Outpost Trinidad Part I

Rio Mamore, Bolivia

Beni, Bolivia

Recently I read a book by Charles C. Mann called 1491.  In it, the author spends a significant amount of time discussing the land that comprises the North Eastern side of Bolivia known as the Beni.  To the naked eye it seems to be an endless grassland punctuated by trees that spends large segments of the year under water.  Rivers wind their way through the land like snakes toward an eventual confluence with the mighty Amazon river itself.  At the time when I was flying over it as a younger man I remember trying to make sense of it all.  From my perch in the machine gunners position on a Vietnam era Huey UH-1 Helicopter I looked out and watched parrots fly in pairs over the trees.  While the noise made it impossible to communicate there was something transfixing about sitting in front of an open door watching the ground pass below me.  I remember seeing patterns in the countryside but I had no idea what they meant.  It is a strangely vacant land remote and almost inaccessible.  In many ways the Beni and other parts of Bolivia for that matter reminded me of my childhood home of Alaska.  Only those with special means could venture out into a largely untamed world.

Attempts to recreate elevated agriculture

In his book, Mann concludes that despite our current perception of reality, the Beni wasn't always this way.  In fact prior to the arrival of the Spanish in the new world it was a major population center.  The residents learned to tame the land in a way that allowed them to grow crops in elevated fields and built causeways that extended north toward Brazil and Amazonia.  They turned a wet and fundamentally infertile land into a vibrant agricultural center.  Today, some are only beginning to experiment with techniques that have not been utilized for 600 years.  Yet over all, the land I looked at below me as it swept under us narrated by nearly overpowering wump.... wump of the helicopters rotor seemed to express a kind of untouched virginity quite at odds with reality.

I was first assigned to Bolivia in 1995.  Just prior to my arrival a paramilitary effort in Bolivia called Operation Snowcap had recently ended.  Snowcap was an American attempt to solve the drug problem with a combat based mentality.  Teams of agents were deployed to Bolivia with full tactical gear and weapons as if they were a specialized military combat team.  It was a war on drugs and these were the warriors.  American resources also provided helicopters and other transport to move the teams into remote areas to intercept cocaine shipments.  Bolivia was wide open when Snowcap started, jungle labs were everywhere and small aircraft were landing on highways to load cocaine shipments leaving the country.  While the expense, confrontational approach and inherent risk for those participating are all debatable an eventual stabilization of the drug trafficking situation did occur during the late 1980's and early 1990's.  This was the Bolivia that I came to know. 

When I first met Trinidad it felt as if it was a step outside of civilization to an outpost on the frontier.  It was a gateway to a nether world that eventually led me to even more remote and inaccessible places.  Still, the town seemed to have one foot in my world and one foot in another place and time.  In many ways it reminded me of the rural Alaska I knew as a child.  Roads were often simply causeways crossing water soaked land.  Vegetation was the rule and concrete the exception.  On the other hand, it might have been the sight of the open sewers that ran along the roadsides.  Each was crossed in front of every door by little bridges.  Beneath the narrow walkways ditches filled with a stinky black goo the consistency of oil were a constant and terrifying reminder of what might happen if one drank too much and lost his or her balance.

When DEA ended Operation Snowcap there was still an infrastructure in place, just no people.  As is typical in government, decisions happen slowly and while the combat teams were no longer present there was still a matter of facilities to be maintained.   To do this personnel were sent from La Paz to Trinidad as essentially caretakers and to keep the flag raised.  Additionally it was deemed important to keep an ongoing relationship with the local police and military units involved in the counter drug effort.  Agents and analysts assigned to Trinidad were expected to accomplish this.

