I slipped off to the side as soon as I entered the church, and made my way to the racks of candles set at an equidistance, midway between the entrance of the church to where the priest was currently holding mass.  There was a crowd.  I had purchased a candle from the vendor in front of the church - - I now placed it next to, and slightly below a cherubim stationed at the bare feet of the Virgin Mary.  I lit the candle, carefully made sure it was going to stay lit, and then looked around.  A very short woman pushed past me guiding a much shorter and obviously dystrophic son who bore the unmistakable frame of a dwarf and the uncertain gait of someone with severe retardation. Their progress was halted by the unparted throng of faithful that faced the mass, and there on the outskirts of the faithful, she and her son could go no further, and there, she solemnly, and with great deliberation, crossed herself. Her son, if such he was, made a similar, however comic, attempt to do likewise, waving his hand in front of his forehead like someone tossing pizza dough, or waving away a mosquito in frenzy. The reader can guess that I say this without mirth, and doubtless more empathy than any mal-intent.  I suspected that he had a smirk on his face, although I could not see it and he may have mirrored the serious and dutiful face of his mother.  I found myself wondering if there can be an act of contrition without knowledge of what the act entails.  Doubtless there can be sin without knowledge of sin's true face, the history of all religions tells us so, and who are we to doubt such wisdom?  I glanced back at the candle I had lit and placed there for Mary, another Mary, as sweet and innocent as her namesake, and seeing that the symbolic flame was secure I left the coolness of the church and returned to the sea-breeze warmth of the Cartagena morning.  Life is lived in moments.  That I believe.

Through the years, a man peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, tools, stars, horses and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his own face. - - Jorge Luis Borges - Disappearing? Why do people want to disappear? A better question for us to ask might be what is it that motivates people who do not want to disappear.  The general assumption is that those who want to disappear are guilty of something. The author's opinion is that the majority of people who want to disappear are not guilty of a crime.  Victimless crimes are not crimes, but the result of government legislation run riot. Escaping a stalker is not a crime, no matter who the stalker is...  In this series 'How To Disappear In Six Easy Lessons,'  the author will discuss a number of unique innovations about disappearing that are totally original and based on the authors wide range of contacts and experiences as well as personal interviews with those who have 'disappeared' and were willing to talk about what they went through.

We were sitting in the Restaurant in Plaza San Pedro and the Frenchman was telling me that I shouldn't write about Cartagena.  "Don't tell anyone about this place," he said, "we don't want anyone to know about it."  He indicating me as part of the we with a encompassing gesture of his arm. He wasn't drunk yet, though he was working on it.  "That's where Mick Jagger stays." he said, pointing to a room above the restaurant.  "Nobody knows he comes here?" I asked.  "Nobody, that's why you've got to keep this place a secret." he replied.

"Listen Jacques," I said, trying to reassure him, "nobody will come here even if I write about it. You can write about these places and maybe one in a thousand will ever come here, and then maybe one in ten thousand will ever end up living here. It's a bit of fact that I picked up a long time ago. Lot's of people are looking for a castle in Bulgaria they can buy for $35,000 but if someone actually shows them where to find a castle in Bulgaria only one in a hundred thousand will ever go to look at it, and perhaps one in a million has the guts to really buy such a thing."   He looked uncertain, glancing around at the plaza like a shepard guarding his flock.

"Com'on, I'll show you some real places," he said.  "I'll show you where I almost got shot the other night." he polished off the last of his wine, and got to his feet.  We made our way across the plaza and into the early evening heart of Cartagena Viejo. A heart, whose narrow labyrinthine streets is historically vibrant and bold. 

It was the Spanish, along with an occasional Italian architect, who began the construction of Cartagena Viejo in the early part of the 15th century, making it, with the exception of Santo Domingo, the oldest city in the Americas.  It retains much about it that is agreeable.  Houses with three foot walls, balconies cluttered with flowering vine, meandering cobblestone streets, views of the sea and of the bay, art galleries, fine shops, museums, restaurants, hotels, and an architecture that is as nice as can be found on the American continent.

