The events of
3 Seconds in Bogotá
occurred 25 years ago.
Kurt Cobain had just committed suicide.
Aryton Senna had died in his Grand Prix crash.
And in Colombia, the one of the worlds richest drug barons,
Pablo Escobar, had just been shot dead.
The events detailed in this book culminated
in the Colombian capital city Bogotá
in early June 1994.
A True story.
How long is a second?
3 Seconds
I knew it would happen. Everyone had said it would. The travelling truism of the early 90s was that if you backpacked around South America for any length of time, you’d most probably return home with a story of having been robbed. The only question was, to what degree? Basic theft and a missing backpack? Mugged at gunpoint? Or caught in a bus hold-up involving trigger-happy bandits who had shot a passenger or two just to prove they were serious? It was all possible.
These stories became the currency of many a late night tale that kept us back-packers not only entertained, but served as badges of honour for those that had survived, and as maps of survival for those listening. We quickly learnt that running away, fighting – or resisting in any manner – could be a fast-track to an early grave. That attempting to outsmart thieves by not carrying cash, could in itself cause rage and provoke an attack.
Having absorbed these tales, as a precaution I carried three lots of money. The first a visible moneybag, designed to be happily surrendered at the first sign of trouble. The second batch of cash lived in a slim money belt under my belt-line. Thirdly – the real reserve with passports, traveller’s cheques and cash – was hidden deep inside my trousers within a custom-made secret pocket. It would not be noticed in a normal pat-down search and could only be accessed by undoing my belt and dropping my trousers. Since I never wore underwear, I figured this acted as a built-in safety device.
Imagining the possible robberies, I rehearsed reactions.
Situation A. Someone appears in front of us waving a knife.
Plan of action. Throw them the outer money belt. Maintain eye contact. Walk backwards.
Situation B. Find myself staring down the barrel of a gun.
Plan of action. Slowly undo money-belt. Drop it to the floor. Keep hands visible and held away from pockets. Keep girlfriend behind me. Walk backwards slowly. Remember, don’t turn. Don’t run. Keep eye contact.
Situation C. Bus gets held up.
Plan of action. Don’t speak a word. Don’t make eye contact. Act like locals. Mingle and dissolve. Be invisible. Offer up second money belt before asked. Do best to keep trousers on.
I had it all worked out. I liked to be ready for the unexpected.
For the last six months, Luciana and I had travelled through Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador and Colombia. In terms of highway robbery, hold-ups or even good old-fashioned boring theft – nothing had happened. Zilch. Nada.
Our trip was almost over and we were due to return to Britain with nothing more than a bag of gifts and a stack of treasured memories.
We were three days away from the laughter of friends and a pint of black stout at my local pub. I visualised walking to my mother’s country cottage. The dogs racing out to greet me. My mum welcoming her wayward son home with arms held out wide. The wafts of her home-baking. A pot of tea being poured. The lavender and rosemary of an English garden in the early summer bloom. Her face reacting with mock shock to the already censored highlights of our travels. The texture of the digestive biscuits, that if she wasn’t looking, I might dare dip in my tea. I was almost home. I could feel it.
Yet, here I was, frozen with fear – sitting in the passenger seat of a taxi after midnight in the dark back streets of some South American city, staring at a long shiny knife blade being held to the throat of our taxi driver.
Even if something like this had been expected – even if I had absorbed the fine detail of a hundred or more stories, gleaned from the travelling grapevine – this was different to all the scenarios that had played out in my head. This situation had no label, no direct link to any memory and cause of suitable reaction. This moment in time was unique and totally unexpected.
We were in deep trouble.
Surrounded by at least eight men, who were reaching for the door handles of our taxi.
Maybe there were ten?
More were appearing from every side.
I calculated how long it would take until the car doors were open and we reached the point of no return.
Three seconds.
Then it was ‘Game Over’.
If cats have nine lives, how many do humans get?
I didn’t know but I decided this was the time to use one up.
Then, there it was.
‘IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS’.
The casing shattered.
I hit the pause button.
A twitch under my eye.
Time immediately slowed down to a snail’s pace. My mind no longer had the need to race. The image of the knife in front of me lingered lazily, moving frame by frame. Relieved from the normal boundaries of time, I had what seemed like hours to shift through a lifetime of experiences, to search the memories hidden deep, for any clue that might offer a solution.
I just had to remember one thing, although time can be slowed down, it can never be stopped. I needed to keep an eye on the clock, as the blade, every now and again, would slip a frame forwards – one step closer to a very uncertain, and maybe, very short future.
A calm voice echoed within.
Right, boy. Breathe deep, relax. Listen.
Here is the plan.
Step one – In case of emergency break glass and press pause.
Yeah, I already did that… Tick! Done.
Good.
Step two – Think.
To make sense of this situation commence with the basics. Start right from the beginning and go through all the events leading to this precise moment. When is this? Who are you with? Why are you here?
Search through your memories for significant, or
