"Point the Bow Towards Hope" - Part 4: Arrival at Camp Lima

For previous parts, click on the links: Introduction, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

I saw Javi’s brother in the crowd gathered along the fence of the camp. The bus went through the gate, leaving behind what we perceived as the more “civilized” place in Guantanamo, and entering the main camp where the dust was everywhere, in clouds it seemed. We saw hundreds of tents, all lined up next to each other, in lines almost to the sea. All along the perimeter of the camp, the razor-wire fence loomed, with military guards posted at various points along it length. Hundreds of balseros were thrown against the fence and each other, trying to see who was coming in on the buses.

They were in terrible shape, barely clothed and barefoot. I was terribly affected by seeing this spectacle, probably the worst moment I’ve lived through since my accident. Imagine how these people felt: they risk it all by getting on a flotation device, they think at some point that they are doomed and, miraculously, are rescued. And then, the very people who rescue them, who they thought of as friends, treat them cruelly and stick them in a camp with horrible living conditions. What a betrayal!

They took us off the bus in groups of 30, the exact capacity of each tent. They gave each of us a pack that contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, a bucket, a towel, and a plastic bottle with a top. They left me for last and took me to a medical unit near the tents. It was a wooden structure we had passed on the way in. They took me in straightaway to the medicals office, passing a long line of people waiting there. I saw Pane waiting there in line.

I was examined by an American doctor who spoke fluent Spanish. I explained to him that I needed a wheelchair and possibly a transfer to a camp with better conditions for a paraplegic, considering the dirt and dust and lack of solid ground for chair. He explained that there were no wheelchairs available and that he would keep me in my mind if one became available. He told me he did not have the authority to transfer me to another camp. I was disillusioned, to say the least.

He uncovered my wounds. They were all infected. He asked me whether I was allergic to penicillin and I told him I wasn’t. They gave me a shot of a penicillin derivative called Recephin, cleaned my wounds, and bandaged them. A few minutes later, I started feeling an itch all over and my faced flushed and got very hot. I told the doctor and he determined that I had had a negative reaction to the shot. They gave me another shot on the arm (I don’t know of what) and told me to wait. I was getting worse, getting hives all over, and an accelerated tachycardia. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of me. Several doctors ran and grabbed my arms and placed an IV in each arm, one of dextrose, and the other was hydrocortisone. The also gave me the antidote to penicillin that the doctor said would give me contractions and chills (it did). I was short of breath and they gave me oxygen to breathe. I had just arrived in this place and I was already like this! I was feeling very low. After about 20 minutes I started feeling better. They removed the IVs and the mask and left me on the cot for observation.

After a while they called the guards and they took me to the camp I had seen on the way in, Camp Lima, possibly the worst of the 21 camps at Guantanamo. Everybody there was already set up by the time I arrived. In this camp there were about 100 tents, each with a capacity of 30 persons. There were only two tents empty in the camp. Dad and I were placed in the one of these tents, all alone. I was thinking of you and Felipe, but I didn’t want to think of anything. I was so damn frustrated and upset; I knew this situation was going to be very difficult for us.

I spent the day sleeping. Dad made acquaintance with several people in neighboring tents. We were given these yellow boxes with food, humanitarian ration boxes we learned, that contained crackers, sweets, bread, two bags of cooked lentils, and rice and beans. They were pretty much inedible. I would eat the crackers and the bread and sometimes the sweets. They gave us sandals, shorts, t-shirts, and fed us some of the same rice and beans we had had on the ship, although in larger portions. The camp had 15 plastic “latrines” that were used for both bathing and going to the bathroom; 15 to serve 300 people! You cannot imagine the long lines, the stench, and how unsanitary it was.

The dust was so thick in camp you could write your name with your finger. Even after the meager bath, you still felt unclean, that fine layer of dust was everywhere like talcum powder. The heat in the tents was unbearable, especially at noon when it felt like an oven. At night it was very cold and we had only one blanket to sleep with. Dad and I were shaking in our cots, even after we had placed them close together to gather some warmth from each other.

The camp had its share of what we thought were criminals: drug addicts, gamblers, homosexuals, even some we suspected of being murderers.

We thought we were in hell.

The camp was in chaos, again everybody pushing and shoving and asking if they had seen relatives, yelling out their names, and some were showing papers and yelling out the names of relatives in the USA.

We were very nervous in our tent since it was just dad and I in this large structure. We heard from of one dad’s friends in the next tent that he had had to get tough with some folks that were trying to steal the meager belongings they had. Our tent was special, though; people would defecate and urinate outside our tent while we slept. We decided to move to another tent where with men only, “regular folks” who gave us sincere friendship. We were assured that our stuff would be safe during our visits to the medical tent.

The next day I went to get treatment for my wounds. The doctor had given me a pass so I could leave the tent. The lifted my cot to take me to the medical area of the camp. Some of the good-hearted guards helped me whenever they could. I was even given a large plastic bottle with a top so I could urinate in.

Dad and I (and the others) were waiting to be processed. We were to be given a black wristband of some kind containing all of our personal data that could be scanned. We were in that camp from 27 August to 1 September. On that afternoon, they started taking people out of the camp on buses, grouped by family, to be processed and relocated in other camps – camps that we were told had better living conditions. We were among the first to leave that day since dad had spoken to one of the chiefs. Thankfully we were in the first line.

We finally arrived at the processing center, a wooden barracks behind the medical barracks, that had several tables and computers. They placed the wristbands on our arms, took photographs and took our fingerprints. They sent us to a table where a very nice young lady took our information. She promised us that we would leave Guantanamo, and gave us her address so we would call her when we finally set foot in the States. I felt a little hopeful at that moment.

End of Part 4

(Copyright © 2005 The Universal Spectator in trust for an anonymous author. All rights reserved. The material contained in this story on the BabaluBlog.com website is protected by United States copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, published or broadcast without the prior written permission of The Universal Spectator™. English translation Copyright © 2005 The Universal Spectator. All rights reserved.)

Posted by George Moneo at August 1, 2005 12:38 AM

Comments

Posted by: CARMEN at August 1, 2005 02:33 PM

Posted by: George L. Moneo at August 1, 2005 02:46 PM

Posted by: Kathleen at August 1, 2005 04:40 PM

Posted by: Robert at August 2, 2005 08:25 AM