Belching Out the Devil by Mark Thomas Page A

little respite from the heat. The windows come down only a few centimetres at the top of the frames. In the absence of a breeze to force the air around a little I am trying not to come into contact with the seat’s back, lest I stick there - though given the lack of suspension on this vehicle it is unlikely that any of us are going to sit anywhere for long.
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    On board we divide up into our various gangs. Near the front are Pax Christi, a Christian peace outfit, made up of elderly Germans who have traipsed around the fact-finding trip with grim faces and even grimmer clothes. They have an air of concerted concentration and gloom, giving them the appearance of someone trying to digest an espadrille. Everywhere we go they appear with notebooks and pencils
ready to catch every misfortune. They are the stenographers of the apocalypse.
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    Just a few seats back are the two male Swiss trade unionists, who never sweat and have duty-free breath mints in their rucksacks. They gently nudge, natter, whisper and giggle together: I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a password and a tree-house in their garden back home. Around them are the Americans, who subdivide into those from Brooklyn and those not. Those ‘from’ are loud, brash and, despite the fact that they have never been to Bucaramanga in their life, are prone to shouting directions at the bus driver. He in turn ignores this advice.
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    Chile has a square build. His black hair is receding, his T-shirt bulges around his gut and no one save a Krankie could call him a tall man. But he has a confident and determined presence and must have been quite a catch 25 years ago. He stands by the driver, hanging on to the rail up by the front door, and gives a running commentary as we drive past sites of local oppression. It is essentially a historical battlefield tour, except the history is recent and the tour guide personally knows the dead.
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    As we pass a large prison, one of the Colombians shouts out. ‘Here!’ he points at the building we can see through the window. ‘Here! This is where they put Chile!’
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    The passengers crick their necks in unison to see the jail, the prison cell bars visible from the street. Others join the loud chorus, shouting, ‘There is the prison where Chile was jailed!’
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    The man in front of me has both of his arms in the air, almost appealing for sanity. ‘That is where Coca-Cola sent him!’
    â€˜They locked him up because of Coca-Cola’s lies!’ shouts another.

    â€˜It is true,’ says Chile to the German heads that are now bent over their notebooks, scribbling frantically. His admission serves only to unlock further floodgates of communal anger and it seems everyone has to shout
    â€˜There is where they torture him!’
    â€˜There is where they abused him!’
    â€˜There!’ screams the loudest voice of all, bellowed from one of Chile’s closest friends, ‘There!’ he shouts along the suddenly silent bus, declaring to the fixed faces turned to him. ‘There …is where Chile lost his virginity!’
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    And he promptly erupts into raucous laughter, undercutting the sombre and angry mood in a deft moment. The whole bus laughs. Chile laughs hardest of all. He is bent double, slapping his thigh and looking like he might choke.
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    By the time we finish the day’s journey and return to Chile’s home it is late, everyone is tired and no one has thought about supper. So Esmeralda, Chile’s partner, gets a Chinese takeaway and for a few moments there is only the sound of cutlery on tin trays and the background hum of the family fish tank. Away from the bravado of the bus Chile drops his nickname and returns to being Luis Eduardo. Assisted by Esmeralda, their daughters Mayela and Laura, and their son Alexander, he tells a less rumbustious tale of how he become a plaintiff in the USA courts accusing the Coca-Cola bottlers of