Rescue the Captors - 2.

Spring 1986

I stepped off the airplane and onto the jetway with mixed emotions. It was good to be back in Colombia. A longtime friend greeted me with a bear hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two members of the secret police in civilian clothing at the top of the ramp. I was informed that these were my new bodyguards, provided by the government for the duration of my stay in the country. Their impeccable executive briefcases really contained Uzi submachine guns. As my wife and I and our three-year-old daughter, Lisa, were whisked through immigration and customs, doubts and fears began to hammer at the pit of my stomach.

I vividly began recalling the circumstances under which I had left Colombia two years earlier. There had been threats from Marxist guerrillas who were linked to politics and even to the Mafia. I was on their hit list. My strong Christian convictions had made several of my enemies uncomfortable, so I had become their target. Some longtime acquaintances, apparently for no other reason than old-fashioned respect, had intervened on my behalf. My name was removed from the list of those to be killed, and was graciously transferred to the list of those to be kidnapped.

Rescue the Captors (Book 1) is an account of my earlier five-month kidnapping ordeal that I wrote during the time I was held hostage by FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia) rebels. The book was published six months after my January 3, 1984, release, and has helped open many doors for both ministry and speaking engagements throughout the USA and Canada. It had even been recommended or required reading for certain government officials in the Reagan White House and State Department.

A Colombian industrialist from Medellin named Alberto del Corral had translated the book into Spanish and financed the first edition of ten thousand copies. I was in Minnesota when I received Alberto’s call from Colombia. He asked if I could return for a couple of weeks to help launch the Spanish edition of the book. He even sent a round-trip ticket.

This magnanimous gesture, however, caused a bit of trouble between my wife, Marina, and me. She had graciously put up with the intense travel schedule of the past two years as we crisscrossed North America, speaking in churches, schools, universities, and other facilities on an average of several times per day. We lived out of suitcases, and to my knowledge, we never spent more than two weeks in the same town. We had no credit cards and no fixed monthly income.

Marina, who at the time did not speak fluent English, had left her home, country, friends, and family to remain at my side. Now, she wanted to return to Colombia with me. I objected on the grounds that it was much too dangerous. She and our daughter, Lisa, had also been objects of numerous and ongoing threats. A widow of means in Minneapolis, Juanita Whitby, had generously provided the use of a small apartment in her home. I felt that Marina and Lisa should wait for me in Minneapolis.

This was very difficult for Marina to accept. After she eventually agreed to stay, I hesitated. What if God really wanted us to return to Colombia as a family? We prayed that God would show us what to do. I asked God to provide the airfare for Marina and Lisa to accompany me to Colombia if this was indeed His will. Since there were a number of churches and Christian individuals who had expressed interest in helping us should we decide to return to Colombia, I asked God to provide the airfare from an unusual, different source. If God were to send the airfare and expenses from a source that was not a church and that had nothing to do with Christian missions, I would feel confident.

A couple days later, we received a check for two thousand dollars from the chairman of the Minnesota Republican Party. He said that he had heard I was going to travel to Colombia, and he wanted to pay for the airfare and other expenses so my wife and daughter could accompany me. He told me he was aware of my ad honorem speaking engagements in the Twin Cities public schools advocating against drug abuse, and this was a small token of his appreciation. So, it had been decided. We would return as a family.

After returning to Colombia, my new secret-police body[1]guards were giving us security briefings. We were to travel in several vehicles. There were designated “red zones” where my going out after dark was not advisable. This conflicted with what I perceived as the clear leading of the Lord. I needed to be able to accept speaking engagements anywhere, anytime. Just the thought of arriving at a small church in a poor neighborhood in two large cars filled with machine-gun-toting police was more than I could accept. A few days later, I went to see the general. I thanked him for providing such excellent security, but I told him I was returning his men. I felt like David when he tried to put on Saul’s armor. The general smiled and told me that he understood; however, since the US Embassy had requested that security be provided for me, he felt I should go over and see them, too.

At the US Embassy in Bogotá, they were aghast at the idea of my running around Colombia with no bodyguards and no security briefings. One US official at the Narcotics Assistance Services (NAS) of the US Embassy even offered to lend me his gun. I admitted that in the past I had always carried a weapon, but now I felt that God would protect me wherever He wanted me to go. My heart told me that it would not be prudent to tell the good folks at the embassy some of the things I was planning to do.

