Free Even Silence Has an End by Ingrid Betancourt

gotten through to me. Usually there was no network once you left Florencia. I brought her up to date with all the details of our journey. “My escort received an order not to accompany me. It seems it came from the president himself. I still have to go, though. I gave my word. I wish I were with Papa. Tell him I send my love.”
    Mom had been a senator and knew well how demanding an electoral campaign could be. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll tell him. And I’ll be with you every second. Every step of the way, I’ll be with you. Be careful.”
    While I was talking to Mom, the soldiers had taken our vehicle and were meticulously examining the carpets, the glove compartment, and our bags. When I hung up, I refrained from calling Papa. Instead I walked over to the officer who was standing a short distance from all the activity and who seemed to be in charge of operations, to inquire about the traffic situation.
    “Everything is normal. Up to now we haven’t had any problems.”
    “What is your opinion?”
    “I have no opinion to give you, madam.”
    “Very well. Thank you anyway.”
    We took to the road behind a bus and alongside a small motorcycle being ridden at top speed by a young woman, her arms bare, her hair flowing in the wind, her eyes glued to the asphalt. She was in full throttle but having a hard time keeping up with us; she looked like she wanted to race us. The scene was rather comical, and we laughed. But the noise of her engine was unbearable. We picked up a little more speed to get ahead of her and arrive more quickly at the fuel station at Montañitas, an unavoidable stop-off point. Every time I’d been along this road, I would stop there to fill up with gas, get a drink of cold water, and chat with the owner.
    As usual, she was at her post. I greeted her, happy to see a friendly face.
    “I’m so relieved they’ve gone!” she confessed. “Those guerrillas moved into the region as if it belonged to them. They gave me a lot of problems. Now the army has cleared the zone. They have done a good job.”
    “What about the control posts the guerrillas set up along the road? Are they still there?”
    “No, no. The road is completely clear. I am the first to know, because any car that is forced to return stops here to give the alert.”
    I got back into the car, feeling satisfied, and shared with my companions what the owner had to say, before confiding bitterly, “I’m convinced they don’t want us to go to San Vicente. Too bad. We’ll get there late, but we’ll get there all the same.”
    We headed off, and fifteen minutes later we noticed some people up ahead, sitting in the middle of the road. When we got closer, we saw that a bridge was being repaired. On the previous trip, we’d had exactly the same problem on the way back from San Vicente. That was during the rainy season; the river had burst its banks, and the force of the water had weakened the bridge’s structure. Then, as now, we’d had to bypass the bridge and drive through the river. Today the water was no more than a trickle, and it would mean just a small detour from our route. Two people stood up to show us which way to go. We veered left and drove down the embankment.
    In front of us, a Red Cross vehicle was heading down toward the water on the same course we were about to take. Once it reached the top of the opposite bank to rejoin the road, it disappeared from view. We followed suit.
    As soon as we crested the embankment, I saw them. They were dressed in military garb, rifles slung across their shoulders, and they had gathered around the Red Cross vehicle. Instinctively I looked down at their shoes. They were black boots, the sort often worn by peasants in the swamps. I’d been taught how to identify boots. If they were leather, it was the army; if they were rubber, it was the FARC. These were rubber.
    One of the guerrillas, carrying an AK 47, noticed our arrival and jogged over.
    “Turn around!” he ordered. “The road is