. Ruth proceeded to take out her notebook and started asking the commander a series of questions, which he answered with traditional Colombian rebel rhetoric. I thought for sure that his answering the questions meant the kidnapping question was a joke.

As soon as Ruth finished her 30-minute interview with the ELN commander known by his nom de guerre, Gumfoot, we were politely asked to wait while he sought permission to send us on our way. Gumfoot took off with his entourage of rebels and we were left waiting with our taxi driver and two rebel guards.

An hour later, a Jeep Cherokee pulled up. Two angry men got out of the vehicle, both dressed as civilians and both carrying AK-47’s. They talked briefly to one of our rebel guards before calling us over. One of them identified himself as Geronimo, the political commander of the FARC’s 45th Front. He told us, “You are being detained by the FARC’s 45th Front.” We both tell him, our voices full of disbelief, “You can’t do that; we are journalists. You can’t detain journalists.” “Why not?” he asked. To which Ruth replied,” There are consequences if you kidnap international journalists.” He just laughed and asked, “What consequences?”

The situation was not looking good. To be kidnapped by the ELN was one thing, but the FARC are not the friendliest of people even under the best circumstances. At this moment the ELN commander shows up again. Gumfoot spoke privately with the FARC commander. I was relieved, thinking Gumfoot will reiterate to the FARC commander that we are journalists, and that he has authorized our departure. Sure enough, after a brief discussion, the two FARC rebels got back into their vehicle and took off. Gumfoot then walked over to us as calm and relaxed as could be and said, “I have been ordered to detain you.”

They put us in the front seat of an old supply truck that had spent generations running the back roads of Arauca. After about 30-minutes of bouncing and banging over the bumpy road, the truck came to a halt. It was dark now and we were out of gas. When the guerrillas said, “Now we walk,” we said, “OK,” because they had guns. Guns have a powerful way of limiting conversation and discouraging protest.

So we walked. It was only about a half hour through the dark countryside to a small house. We ate and were shown our sleeping quarters. A matronly 35-year-old female rebel 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 in the morning. “I have bad news,” he said. “You are being detained by the ELN for political reasons. We will move you now to a safe spot in the mountains.” After about an hour of hiking, we arrived at a wooden hut. Heavily armed rebels escorted us on the hike, but at the hut we were turned over to rebels who were mostly dressed in civilian cloths and packing pistols. These turned out to be militia members of the ELN who had already served their time as regular guerrillas and were now on some sort of reserve duty. Their duty at that moment was to handle our kidnapping.

Gumfoot told us that one of the conditions for our release was the Colombian military ceasing the offensive it had recently launched in the region. About 4,000 army troops had been moved to the area in the days prior to our arrival in Arauca. The ELN asked us to go on the radio and plead with the army to halt the offensive so that the rebels could free us. Ruth and I discussed this request and we both decided that we couldn’t do it. We knew that if the newspaper paid any money, or if the rebels could use us to halt or alter military actions, that every journalist would then become a military target in Colombia. This was unacceptable. Thankfully, they never pushed us too hard to make the demands to the military.

The rebels guarding us said they were under orders to treat us well. We were free to spend the days as we pleased, albeit, with escape not being an option. The days were spent reading some books that I had brought and hanging out by a river that was a source for many of or needs: bathing, drinking and washing, as well a sanctuary to escape the reality of our situation. At night we played long sessions of Gin Rummy until the candle burned out, then we would turn in for the night.

We moved camp six times over the eleven-day period. 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. We would hike up the riverbed over the slippery rocks until the rebels found a place in the jungle that suited them. They would get out their machetes and clear a space for us, the cooking area and their own sleeping spots. They would set up our bed, which they carried from camp to camp. It consisted of two sawhorses that stood about a foot above the ground. They placed four thin boards over the sawhorses and a folded mattress on top of the boards, along with mosquito netting and a tarp for the rain. The netting provided us with temporary relief from the onslaught of jungle insects.

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 morning, as Ruth and I lay in bed listening to the rain pound on our tarp, Gumfoot came and told us that we were going to talk by radio with a commander about our release. The commander said that we were to be freed the next day. A group of rebels came for us at about ten o’clock the following morning. We packed up our stuff and headed down the mountain. We went through all the places we had stayed on our way up the mountain over the past few days.

We met Gumfoot in a clearing at the foot of the mountains. 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 militia 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.”

Then one morning Gumfoot arrived and told us to pack, we were going to be set free. We retraced the same paths we had taken before. After about two hours of walking, Gumfoot turned us over to another commander who was to take us the rest of the way. Gumfoot apologized to Ruth for the ordeal. To me, he just said, “Goodbye old man,” and held out his hand. I had thought about what I would do at this moment. I really didn’t feel like being chummy with this guy who had been holding us hostage. But I shook his hand anyway and said goodbye.

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 on the sun-soaked savanna. After a half hour wait, we were taken to a straw thatched hut and introduced to Commander Pablo, leader of the ELN’s Eastern Front. After telling us the history of the ELN and about the armed struggle, the topic switched to our release. We requested that we be turned over immediately to the International Red Cross. We also politely told the commander that we didn't want to be used for propaganda and put on display for the press. He said he would have to talk to Commander Antonio Garcia, one of the top leaders of the ELN, and that he would convey our wishes. He said he would return in the morning with the answer.

Before he left, he asked if there was anything that we needed. I decided not to squander the opportunity. “Commander,” I said, “with all due respect, we have just spent 11 days in the mountains and I haven't had a single drink. I would like some beer, cold beer.” He pulled a thick wad of 50,000 pesos notes—about $20—from his pocket and sent an underling to the store. Within minutes I had a bag full of cold ones. They tasted great.

We spent the night in a farmhouse. The next morning Commander Pablo arrived at the crack of dawn. I asked the commander if I could take some photos. During our kidnapping I had asked permission every day, but the answer was always no. This time I was allowed to photograph the rebels while Ruth interviewed Commander Pablo. When Ruth had finished the interview, she came and told me that the Red Cross should be arriving within the next couple of hours.

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.

Scott Dalton is a photojournalist who has been working in Colombia for the past four years.

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