Marina and I journeyed to Medellin, intending to meet with Alberto del Corral and to launch my book. Doors were opening everywhere; one of the open doors was an opportunity to meet with a respected Roman Catholic priest named Rafael Garcia-Herreros. He had gone on national television after I had been kidnapped to ask the guerrillas for my release. He had also rallied people all over the country to pray for me through his national television program and new FM radio station in Bogotá. Garcia-Herreros told me he was starting what he called a National Crusade for Reconciliation. He wanted two men to lead it – one Roman Catholic and one Protestant. I was asked to be the Protestant co-director.

When I asked him what this would involve, Garcia-Herreros said, “I don’t have any money to pay you. You will have to raise your own support, but I really need you. I read your book and that is the message we need. Colombia is supposed to be over 95 percent Roman Catholic, but the vast majority of the people are not born again. Colombia needs to be re-evangelized because the people need to be touched by the Holy Spirit. I will give you primetime evening and morning slots on my radio station. You can use my name to open doors for evangelism in schools, universities, police stations, army bases, and in parishes across the nation. I want to help you reach every segment of Colombian society.”

Marina and I thanked Garcia-Herreros for his outstanding offer. We were scheduled to return to Minneapolis in just a few days, and we had no finances that would allow us to remain in Colombia. Even if we were to attempt to raise money in the US, how many of our Protestant friends would contribute if they knew we would be working for a Roman Catholic priest?

For some time, I had been formulating a plan of action. My father was repeatedly voicing urgent concern regarding my brother, Chaddy, whom we had not heard from in close to two years. Shortly after my release from the kidnappers, Chaddy had convinced me to fly him back to the jungle. With much reluctance, I had flown him to our ranch at Chaparral. This area was now deep in guerrilla-held territory, and almost no news filtered in or out. Rumor had it that Chaddy was still out there on the farm, but there had been no direct contact or any messages all this time.

I had abandoned a large, cold-storage facility, ice plant, generator, and rice mill at Chaparral when I left Colombia in the spring of 1984 after being released by the guerrillas. Now, my mental planning went into high gear: “Holy Week is coming up. What if I get in our old, red Toyota jeep and drive out to Chaparral on Holy Thursday? I can make contact with Chaddy and maybe retrieve some of my abandoned equipment. If so, this may provide the finances for me to take advantage of this astounding offer from Rafael Garcia-Herreros.” Amazingly, the two people who I thought would veto such a plan both approved. My dad was deeply concerned for Chaddy, and my wife desperately wanted us to remain in Colombia with her friends and family.

I quickly recruited two friends, Ramiro and Armando, to accompany me. We left Marina and Lisa in San Martin, and that afternoon began the sixteen-hour drive through guerrilla territory to Chaparral. After dark, we were an hour or so past Puerto Lleras when our vehicle’s voltage regulator burned out and the generator quit charging the battery. I quickly disconnected the taillights, the running lights, and the dash lights, leaving only the low-beam headlights in order to conserve the limited power of the battery. Even so, I soon realized the battery would not be sufficient to run the vehicle all night and permit us to arrive at our destination.

We pulled over and rigged an emergency light so Ramiro could take a look at the voltage regulator. There were several spools of thin copper wire, and he proceeded to unwind them all until he found a burnt wire. Then he patched the regulator and wound all the wires back up. We started the jeep; it worked!

In the meantime, we were overtaken by a large convoy of gasoline tanker trucks headed for the drug fields. Amazingly, none of them were using their taillights or running lights, but only their low-beam headlights. I found out later that this was to help conceal them from government aircraft and to identify them to the guerrillas who were under orders to let them pass unmolested. We managed to pull out right after they passed us, becoming the last vehicle in the convoy. Due to the bizarre circumstances, our vehicle had the same appearance as the others.

We arrived at a neighbor’s farm at four in the morning. Rafael Parra, better known as Rafico, had been a good friend for many years. Normally an early riser, he had decided to sleep in this Good Friday. It wasn’t to be. We got him out of bed and down the line with us to Chaparral in his eight-ton Ford truck.

We found Chaddy at Chaparral, and he joined us on a Ford 5000 tractor. When I explained that I wanted to rescue my abandoned equipment, Chaddy said, “We better hurry. The guerrillas have been talking about taking the generator to power one of their new towns. They are just waiting for the river to rise enough for them to load it onto a boat. This year is the longest dry season I can remember, and the swamp is still dry enough for us to get through to the fish house in Rafico’s truck.”

We drove through the swamp and made it to the fish house by a little after six. Chaddy hooked the tractor’s hydraulics up to the heavy generator and the cold storage equipment, then quickly loaded them piece by piece onto the large truck. Low, threatening clouds were on the horizon, and raindrops were starting to fall as we feverishly drove back through the swamp.