Formerly Outpost Trinidad

The facilities we maintained were almost ghostly in nature.  They were haunted memories of the teams of men that once occupied them and now sat oddly quiet.  Sentinels of a hidden American presence.  We had a house that sat right on the corner of a ring road on the edge of Trinidad.  It must have been one of the nicest residences available in the shabby little frontier town and in exchange for its service, I have a feeling the US Government must have paid a healthy amount in rent to the owner of the property.  Knowing government contracting we probably bought the house fifty times over.  It reminds me of the old adage during the gold rushes.  It wasn't the miners that made the money, it was the guys that sold the shovels.  The house was two levels with a pool and a barracks adjacent.  Bunk beds where teams of agents once slept sat empty.  A large garage had been built in front of the house containing several Toyota Hi-lux pickup trucks and an old red Toyota Land Cruiser.  A big diesel generator sat in a cage in one corner and was started from time to time just to prove it still functioned.  Outside a radio tower jutted up, likely one of the tallest structures in all of Trinidad.  The house itself was an odd place.  Two adjoining bedrooms occupied the second level sharing a bathroom in the middle.  A third bedroom was always occupied by whatever agent was in charge of the post at the time.  It had the added luxury of a single bathroom.  On the ground floor there was a kitchen, a long dining table, odd rooms filled with forgotten equipment and a command center secured behind a cypher lock.  Inside the dark and fortified world was a meeting table, radios and a computer where we diligently typed out a situation report (sit rep) and faxed it to La Paz on a daily basis.  It was simply a communication of anything going on by the locals related to drugs but in many ways felt like the only connection to the outside world.  A kind of reassurance that we were still alive.  Finally, there was a common room filled with large uncomfortable couches, long forgotten video tapes and a television.

Bring me four fried chickens and a Coke.

While the thought of a swimming pool in the hot and humid Beni might have sounded inviting in reality it often resembled the color of pea soup.  One tall incredibly fit black agent affectionately known as Smitty always seemed to have it back into condition by the time he vacated.  He was in his fifties and approaching mandatory retirement yet he had the body of Charles Atlas.   The man consumed one whole chicken every day.  Every time I saw him I half expected Elwood Blues to come up and ask for some dry white toast and Jake to add in four fried chickens.  Smitty was a legend in Trinidad among the white folk.  Stories still circulated of how he at one point during a party at the Coast Guard house decided to go skinny dipping in their pool.  Apparently he was hung like John Holmes and from that point on I could never look at his wife, a tiny Puerto Rican woman quite the same way.  His wife was a nurse and after inspecting me several times I always felt humiliated knowing she must be mentally comparing me to Smitty.

The elite Blue Devils

In association with Snowcap other military entities were deployed to train the Bolivian forces.  One was a group made up of Coast Guardsman temporarily assigned to train the Bolivian Navy interdiction force known as the Blue Devils.   The Navy's counterparts in the army were known as the Red Devils.  I have know idea what the air force was, perhaps the Crash Devils.

For some reason in a country void of a coastline the Bolivian Navy was always the most supplied and revered part of the Bolivian armed forces.  The country that lamented annually the loss of their coast line in the late 1800's War of the Pacific still somehow seemed to believe that if they wished hard enough it would all be different.  The main Blue Devil camp in Trinidad was the most organized and well appointed of all the services.  Of course this probably had something to do with the massive amounts of American funding being pumped into them.

One day in a fit of exploration an old Brooklyn atheist Jew that in my imagination looked disturbingly like Ataturk with a narrow face and darkened complexion (in other words nothing like Ataturk) and I set out from Trinidad determined to find the naval base at the end of a long road extending out from Trinidad.  We bounced along for twenty minutes avoiding gaping pot holes as I navigated the Toytoa Hi-lux out into the hinterland.  Finally we approached a tattered two story building on the banks of the Mamore river.    I recall some kind of  symbolic military statue with flag and arm stretched toward the heavens, likely the soldier's next destination.  There was also a kind of gate entry post devoid of any human being.  Ira and I stopped the truck, climbed down into the dirt and walked toward the building.

Suddenly out of no where in the seemingly vacant place a scrawny kid appeared probably no older than 15.  He was holding a rifle pointed at as and his hand was shaking as the barrel moved up and down.  "CAPITAN DE LA GUARDIA!"  the boy shouted out.  "CAPITAN DE LA GUARDIA!"  (Captain of the Guard)  His eyes were huge, no small feat for an Andean Indian.  Ira and I both immediately raised our hands in a kind of non-threatening please don't shoot me manner.  We tried to reassure him in Spanish but he would have none of it.  In retrospect I wonder if he even spoke Spanish.    "CAPITAN DE LA GUARDIA!" he shouted again. Sensing life on the precipice simultaneously Ira and I inched  backward toward the truck careful not to turn our backs on him.  It was as if we were vacating the presence of royalty. 