The restaurant Jacques showed me was as good as it gets.  The walls were lined with great artistic photos of early 20th century Cartagena personalities, the food was excellent, the music great, the ambiance like something out of the movie Casablanca.  He swore me to secrecy as to its name and location, and I am a man of my word.  Besides I may be holed up there myself and if I am I don't want you to find me.  A few nights previous Jacques was sitting at the bar when the president's of three south American countries were eating at the table directly behind him.  When Jacques reached into his pocket to get his credit card he couldn't quite reach it so begin to struggle to get hold of it.  The room went silent.  Jacques looked up from his struggles to find everyone in the room looking at him including two bodyguards with their pistols leveled at his chest.  Jacques smiled.  "I'm just trying to get my credit card." he said in Spanish.  Everyone in the room laughed.  Cartagena is a place with a good sense of humor.

Jacques has been around, and he has lived in several countries, so he didn't just pick Cartagena out of a hat.  I've been studying expats long enough to know that each location has it's special breed of expats and that as much as Jacques liked Cartagena, there are many who will not like Cartagena.

Who would want to live in Cartagena?  Someone who likes to live on the cusp.  [ cusp/ kasp / noun  - the dividing line between two very different things ]  Cartagena's culture exceeds that of many locations in latin America, there is art, both visual and literary, [the writer Gabriel Gárcia Márquez has a house in Cartagena, there is the well known Cartagena Film Festival which is held each year, and the plastic arts that I saw in the museums and galleries were of good standing and fairly prolific for a city of less than a million souls.] In addition, there is architecture, there is food, wine, beaches, boating, wind surfing and the pleasures of the flesh. There is also the possibility of becoming a casualty of Colombia's 35 year old civil war, a decidedly more interesting end then being run over by a Ford Taurus in Chicago.  Statistics show that 80% of the death toll of Colombia's civil war consists of non-combatants, so you could become an interesting statistic without much effort. Just leave town in a car traveling in most directions and you'll run into a war of sorts. Living in Cartagena is like living in Cape Town.  It's a nice place to live, but you can't leave the city proper because you're surrounded by a ring of danger, both real and imagined.  Cartagena began as a walled city and after five hundred years it is, in an oddly unique way, still a walled city.

To be sure, expats live in Bogota and Medellin.   Peter Van Dijck lived in Medellin and spoke highly of it.  Nicole Randolph interviewed him for Escape From America Magazine Volume Two - Issue Number Eight - September 2000.   Peter said, "I lived in Medellin, which, even though it has been called the most dangerous city in the world that's not engaged in open warfare, is a surprisingly quiet place."  [Since this article was written Medellin has become an expat haven with numerous expats moving there to take advantage of lower prices, the excellent weather, and the fact that there has been a significant drop in criminal problems over the past few years.] It is often a matter of perspective and of performance. How one dresses, conducts oneself, one's expectations and one's behavior.  It probably doesn't hurt to have an open mind, know a few of the local dances, and to have some decent life insurance. In Cartagena I looked for and found all the necessary requirements for the modern expat. There are several cyber cafes, a Mail Boxes Etc., clean inexpensive places to live, bargain real estate prices and an intelligent populace. Internet connections are said to be decent, my experiences in the cyber cafes was the that the connections were impoverished, but then I've been spoiled by the warp speed connections we have in our Panama office.  Taxis are reasonable, ranging in price from $1.50 to $3.50 for most parts of the city.  Meals can be damn good in the right restaurants, horrible in some of the tourist traps.  [Most tourists to Cartagena are Colombians from Bogota and Medellin, although there are some Italians and other European types.]

Cartagena would be an easy place to disappear to, and a hard place to be found in, if one was intent on not being found.

