XII. The Outsider

With SF pals in the
Zona Rosa – Bogota
1993

After my agency pulled me out of Medellin, I settled into my Bogota routine that included spending Saturday evenings with my pals in the Zona Rosa, the entertainment district in Bogota. The Zona Rosa literally translates to the ‘Pink Zone’ as opposed to the ‘Red Light District’. It was a marvelous place where you could dine at some pretty posh restaurants or eat off a cart on the street. The Zona had an assortment of music bars to satisfy any taste. It had everything from techno to salsa and country to rock and roll. There were live music venues including two places that featured Beatles tribute bands. My special place was a restaurant and piano bar named ‘Bourbon Street’. We called the place ‘The Two Johns’ after the owner and the piano player, who were both named John.

I was befriended by the owner, who was a local celebrity. He was an accomplished musician, who had played with the Pérez Prado Band in Bolivia, if memory serves. He was the son of a Resistance commander in the South of France during the Second World War. He related to me his many experiences living under the Vichy regime and their Nazi occupiers. He was a preteen when the Nazis came to the hotel his family ran and dragged his father away. He would later escape and join the resistance. He told me that he would kick a soccer ball to the Nazi soldiers guarding his hotel. They weren’t much older than he and seemed harmless until one day they were ordered to shoot several Frenchmen outside the hotel. After the war, he emigrated to Argentina where he married a minor movie star. He recounted his escapades as a musician and restauranteur across South America. He settled in Bogota opening a high-end restaurant and entertainment venue that was frequented by the elite of Colombia including actors, musical artists, politicians, and other celebrities. He was interviewed on Colombian network TV regarding the golden years when his restaurant was the place to be seen.

The other John, the piano player, had lived a life that was just as interesting. He was born in Saigon in the early 1900s to a Polish father, who was there serving with the Foreign Legion. France had been stirring things up in southeast Asia since Napoleon the III sent troops to protect Catholic missionaries in the late 1850s. They would eventually establish a colonial government ceding control during the second world war to the Japanese by order of the Nazi puppet government in Vichy, France. Borders were pliable then and people moved across them fluidly. John was in Shanghai when the Japanese invaded and barely escaped being thrown into the Japanese equivalent of a concentration camp. After the war, he struggled to make a living and wanted to emigrate to America, but he needed a passport. There was some question as to John’s citizenship given the confusion of the period. The French would not issue him a passport unless he agreed to join the Foreign Legion. The Viet Minh had gained some ground in their efforts to unify their fragmented country. In the Spring of 1954, the French decided to lure the communists into a decisive battle at a place called Dién Bién Phù hoping to crush the rebellion. Unfortunately for John, that’s where he was sent. The communists turned the tables on the French, encircling them and cutting off their supply. Eventually, the French were forced to surrender. John was among the few that fled into the jungle rather than go to a prison camp he was sure would be unpleasant. He managed to get back to Saigon after wandering through the jungle for six months. He got his passport and eventually emigrated to Colombia where he married a Colombian woman and made his living playing piano.

The Sunday after I was pulled out of Medellin by my agency, I was lounging in my apartment when a friend of mine, an analyst with DEA called to inform me of the Waco raid. She told me that the Houston, Dallas, and New Orleans special response teams were involved in a bloody shootout resulting in the deaths of four agents and the wounding of seventeen others. My brother was a member of the Houston special response team and despite my efforts to learn if he was among the dead or wounded, I had to wait until the following day to get any information. The next day, I learned that my brother had been shot at the door as he served the warrant on Vernon Howell, the cult leader. It upset me that no one at headquarters thought to call me when it happened.

I got on the next flight to Houston to gather with many of the Houston agents involved. We met at our old hang out, the Hog’s Breath Saloon. It had to be the nastiest, most dilapidated bar in all of Houston, but they did make a good hamburger or Hog’s Burger as they called it. You could see the ground through the floor and the air went foul with the smell of sewage whenever someone flushed the toilet. It attracted the underbelly of Houston society. It was frequented by bikers, rowdy rednecks, and other questionable characters. I still have fond memories of that place.

It was during that gathering at the Hog’s Breath that I learned the story leading up to the Waco disaster. Although it was stupid and inexcusable, I could see why the decision to go ahead with the raid was made despite the loss of the element of surprise. It all camedown to the budget and the lack of funding. We had committed much of our resources to the Davidian operation and a siege would have bankrupted ATF. As much as it rattled my faith in our leadership, it unsettled me more that I wasn’t there. Suddenly, what I had been doing in Medellin and Colombia seemed unimportant. On the flight back to Colombia, I came to a stark realization. I had become an outsider with my own people.

Choachi, Colombia