Knowing Bolivia as I do now, the likely reality was he didn't have a bullet in the gun but at that point in time neither of us felt like taking any chances.  Back in the truck I backed out of the base only to turn around completely on the dirt road beyond. 

Airport, Trinidad Bolvia

Trinidad is city with one toe in the future and two feet nine toes in the past.  Things seem modern enough when you arrive.  Jet's and prop planes would navigate over the Andes and up from the bustling city of Santa Cruz de La Sierra.  While most flights were marked with a simple prayer for survival there was one plane in particular that gave considerable concern.

Aerosur a company that I believe is still in existence operated on a surprisingly different airline oriented philosophy.  First off for Aerosur maintenance is a second priority.  Instead they play a game of leasing aircraft, beating the hell out of them like a rental car and then returning them under serviced to lease another.  Second, they practice the art of glitz and glamor complete with gorgeous flight attendants that smile their beautiful smiles and as you are consumed with lust they take your mind off the impending doom all around you.  While a lesbian would be equally in heaven, God help a straight woman.  At one point the airline flew a Yakolev YAK-40 between Trinidad and Santa Cruz.  It is nearly impossible to understand what it means to fly in a Russian aircraft if you have never done so.  They are essentially steel tanks attached to massive jet engines.  In the case of the Yakolev, it is akin to a bullet with three engines attached.  When the Yak slowed to land in Trinidad it sounded as if someone fired an enormous canon out across the Beni.  On board the engines would create a defining roar and the plane would commence shaking violently as the metal constituting the fabric of the plane seemed to stretch and strain.

Airport Interior, Trinidad

The airport itself must have been constructed with aid money from some where and seemed reasonable enough despite the fact that nowhere in Bolivia was there any working radar.  Yet still as the aircraft landed or took off there was a constant reminder of the not so fortunate symbolized by the giant tail of a C-130 sticking out from a lagoon.  The plane was once flown by the Bolivian Air Force a gift from the United States Anti-narcotic efforts supporting  the US Narcotics Affairs Section (NAS).  It was departing Trinidad on new years eve 1991 when it's pilots realized they only had three functioning engines.  While technically capable of flying any nincompoop would have decided it was probably not a good idea  Unfortunately the Bolivian Air Force  pilots eager to return home didn't see the world the same way.  Not knowing how to compensate for the different amount of thrust coming from the two sides of the plane the aircraft lifted off and proceeded to tilt and dive into a lagoon just past the end of the runway.  The entire crew never made it home instead laying in perpetuity at the bottom of the small lake.

Needless to say, the sight of the giant C-130 tail did not inspire confidence each time I descended from the heavens to once again make my way to tiny Trinidad.  Nor did the decaying hulk of a defunct North East Bolivian Airways prop plane decaying on the side of the runway.  The aircraft had the look of a plane loaded with a thousand kilograms of crystal white cocaine.

Central Plaza, Trinidad

As time progressed returning to Trinidad almost felt like a homecoming.  It was the familiarity and simplicity of the place that just seemed easy to comprehend.  In Trinidad, the truck is the odd vehicle.  It is an environment dominated by scooters and small motorcycles that blaze around the town owning the streets.  The largest recreational activity would occur in the evening around the towns plaza.  There is a certain quaintness to the Spanish concept of urban development.  In the center of most towns is always a plaza.  A small square park elevated from the road that rings it.  Benches are shaded by trees and it seems to be a tiny oasis in the midst of a generally chaotic environment.  Traditionally a plaza always has a Colonial Spanish Catholic church on one side and often a government office and a bank on  different sides.  In Trinidad there was a small restaurant on one corner where we would sit in the evenings at sidewalk tables looking out at the plaza as a thousand motorcycles roared by.  Some would have entire families perched upon them like a family of four walking a balance beam.  Mothers, fathers, children, babies all would balance in some bizarre magical way seemingly moments away from a catastrophe that never occurred.  We would drink Pacena a Bolivian beer and eat orders of salchipapas,  essentially hot dog fried with potatoes.  The idea was to eat anything that was cooked long enough the burning fire would do away with all the evil little life forms invisible to the human eye.   On another corner there was an ice cream shop and cafe.  Somewhere lost in the trees of the plaza were sloths inching their way along and sometimes dangling from up above.

