receptionista was a girl who served meals. I supposed that in a revolutionary organization certain words must be taboo. Enlisting in the FARC to end up working as a maid had to be unthinkable. Naturally, it was better to be called a receptionista .
Ana returned with instructions to take us to bathe. She was visibly annoyed.
“Go on, hurry up. Fetch your clean clothes and bath towels. I don’t have all day!”
We quickly gathered up our things and threw them into a plastic bag, thrilled at the idea of being able to freshen up. We took the same path as to the chontos but turned right well beforehand. There, under a tin roof, was a cement tub that they were filling with water from a hose. Ana gave us a bar of laundry soap and went off into the bushes. The pump was silenced, and the water stopped running. “So much for my shower!” I mused. Ana returned, still in a bad mood. Isabel had followed us. She stood there, feet planted wide, gun over her shoulder, watching Ana in silence.
I looked about me; the place was surrounded by thick vegetation. I tried to spot somewhere to put my things.
“Go and cut them a rail,” instructed Isabel curtly.
Ana pulled out her machete and selected a thick branch from the nearest tree. She severed it in a single blow and caught it with astonishing dexterity as it fell. Then she cleaned it and peeled off the bark, transforming it into a broom handle so perfect it could have come straight from a factory. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Next she installed it, placing one end on the edge of the tub and the other on the fork of a conveniently located bush. She tested the soundness of her handiwork and returned her machete to its sheath. I carefully hung my fresh clothes over the rail, still impressed by her performance. Then, looking around for Clara, I saw that she was removing all her clothes. Yes, of course. That was what you were supposed to do. The girls watched her impassively.
“And what if someone shows up unannounced?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Everyone is made the same,” retorted Ana. “What does it matter if someone sees?”
“No one will come, don’t worry,” said Isabel, as if she had not heard her comrade’s remark. Then she added softly, “Use the timbo. ”
I had no idea what a timbo might be. I looked around and saw nothing. Except that yes, in the water there was an oil drum cut in half so that the handle and base formed a scoop. The timbo became indispensable. Clara and I took turns using it.
Ana was getting impatient, shuffling around in the bushes, grumbling. She had decided to restart the water pump.
“There, are you happy? Now, hurry up.”
The final shower lasted only a few seconds. Two minutes later we were dressed and ready to receive Commander Cesar.
Cesar’s truck was parked in the clearing. He was talking to Sonia. We walked up to him, escorted by two female guerrillas. Sonia dispatched them immediately.
Smiling, Cesar held his hand out to me. “How are you?”
“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 identity—”
“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 Unión-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 assurance that my companions were safe and would be freed shortly. The fighting
Ana returned with instructions to take us to bathe. She was visibly annoyed.
“Go on, hurry up. Fetch your clean clothes and bath towels. I don’t have all day!”
We quickly gathered up our things and threw them into a plastic bag, thrilled at the idea of being able to freshen up. We took the same path as to the chontos but turned right well beforehand. There, under a tin roof, was a cement tub that they were filling with water from a hose. Ana gave us a bar of laundry soap and went off into the bushes. The pump was silenced, and the water stopped running. “So much for my shower!” I mused. Ana returned, still in a bad mood. Isabel had followed us. She stood there, feet planted wide, gun over her shoulder, watching Ana in silence.
I looked about me; the place was surrounded by thick vegetation. I tried to spot somewhere to put my things.
“Go and cut them a rail,” instructed Isabel curtly.
Ana pulled out her machete and selected a thick branch from the nearest tree. She severed it in a single blow and caught it with astonishing dexterity as it fell. Then she cleaned it and peeled off the bark, transforming it into a broom handle so perfect it could have come straight from a factory. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Next she installed it, placing one end on the edge of the tub and the other on the fork of a conveniently located bush. She tested the soundness of her handiwork and returned her machete to its sheath. I carefully hung my fresh clothes over the rail, still impressed by her performance. Then, looking around for Clara, I saw that she was removing all her clothes. Yes, of course. That was what you were supposed to do. The girls watched her impassively.
“And what if someone shows up unannounced?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Everyone is made the same,” retorted Ana. “What does it matter if someone sees?”
“No one will come, don’t worry,” said Isabel, as if she had not heard her comrade’s remark. Then she added softly, “Use the timbo. ”
I had no idea what a timbo might be. I looked around and saw nothing. Except that yes, in the water there was an oil drum cut in half so that the handle and base formed a scoop. The timbo became indispensable. Clara and I took turns using it.
Ana was getting impatient, shuffling around in the bushes, grumbling. She had decided to restart the water pump.
“There, are you happy? Now, hurry up.”
The final shower lasted only a few seconds. Two minutes later we were dressed and ready to receive Commander Cesar.
Cesar’s truck was parked in the clearing. He was talking to Sonia. We walked up to him, escorted by two female guerrillas. Sonia dispatched them immediately.
Smiling, Cesar held his hand out to me. “How are you?”
“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 identity—”
“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 Unión-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 assurance that my companions were safe and would be freed shortly. The fighting
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