It's afternoon in Cartagena and Clayman is telling me what the war is about.  Clayman is didactic, a teacher.  An unusual vocation for someone with a shallow sense of curiosity. Clayman is a street-corner philosopher, an expat who travels around the world seeking people who are dumber than him, and explaining to other expats why the locals are so dumb. Clayman doesn't let his lack of understanding prevent him from dispensing wisdom. He spends most of his waking hours chasing prostitutes and perhaps it is from them that he gains so much of his wisdom.  That he doesn't have the ability to differentiate between thinking and feeling is foregone.  He merges the two and assumes that everyone else on the planet does likewise.  He talks fast, and most of what he says is presented in the form of instruction.  His train of though reminds me of a young Labrador Retriever chasing, and trying to bite a fly.

"The war is about oil." he tells me.  "Of course." I reply.  I'm drinking a beer and watching the crowd in the Plaza near the Santa Clara.  The afternoon light is perfect and there is a blue house on the far side of the plaza with red bougainvillea vine.  Clayman tells me ten things about the war none of which I was later able to confirm.  He also tells me he worked with the Navy Seals and with U.S. intelligence.  Every time he shares a secret with me his voice lowers and he gives a knowing chuckle.  Everyone knows him, Clayman tells me.  I don't know anyone who knows him.  He tells me that if he wanted to go out into the jungle he could evade ten thousand pursuers.  My feeling is he could get lost in a shopping center.

We drink a couple of beers and I excuse myself.  I walk away enlightened.  I see him later that evening in the same spot, a young gum chewing prostitute with high heels is sitting with him at the same table he was occupying earlier in the day.  The prostitute is vacuous, distracted, or bored and her eyes show that she is not listening to Clayman. It is clear to me, even from a distance that Clayman is talking.

What brings a man to Cartagena?

For professional reasons I read all the books on 'disappearing,' how to become a fugitive, vanish, jump ship, go away, and not be found. Most of them are rubbish.  One failing they all have in common is telling the 'disappeared' what location to choose once they jump ship.  Most of them mention Costa Rica.  Disappearing in Costa Rica is like disappearing in Beverly Hills, and almost as expensive.  No one disappears in Costa Rica, except perhaps the Costa Ricans that you invest money with.  If I were seeking a city where I could live without being found it would be Havana, Cuba.  Cartagena would be a second cousin, a slightly poorer choice, but it would certainly be on my list.

In Havana you could live on a sail boat and you would certainly not have to worry about being deported, unless you were wanted for a very violent crime of international repute.  For lesser crimes, or perhaps just to avoid a stalker, Havana would be a place where you could live without having to worry unduly about being tracked down. Cuba takes a very dim view of bounty hunters, stalkers and private detectives entering their turf. Any bounty hunter who disputes this is in for an extended stay in a Cuban prison.  You, as an intentional desaparecido [disappeared one,]  are safer in Cuba than you are in Los Angeles, California, as long as you obey the rules, or make the effort to learn which rules you can stretch through time. Havana's disadvantage is the two tier pricing system, a system that would require study to bypass.  If you had to live with the two-tier pricing system you'd go broke unless you had a sizable amount of money. 

You can get any kind of book you want in Havana as long as it is about Communism.

I know people who live in Havana and bypass the two tier pricing system.  They've lived there for many years and they earn a living there through one method or another.  They are safe, and they are untouchable. With that said, you should note that Cartagena has a swell boat basin, much nicer than the Hemingway Marina in Havana. Cartagena has a large calm harbor, great beaches, and add to those facts that the area knows no natural calamities such as hurricanes, earthquakes nor mass tourism. The prices in Cartagena are like the prices Costa Rica had twenty years ago.  I'd rather live in Cartagena than Havana.  I read books, the only books in Cuba aren't worth reading.  Consider the irony that Cuba has a system that increases literacy rates for Cubans while it  simultaneously denies any choice in what Cubans are allowed to read. Without choices, ...values cannot exist.  But that doesn't negate Cuba as spot to disappear to, it just qualifies it somewhat.

Getting There Is Half The Fun

Another annoyance, and disgrace, of those books written for those seeking to disappear are the travel methods outlined.  I could name ten ways to enter and leave most countries. 

Learn More About Cartagena - And On How To Disappear To Other Countries - Go To Page Two - Includes a Photo of the author in Cartagena - 
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See: Overseas Judicial Information by Country & Subject - In the resource section to this article - Page Four