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As fears of a Cuban-style revolution grew in the capital, the government struck back, shooting and bombing.
The first seven or eight months—hiking through the mountains, sleeping on the ground, and eating whatever could be scrounged—were excruciating.Past a detachment of bodyguards, in the open kitchen of an adjacent farmhouse, guerrilla cooks stoked a fire to prepare the evening meal.A dark-green expanse of jungle stretched to the horizon. Concealed behind the tree line, the guerrillas had war-ready camps, with trenches to foil a ground invasion and bunkers to protect against air raids.He suffered bouts of malaria and considered quitting, but he eventually acclimatized.
After three years, the sent him back to Bogotá and put him in charge of the organization’s urban networks, which infiltrated universities and unions to recruit new members, gathered intelligence, raised funds, and, occasionally, launched attacks.In Havana, he wore loud tropical shirts and suède loafers.In Yarí, he favored T-shirts in hot pink, canary yellow, sky blue.Sounding delighted, and a bit incredulous, he kept repeating, “The war is over.” Most of the combatants had been living as fugitives in their own country, and were now contemplating a return to towns and families they had not seen in years.