The coup de grace of the plaza was at the corners where the only traffic lights in Trinidad were maintained.  They were crudely strung lines with dangling signals attached to the buildings on either side.  It was a simple effort to control plaza traffic with one overly simplistic element.  There was no traffic computer in Trinidad, no tiny chip to control the changing of the light.  Instead, it was simply a wooden stool with a Bolivian police officer perched on top.  Utilizing a switch that seemed to resemble the one that brought Frankenstein to life he would manually change the signal allowing the traffic to pass.  Simple, elegant and stone age.

There is a strange phenomenon in Trinidad.  It occurs in the eyes of some of the children.  In the hair that graces their heads.  While sitting at the plaza enjoying an ice cream it often became apparent as the blue eyes of a child would flash by in contradiction to all around him.  Perhaps overly curly, almost afro like hair would rest on their heads and you had to wonder if the straight black haired, brown eyed father's ever asked if they were in fact their own.  The truth was, these children were the products of a seed left behind by the countless Americans that once passed through.  A last vestige of Snowcap and the coast guard.

Perhaps it was the result of the heat, money or boredom but one thing that certainly could be said for an American in Trinidad was there was never a shortage of welcoming eyes.  Girls seemed to be ever present. Young girls.  Girls with a dream of a ticket out of poverty, out of the Beni to a world outside.
My favorite moment would occur at the house when a call would come in.  The phone would ring and I would pick it up.  On the other end was a female innocent sounding voice who would say in Spanish something like "Is Reggie there?"

"No, Reggie isn't here, he has gone back to La Paz." I would answer.

"Oh..."  The voice would sound despondent.  "What a shame."

There would be a long pause and you could feel the broken heart.  The love for the man who was no longer there.   The longing, the tears.  Moments later the conversation would continue.

"What is your name?" She would ask with a cheery voice.

The nights were often filled with a visit to La Estancia.  Estancia is Spanish for ranch but in this instance it was a restaurant tucked behind an un-assuming entrance.  Beyond the door was a courtyard filled with tables and a small stage where a group would sometimes play.  La Estancia was a place to eat meat and if I had ever considered being a vegetarian, that point in time it would simply have been impossible.  Perhaps it was the result of the free range cattle and their grass fed antibiotic free diets.  Perhaps it was something in the sun or the water.  Maybe it was just the heat of the evening and the cool Pacena.  Whatever it was, the meat at La Estancia was the most delicious I have ever eaten in my life.  I could have gone into cardiac arrest there eating red meat and died peacefully.

Bolivian Navy on parade just no water

Daily life in Trinidad was a combination of work, pleasure and survival.  We would visit our counterparts and discuss ongoing operations.  One such man was a Lebanese immigrant or descendant and Blue Devil Commander named Capitan Shabib.  He would welcome us to his office and with a deep mater of fact voice give an appraisal of the situation.  I will never understand how so many Lebanese ended up in Bolivia.    Of course they simply joined the other odd ball nationalities consisting of Japanese, Chinese and of course Germans.  Ah the Germans.  Most were the descendants of the Nazis who fled to Bolivia after the Second World War.  Still something seemed oddly surrealistic to find a Lebanese man occupying the position of Captain in the Bolivian Navy manning a post in the heart of a land locked nation. 

UMOPAR on patrol

The Blue Devils seemed to consider themselves a cut above the rest and in both style, organization and prestige.  Their attitude always maintained this. On the other end of the spectrum was a division of the Bolivian army, a special unit that focused on eradication known simply as the UMOPAR.  These were the poorest of the poor.  Still they were a cut above the regular army consisting of soldiers that could have probably not afforded the shoes on their own feet. In the army soldiers existed on almost nothing.  While military service in Bolivia was mandatory a wad of cash could easily get you out of it.  In a system notorious for corruption officers would take their cut of their subordinates on down the line leaving the grunt with scarcely a few dollars a month to live on.  These were the men manning the checkpoints and conducting the jungle raids.  It was no wonder that when any liquid assets were discovered the chance of them making it into the final tally was essentially non-existent.

Elite army unit

To be continued.....