At the ranch house, Chaddy began to fill me in about his past two years. We had to break it short, however, because the rain intensified and we had several more swamps to drive through before we could get back to the main road. Chaddy said, “I have been making friends with some of the guerrillas, and one of their top commanders has been asking questions about God. If I can schedule a meeting, will you come back and talk with him?” I told Chaddy to clear the airstrip and I would attempt to put Dad’s old Cessna 170 into flying condition so I could come back out and see him.

We made it through all of the swamps as the rain continued to pour down. Then we had to go back over the dangerous main road in broad daylight. We passed through crossing after crossing with no one stopping us. Traveling on Good Friday may have worked in our favor. Finally, we went through a crossing and saw some guerrillas sitting at a cantina with their motorcycles parked outside. As we continued down the road, Armando and Ramiro kept looking out the back window to see if anyone was following us. The Ford truck with our equipment was in front of us, and Rafico was really stepping on the gas.

Armando and I had been witnessing to Ramiro, who was not a Christian. Somehow, we began discussing the subject of peace (shalom in Hebrew), and I explained to Ramiro that Christians can have peace, even in the midst of very difficult circumstances, trusting that God would provide everything needed. I shared with Ramiro that God’s peace is linked to the number seven in Scripture. Several hours later, we stopped in Puerto Lleras, the first town we considered semi-safe, to get something to drink. When we got back in the jeep, Ramiro noticed the odometer – it read 77,777.7!

We unloaded the equipment at my father’s house in San Martin. Then I hired another non-Christian mechanic, who helped Ramiro and me clean and paint the equipment so it would be ready to sell. Marina cooked for all of us as we worked on the equipment and on the old Cessna 170 at the San Martin airport.

We were invited to a funeral one day, and I ran into Roberto. He was a mentally-retarded boy, known as the town fool; yet he always had a big smile on his face as he helped people bring their groceries home from the market in a large two-wheel cart that my parents had purchased for him years ago. Somehow, Roberto had managed to support his mother and sisters for many years in spite of his limited mental capacity. I never heard him complain; he was forever grateful for the gift of the onehundred-dollar handcart.

When I saw Roberto, however, it was as though someone had stuck a hot knife into me. I instantly remembered a promise I had made to God while I was being held hostage out in the guerrilla camp two and a half years before. I had been musing about the past and thinking about what I could have done differently. I thought of Roberto, and I told God that if I ever got another opportunity, I would like to do more for him; in fact, I promised God that if I ever saw him again, I would give him all the money I had in my pockets.

Now, Roberto was right in front of me and I had all our meager finances safe in my pocket for lack of an adequate place at the house. Well, I balked. God could never expect me to fulfill a promise like that under circumstances like this. Yet as I left the funeral, my heart smote me. Even though I was thinking that we might be left completely stranded, I said to the Lord, “If you really want me to give him all the money, let me run into him again.”

I thought that Roberto was still back at the funeral, but there he was, standing ahead of me at the corner that I had to pass on my way home. Roberto came forward to greet me. He was beaming and thanking me yet again for the help that our family had given him years before. With a lump in my throat, I reached into my pocket and placed all my money into his hand. “I know you can’t count this,” I told him, “but please take it home to your mother and she will help you.”

As I watched Roberto happily head home, I knew deep inside that I had done the right thing. When I got home, however, I ran straight into trouble. Marina was waiting for me at the door. She was not feeling well, and she wanted to immediately return to Bogotá. She was tired of cooking for my uncouth mechanics. Furthermore, she was against the idea of spending money to fix up all this old rusty equipment. I told her I would try to borrow some money in the morning and send her to Bogotá. “What do you mean borrow money?” she asked. “Where is our money? I want to go to Bogotá now!” I had to tell her about Roberto and my promise to God. When she heard the story, she told me that I was the town fool.

By morning, Marina had decided to remain with me in San Martin. We had no sooner finished cleaning and painting the equipment when someone drove up to the front door and purchased everything. He paid us with twelve checks, one for each month of the year. We now had the support necessary to work with Rafael Garcia-Herreros for an entire year. Marina’s illness turned out to be nothing serious; it was just morning sickness. She was a couple months pregnant with Alethia, our second girl, who was born October 1, 1986.

May 1986

Chaddy sent word that he had scheduled the meeting with the guerrilla leader and that the airstrip was ready. The old Cessna 170 was almost airworthy, and the local police chief gave me permission to take off, even though some paperwork was pending. An hour and a half later, I landed at Chaparral, and Chaddy was delighted.

