The Quandary — Part I
“I can’t believe this is happening. I’m not a spy on a mission to wreck this country. I’m just a professor, a mathematician with a wrong sense of adventure for coming here. This all started out of a series of misunderstandings that have taken a life of their own and gotten out of my control.
I was riding in the back of a crowded pickup truck. I’ve gotten used to traveling like the locals. I was sitting all the way in the back over the pickup door with one leg out the truck and my other leg wrapped around some stranger to avoid falling every few seconds we were hitting pots on the road. We were heading to San Pedro, which I’ve been told is a nice little town some 5 hours from the capital city. I was traveling light as I do now with my backpack, in which I only carry an extra pair of trousers, some fruit, my wallet, my passport and my notebooks. My goddam work notebooks.
About half way through the trip, we suddenly stopped behind traffic in the middle of the mountain dirt road. The traffic was still, no movement whatsoever. It must have been around 6pm as the sun was starting to set. I couldn’t really see what was going on at first, I could only see maybe six or seven other trucks and cars ahead of us and then the road curved around the mountain. I asked around in my broken spanish if anyone knew what was going on, but half the group didn’t even speak spanish, only local dialects, and the other half just ignored me, something I’ve also grown accustomed to.
After an hour of just sitting there, the night began to slowly creep in with the sun hiding behind the trees and the mountains and a few stars beginning to peer down on us. As I was minding my own and looking around, I saw a group of military men making its way through the traffic line. I’ve been traveling around the country’s interior for the last couple of months, so this again did not surprise me. The group appeared to be splitting in smaller groups going to each of one of the trucks and engaging in conversation. Then one of these small groups, a small group of three soldiers, approached our truck.
I stayed in the back of the pickup truck with the rest of the group, no one got out, we all knew better. They asked the driver and the people inside the pickup cabin in the front very routine questions and then headed to the back. The two younger soldiers stood behind their senior, the captain, who approached our group with his hands behind his back. This is the same captain that has been dealing with me ever since, the one with gray hair. I still haven’t learned his name, captains don’t carry their name on their uniform.
He gazed through the group searching for anything out of place, and found me standing out among the crowd. He told me to get out of the pickup truck. I nervously followed instructions, unwrapping my leg and carefully jumping off. Respectfully I greeted him and told him who I was. He listened but did not show any signs of caring or understanding. He then turned to the younger soldiers and nodded, after which they both quickly took me by both my arms and threw me to the ground.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered the military during my time here, but it was the first time they had handled me. I layed still on the ground, not out of choice but from four knees pressing on my back. I knew talking would only make things worse, so I kept my silence while they patted my body and took my backpack. The soldier with the backpack took it to the grayhair captain, while the other soldier pressed even harder on my back, as if I would have tried to get away.
I lifted my head as little as I could and saw the grayhair captain open my backpack and go through my belongings. He first opened my wallet, which had nothing more than a few bucks, which he shamelessly put in this pocket. He then took my passport and flipped through it like if it was nothing more than a comic book, and put in his pocket along with my money. I really thought the harassment would stop once he saw my american passport, but it didn’t, he just looked down at me with narrow eyes and whispered “green go”. I know this may not be the best of times for an American to be here, but a few friends I’ve made here that work for United Fruit assured me I would not have any trouble with the military being an American. How wrong were they.
The only thing left in my backpack were my notebooks, which he took out and started skimming. I do remember thinking it was strange that we was spending a longer and more detailed time going through my notebooks than he did going through my passport. My work notebooks, they’re just pages and pages of mathematical proofs and theoretical work. Before coming down here I was closely working at my alma mater on several academic projects on various mathematical subjects that I had not yet finished. I wanted to continue my work during my travels, so I brought some of my unfinished work with me on those notebooks where I have been jotting down and developing my ideas. They are complete nonsense to anyone but myself. Still he was going page by page, while the other soldier was still on my back.
He was still reading through my notes when the rest of the military group catched up to us. Three other older looking soldiers joined the grayhair captain and huddled over my notebooks. I lost sight of them, but I could hear them whispering. After an eternity feeling that pain on my back, the grayhair captain picked me up.
He pulled open one of the notebooks and pointed at a random spot on a page with a flashlight. He looked up at me and said, “We know who you are and why you’re here. Your plan won’t work, we have uncovered it.” This took me by surprise, but before I could say anything they ruffled me back to the ground, cuffed me up and dragged me along the traffic line and around the curve. By this time I was no longer quiet or calm. I was kicking and yelling at them to let me go. They did not stop and continued dragging me along the dirt road until we reached 3 military pickup trucks blocking the road. I was then thrown over the back of one of the military trucks, where a soldier was waiting and tied my hands to a metal bar on the floor.
We then took off, back on the same dirt road I had been a few hours back, but no longer heading to San Pedro, rather heading to this prison.”
