Wild Ride in Colombia

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/24/magazine/wild-ride-in-colombia.html

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One lazy Sunday when I was younger, I was with three friends playing cards, just hanging out. It was still morning, but you could tell it was going to be hot, and we began to gaze at the mountains longingly. My hometown, Cali, spreads out below the Farallones mountains, which are beautiful to look at and just as beautiful to explore, an easy hike or ride in clean air away.

“Let’s go for a bike ride,” one of us suggested, and the others immediately agreed.

We hopped on our bikes and started across town, toward the path that leads into the hills from La Buitrera. On our way we ran into some other friends who were also on their bikes, and they enthusiastically joined our group. Now there were six of us. We cycled for a while, then took a break and sat down on the grass, getting out our cards and some weed to smoke. The air was crisp and smelled of green; the sun was warm, not hot, on our faces.

Then, out of nowhere, a man in rubber boots appeared, giving us a stern look. “You’ve seen the crosses along the path, yes?” he asked. In Colombia, there are lots of wooden crosses everywhere. Where there’s a cross, someone has died. “Well, you’ve seen them?” he said. “That’s what happens to kids who behave the way you do up here. Get out.”

We were quick to wrap up our stuff and get on our bikes. This guy had disturbed us, not so much with what he’d said but by his looks. Rubber boots like that in the countryside, in the fields, in Colombia, usually means guerrilla. A bit shaken, we gladly rode on.

After a short while, we passed a car heading in the other direction. Suddenly there was a huge boom and a cloud of smoke. The car had blown up.

I hit the pedals as hard as I could to get away. Before we could grasp what had happened (it was a land mine, I later understood), the trail took a long sharp turn to the left, and I had to stay focused. When I came out of the curve, I almost fell off my bike: in front of us, just a few meters ahead, were a bunch of military police all lined up, armed with machine guns, and they were aiming them directly at us.

Or were they? I turned around and saw that the path we had come from was now thick with armed guerrillas. The guerrillas were behind us, the cops in front, both groups aiming at us — or rather, at each other. We were caught in the middle.

I looked around in panic. On the third side there was a cliff and on the other the wall of a residence, with a gate ... that was open! I reached it just as a guard from the compound rushed to shut it. I got my front wheel in, but the man kept slamming the gate, yelling: “I can’t let you in or they will kill me! Now get out so I can take shelter!” I let go, and he turned the lock.

There was nothing to do but throw ourselves into the dirt, pulling our bikes over us as bullets started to fly. They whizzed through the air, ricocheted, got sucked up into the wall (I remember the slurping sound). All around was the tlin-tlin-tlin and ratatatata of bullets bouncing off things.

Of course it felt like eternity, but it might have only been minutes. Then it stopped. They were reloading their weapons. “Guys, I’m going!” I called to my friends. “I’m leaving!” I got up, lifted my arms over my head and called out: “I’m a student! Don’t shoot! I am a student! Student! Student!”

I kept yelling as I jumped on my bike and headed toward the trail leading away. My friends were right behind me. I raced as if there were no tomorrow (indeed, was there?), feeling adrenaline all through my body. We rode as fast as we could, uphill, for maybe a mile without ever looking back. The shooting had started again, and that sound of bullets was all around us again. Finally we reached a building belonging to a power plant. Our shouting was so frantic that they let us in.

As soon as I was inside, my legs started trembling so hard I couldn’t stand. I almost lost consciousness. The people working there gave us water, and we tried to calm down and make sense of things. The shooting went on and on, and through the windows (we were now higher up from the scene) we saw heavy armor coming up from the city. After a while, we decided to make a break for it. From the power plant there was a path leading away from the fight, straight downhill into town, and we made it home.

Two days later it was Dec. 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a big celebration in my city. I was out with friends and family, but around midnight, when the fireworks started, I had to go home. I couldn’t take any bam-bam-boom-banging, not even if it was meant to be festive.