Escape

At Houston Airport, everyone looked suspicious to me. I rode the underground train to the concourse that would take me to Mc McAllen, Texas, a border city in-between Reynosa, Mexico. 

It was completely empty and at a stop, a tall man entered and sat next to me. I wondered why he’d do such a thing considering the multitude of abandoned seats.

I was really paranoid. My hands were sweating and my nerves were on edge. The train stopped and the man got off. Minutes later I boarded the plane. A slight sense of relief came over me as soon as it took off into the semi-cloudless air. Soon I’d be in new territory and away from prying eyes.

WELCOME TO MEXICO the airport sign read. I felt exalted this time, especially because I knew the danger was over. Customs ran smoothly and I was treated with more than the usual courtesy given my condition. A police officer hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take me to a hotel. I was tired of walking on crutches and the thought of sinking into a nice clean bed greatly appealed to me.

The next day I woke up to a breakfast spread of “Chilaquiles,” (a typical Mexican dish made of corn tortillas that are cut into quarters and lightly fried and then smothered with green or red salsa or mole over the top) and “Huevos Rancheros” (scrambled eggs with picante sauce, tomatoes and onions).

Not long after, I got ready and called my wife in Cancun.

I remember the tremble in her voice as soon as she was able to speak.

“What did you do…?” she asked, greeting me with panic instead of the warmth I expected.

She explained that a slew of police officers were following her everywhere she went. I immediately hung up and started to feel my heart climb my throat. I didn’t excuse myself or even offered a brief tale of what had occurred. I just left her to come up with her own conclusions.

There was no way I was going to Cancun. I called certain friends in Culiacan, a city known to have some of the most reputable drug traffickers, and they arranged my escape aboard a private plane to Colombia. A few hours later I was in Bogota.

Interrogation: Part 2

So far the drive ran smoothly for us. It was around 1:30 in the morning when we arrived at the lobby of one of the best hotels in town called Pernik. We had spent at least 3 hours at the airport terminal and now we were to settle in for the night. It was the end of November and some people who looked like foreigners were having fun at the bar a few feet away from the reception area. The coronel told us to go ahead and deposit all the money we had with the cashier who would give us a room. My friend and I couldn’t believe how hospitable they were. I guess since I was from the same country, they took this into consideration, so I thought.

Our room had two single beds. The coronel told us to rest and that the next day he would return to pay us a visit. Two armed guards with assault rifles and pistols, and the strictest of orders, were placed at the foot of our door to ensure that we didn’t leave under any circumstances.

That night we hardly slept. I asked Johnny about his interrogation and he told me that it was conducted the same way as mine, vague and unsubstantiated.

I finally fell asleep—about 2 hours’ worth—and got up around 7 in the morning to a hungry stomach. There was no menu anywhere in the room to call for service, and the telephone on the night stand between the two beds was old with no buttons to push. I grabbed the receiver and waited for someone to answer on the other end. Suddenly, a lady appeared and spoke to me in a rude and raspy voice. I informed her that we wanted to have breakfast but she replied that the only thing available was “bocaditos,” (miniature sandwich made of soft roll with spam ham inside it) and Hatuey beer. Frustrated, annoyed, and a bit appalled, I hung up. There was no way I was going to have beer that early in the morning.

Ten minutes later the lady rang the room again asking if we were the gentlemen who arrived from the United States the night before. I confirmed her inquiry and she immediately raised the embargo by first apologizing and then saying that we could have whatever we wanted. I remember we ordered steak and eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice. An hour later they brought in a small mini bar with all kinds of goodies inside. Much to my surprise, I found out that local tourists were treated poorly as opposed to “posh” guests. There were no house menus for them only a few bad items from a meager list. The hotel menus were reserved for international tourists with dollars to spend.

As time went on, we grew increasingly bored but most of all, we worried about the situation. Right around 2 p.m., I heard some noise outside. I opened the window to see what the ruckus was about and saw several rows of youngsters marching while praising Fidel with accolades that they sang from the tips of their vocal chords. They were the “Pioneros” (pioneers: young Cubans who are immersed in politics and patriotism to keep the revolution alive).

The scene made me remember my own childhood when school professors tried to brain-wash me. They infested my head with stories about Fidel and his revolution and they would place a red and blue bandana around my neck like the ones that the marchers wore to convert me into a little soldier. One day, my mom had had enough so she raced to the school to confront Ms. Raquel, the school principal, and threw the garment at her saying that her son was no communist.

By night fall we were hungry again. There was nothing else we could do but order room service. We were literally trapped within those four walls and the uncertainty of things just kept mounting and picking at our nerves.

We had hamburgers and fries with a few beers from the mini-bar before we retired for the night. Even though we were fidgety and restless, the hunger had gotten the best of us. Our famished condition had become too unbearable to tame.

Around 2:00 in the morning armed guards swarmed into our room and aggressively woke us up ordering Johnny and I to follow them in a hurry. This is when our nightmare began.