A group of armed guerrillas came out of the woods and quickly surrounded the airplane. I recognized Javier as the leader. He walked over and said, “What are you doing here? We thought you would leave and never come back.”

The main leader, called John 40, was nowhere to be found. Chaddy suggested that we get in the plane and fly over the guerrilla camp to let him know that I had arrived. A couple minutes after takeoff, I spotted a speedboat going upriver. Chaddy said, “Buzz that boat. It’s him!” As we approached the boat, it began to swerve frantically from side to side and finally disappeared into a clump of sword grass on the edge of the jungle. Chaddy said, “Don’t make another pass. They don’t look very happy. Maybe they will start shooting at us.”

A couple hours later, they showed up at our place and invited us to a soccer match downriver. Chaddy and I got in the boat and away we went. There were guerrillas everywhere. The soccer match was between two rural neighborhoods, with guerrillas playing on both teams. They left their weapons and cartridge belts in a big pile to one side of the field. At the end of the day, the commander asked Chaddy to accompany him in his speedboat, leaving me and many of the local people to return to Chaparral in a huge dugout canoe powered by a large outboard motor. Two guerrillas climbed in the prow as we shoved off.

Everything seemed fine until we made a stop about halfway to our Chaparral fish house. Two members of the communist syndicate committee called the guerrillas and the motor man over to the top of the bank for a long consultation, occasionally making wild gestures in my direction. I recognized one of the men as Luis C., my only remaining enemy in the area. On several occasions, he had broken into our business to steal things, including an outboard motor. It began to look like he was trying to find a way to get rid of me before I had a chance to have a good talk with the top guerrilla commander. For what seemed like an eternity, I waited while wondering what to do.

All of a sudden, the wife of the motor man went into action. She started the outboard motor and began revving it up wildly. Startled, the motor man stuck his head over the bank to see what was going on with his prized possession. She yelled up the bank in a commanding tone, “We are leaving now!”

Luis C. stuck his head over the bank and snarled, “Who says?”

She yelled back, “Martin says,” and nodded at me (in Colombia I go by my middle name, Martin). My heart sank, but the motor man and the two guerrillas trotted meekly down the bank and into the boat, leaving Luis C. up there talking to himself as we pulled away. I breathed a loud sigh of relief.

We were soon back at the Chaparral fish house where Chaddy had left the tractor. It had huge, oversize rice tires and no fenders. I started it up and the two guerrillas climbed on. When we hit the swamp on the way back to the main ranch house, I really opened it up. Mud flew everywhere, and when we got there, the guerrillas looked like tar babies. They looked so strange that it was all I could do to keep Chaddy’s Rottweiler, Killer, from tearing into them. All the men soon disappeared, leaving us alone with John 40, commander of the 16th Front of the FARC.

We talked for most of the night as I did my best to answer his questions regarding God, creation, the universe, and life in general. He seemed particularly amazed that I would come out and see him after what had happened to me at the hands of his comrades. I told him that I would always, to the best of my ability, make myself available to talk about spiritual matters, but the best way to resolve doubts and questions is to ask God Himself, as God delights in having direct contact with each and every one of us.

In the morning, John 40 gathered his men in our backyard and we gave them New Testaments and Bibles. Chaddy had several cases of them stashed under his bed. The guerrillas were given orders to read the Bible.

Later that morning, I pulled the airplane out from under some trees where we had hidden it from the sight of any aircraft that would fly over, and I put on an air show for the guerrillas. One of them even insisted on going with me, rifle and all. He was greeted as a hero upon our return and became an instant friend. The same was true of the two guerrillas who had been in the boat and on the tractor with me the night before.

John 40 gave me a bear hug when we said goodbye. He told me that I had given him quite a scare when we buzzed his speedboat the day before. He had thought we were with the government, so he zigzagged into the sword grass at the edge of the river and took off running into a clump of grass and stickers. He had apparently run the boat right out of the water, and he still had a few cuts and scrapes. I knew that a lasting impression had been made, and it would prove to be the beginning of a long-term friendship.

When I got back to San Martin from this second trip, my mother was there, eager for news of Chaddy. I flew her, Marina, and Lisa to Chaparral. Mom said she would have to see for herself if Chaddy was really evangelizing the guerrillas according to my report, so this trip lasted a couple weeks.

