But, aside from men seeking women, U.S. tourists seldom visit Colombia anymore. Not even the cruise ships bother to make landfall. Too much bad press. Maybe the little man at immigration took my arrival as a good omen. A North American tourist? Perhaps the world’s attitude toward his country was changing!
My smile told him: Maybe soon but not yet.
Which is unfortunate. Colombia is one of the most beautiful countries in the Americas and its people are among the most gifted, the friendliest and attractive people in the world.
But Colombia is also the world’s chief exporter of cocaine. Each and every drug cartel has its own meagerly equipped small army. When a cartel goes under, its army tends to stay together because there’s so little work available. How do these guerrilla bands survive? Their members have embraced the very profitable vocation of kidnapping and extortion to keep food on the table.
It is estimated that between a hundred and two hundred people are kidnapped and ransomed each month in Colombia. If relatives of the victims do not pay the ransom quickly and in full measure, the victims are executed in cold blood. There is a spoken procedure: Get down on your knees and I will then press the muzzle of this pistol to the back of your head…
The second casualty of poverty is conscience. The first is the local environment, so it is business, nothing more. Kill a hostage promptly and efficiently and you may be sure that relatives of the next victim will be more highly motivated to cooperate.
The irony is that Colombia, in terms of overall violent crime and theft, is no more dangerous than Miami or L.A. Tourists don’t hesitate to visit those places. But mention the name “Colombia” to an unseasoned traveler, and the reaction is predictable: Colombia? Too risky!
Not really. Besides, such statistics mean very little to me when it comes to travel. I love Colombia, have always loved Colombia, so facts and figures about crime carry little weight. Not when the beauty of the country, the kindness and humor of its people, are weighed in the balance.
Which is why I was both chagrined and irritated at myself when I realized how long it had been since I’d treated myself to a return visit. Had I unknowingly become so tangled in the cheerful social web of Sanibel that I was now what I had always dreaded: dependent, addicted to routine, immobile?
When I got home, I’d force myself to take a hard look at my life. Do some reassessing, maybe make some changes.
For now, though, I felt the thoracic glow of being alone again, focused and under way far outside the boundaries, on the road once more.
I worked my way through Cartagena’s small terminal to the street outside, where four or five taxi drivers stood braced against their little cars, dozy in the heat. By old habit, I chose the third cab in line (never take the first or second car in a country where an attacker might anticipate your arrival). It was a punch-drunk Toyota with a parade of dashboard saints. The car might have once been red but was now sun-bleached pink.
Before opening the door, I paused to ask the driver how many marinas there were near the old walled city.
He said two.
I asked him which of those two marinas would be most comfortable for a gringo couple on a sailboat.
That was easy, he said. There was only one marina preferred or used by foreign yachters (sea travelers, he called them). That was the little marina in Manga.
Good news. Very good news.
I explained to the driver that I might need a hotel, but first I wanted him to drive me to this place, the marina called Club Nautico. I told him that I planned to spend an hour or so at the marina, get something to eat and hopefully make contact with the Aussie who owned the place. If he was a good driver, if he didn’t put my life at risk or try to maneuver me to a friend’s shop or a store or a restaurant in hopes of a kickback, I’d hire him for the day.
I hadn’t quite finished explaining what I wanted when a familiar voice interrupted me from behind: “God dang, Duke, I was beginnin’ to think you wasn’t gonna show up a’tall.”
I felt a sickening feeling. How could this have happened?
I was tempted to slide into the cab, shut the door and never look back. In hindsight, that’s precisely what I should have done.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I turned to see Tucker Gatrell.
He wore a stained gray Justin cattleman’s hat tilted jauntily on his head, skinny-hipped Levi’s, a black western shirt with plastic pearl buttons and a white sports coat that a piano-bar hustler might have chosen. On the macadam, braced against his boots, was a large cardboard suitcase. The thing had to be forty years old.
Tucker Gatrell in travel uniform. I was not amused and I wasn’t sympathetic.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Come to lend a hand. What you think?”
“What I think is, you weren’t invited, so my advice is don’t expect a hell of a lot of consideration.”
“Wasn’t asked, my ass. That pretty little girl asked me. Called me on the phone last night. Said you was headed for Colombia and you might need some help.”
“Amanda? You’re telling me she called you after she spoke to me. And told you I’d need help?”
“That’s right, after. She called me back and told me, ‘You make sure you look after Duke.’ That li’l girl likes you. She truly does.”
“Amanda referred to me as Duke.”
“Well… no, she called you by the other name, Doc. But it means the same.”
I looked into his face. Was he lying? The man had the craziest, brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life. It was as if each iris were independently wired and energized with chromium filament. There was madness in there. And a terribly driven… something. But was he lying?
Couldn’t tell. It was always nearly impossible for me to tell if he was lying. Although with Tuck, it was usually safe to assume that he was.
“I’m going to be real honest with you, Tucker. I don’t want your help. I don’t want you near me. And I don’t have time to waste keeping you out of trouble. So do me a favor: Turn around and take the next flight back to Miami. Or anyplace else you want to go.”
He was already loading his suitcase into the trunk of the taxi. “Miami? You drunk, Duke? Hell, boy, I just flew in from Miami. When Amanda-ain’t she the nicest girl? — when that Amanda told me you was takin’ the mornin’ flight, I figured that meant like close to first light, knowin’ you. So I got me a seat on LACSA’s first and best. Been here waitin’ for more than two hours, but I’m still burpin’ red peppers from that breakfast they served.” He was grinning, showing me what a good-natured and all-around cheerful old guy he was. “Goddamn, boy, airplane food, I figure it’s just about the best stuff in the world.”
I used studied, articulate patience to show him just how impatient I was. “I’m not taking you with me. You might as well gather your gear and go home.”
I watched the grin fade from his face. One thing I’ve never doubted about Tuck is his capacity for anger and violence. “You don’t want me?”
“That’s right, I don’t want you.”
“You think I’ll get in the way. Maybe slow you down.” For some reason, now that we were away from Florida, I felt free to tell him exactly what was on my mind. “That’s right, I think you’ll get in the way. Not only that, I think you’d find a way to embarrass me if you stayed. Or get me killed. You’ve got some experience at that, right?” I waited, looking at him. No reaction at all before I continued, “So do us both a favor and take the next flight to Miami. I’ll pay for it. Whatever. Just get the hell out of here because I’ve got work to do.”
He looked at me with those sled-dog eyes and, for a moment, a crazed moment, I think he came close to punching me. In barely a whisper, he said, “Let me tell you somethin’, boy. Don’t fuck with a falcon unless you can fly.” That was supposed to make sense? I said, “O-o-o-kay.”
“There’s never been a day in my life I couldn’t carry my own weight. And I was kickin’ ass in these shithole taco towns back when the big news was that you’d taken a dump that wasn’t in your diapers.”