The guerrillas were in the midst of forming a political party called La Unión Patriótica, or the UP (The Patriotic Union). They were planning political rallies in the remote areas under their control. They sent word to Chaddy about a rally to be held up by Caño Danta (Tapir Creek), across the river from us. They wanted to borrow our generator to power their sound system. Chaddy said yes, but on one condition. He told the communist organizers that his mother was visiting and that she had a movie projector and films about the life of Jesus. If Mom could show her movies to the people, they would be welcome to use our generator for their political rally.

Not only was the deal accepted, but Chaddy killed a steer and took the meat out to the site of the rally in the early morning. He sent a boat back for us later in the day. When we arrived, everyone was happily eating some of Chaddy’s roast beef. He then set up the movie projector, using a large white sheet as the screen.

Communist political organizers and guerrillas began to trickle in. Chaddy turned on the movie projector and every-one started watching the gospel film. About fifteen minutes into the movie, there was a commotion. One of the visiting political leaders of the UP was having a fit. “This is religious propaganda,” he yelled, “and we can’t have it.” Chaddy replied, “No, this is history; watch it and you might learn something.” Chaddy managed to slip his strong arm around the irate leader’s shoulders, turning him back towards the film and face-to-face with a good part of the crowd that had been following him out.

In desperation, the communist political leader shouted, “By God, I’m an atheist!” It brought down the house. Everyone, including the guerrillas, howled. In the meeting, the top political UP leader for the entire area, a man named Jericho, had quietly come up alongside Chaddy, who quickly put his other arm around him. In a loud, penetrating voice and with one arm still around the shoulders of the would-be atheist, Chaddy announced to the laughter-stricken crowd, “We are not like him; we all believe in Jesus, don’t we?” Jericho spoke up and said, “Yes, Chaddy, we all believe in Jesus.”

The crowd turned around and intently resumed watching the movie. Chaddy took Jericho and some of the other leaders over to see Mom as she ran the projector. After giving Mom a glowing introduction, he told them there was something much more important that they needed to know. “Right now,” Chaddy said, “my mother is going to tell you how to have eternal life.” Then he elbowed Mom and said, “Tell ‘em, Mom; tell ‘em.”

For the first time in my life, I saw my mother at a loss for words. She was not sure what to say to all those revolutionary leaders. The movie had just come to the part where Nicodemus came by night to see Jesus. Jesus was telling him that he must be born again. Finally, Mom said to the expectant leaders, “Just watch the film, and I think you will understand.”

After the film, some of the political leaders tried to hook up their sound system in order to shout political anti-American slogans. Somehow, no one seemed to be able to find the right cords and adapters. When the political rally began to fizzle for lack of the sound system, Chaddy called Jericho aside and whispered in his ear. Soon Jericho strode forward into the midst of the crowd and made an announcement with a big smile on his face, “It has been brought to my attention,” he beamed, “that it is Chaddy’s mother’s birthday today. We wish to honor her for her mission work with the poor children, with the Indians, and with all the people of the area. We are now going to suspend the political activities until a future date and turn this gathering into a special birthday party for Señora Patricia.” This news was met with whoops of approval from almost everyone. They had Mom get her movie projector back out and show all the rest of her films. Someone had a darling pet squirrel, and gave it to Mom as a birthday present.

In the midst of the festivities, which lasted past midnight, Chaddy fell asleep on the prow of one of the boats; he had been up since well before dawn preparing the meat. About ten in the evening, there was another commotion. Chaddy had rolled over in his sleep and had fallen into the swift current of Caño Danta. Three or four guerrillas spontaneously jumped into the water to fish him out. The guerrillas then hung hammocks and mosquito nets, and we all went to bed. Truly, Mom had a birthday party to remember, as well as the answer to her questions regarding Chaddy’s activities over the past couple years.

I left the meeting after becoming privy to inside information that few others knew. The first point was that Jericho and Chaddy had grown up together in Puerto Lleras. Jericho had studied in the Soviet Union on a scholarship, returning to Colombia years later to accept an important role with the UP. I learned the second piece of information when Louis C. saw how well we were in with the leaders. He called me aside in the middle of the birthday party. “Regarding the past,” he said, “please don’t mention any of the things that I stole from you. I promise to make it right with your brother. I will pay back every cent. If the guerrilla leadership finds out, they might strip me of my rank or even kill me,” he pleaded.

I put my left hand on his shoulder and held out my right hand, which he shook warmly. “I wouldn’t even think of mentioning it,” I told him. Time would prove that this was the beginning of yet another critical friendship. When a man’s ways please the LORD, he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him (Proverbs 16:7).