October 11, 2025

My Time in Saravena, Colombia

I think a few of you know that I was stationed in Colombia, South America, for about ten months back in 2003. The first four months were spent in the Colombian jungles, just four miles from the Venezuelan border, in a town called Saravena. After that, I spent the remaining six months in Bogotá, the capital city, working out of the U.S. Embassy on medical logistics and coordination duties in support of our forward missions. Those two assignments couldn’t have been more different—Saravena was raw, unpredictable, and tense; Bogotá was structured, diplomatic, and meticulously secure. Together, they showed two very different faces of the same country.

Our forward base in Saravena was positioned on the west side of town, inside a Colombian Army installation surrounded by fencing and heavy security. While stationed there, we never wore our Battle Dress Uniforms—the standard green camouflage. It simply wasn’t safe. The leftist guerrilla insurgents from the National Liberation Army (ELN) could easily take a shot at anyone visible near the perimeter, so wearing a uniform made you a target. We wore civilian clothes almost all the time, blending in as much as possible. Even wearing our Army physical training gear—our PTs—was discouraged because it could identify us as U.S. military. The only time we ever put on uniforms was during supply runs to the airfield to pick up cargo flown in from Bogotá, which usually arrived twice a week—on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Our U.S. camp sat within the Colombian Army base and consisted of two medium-sized warehouses connected in the middle by a narrow covered walkway. Together, they formed a compact compound that served as our living quarters, work area, and medical station. The walls were made of corrugated metal, and during the day, the heat would build up inside until the air felt thick and heavy. To keep cool—and to ward off mosquitoes—each of us slept beside a large industrial fan that ran constantly through the night. We slept inside mosquito nets draped over our bunks and took mefloquine weekly to prevent malaria.

It rained a lot in Saravena, and the water table sat high, so the plumbing could back up fast during storms. We had a strict rule: no toilet paper in the toilets. Each restroom stall had its own small, heavy-duty can lined with odor-sealing bags and fitted with a tight lid to keep mosquitoes out. After using the toilet, you had to place your paper in the can instead of flushing it. The bags were tied off and collected daily for disposal. Not glamorous, but it worked—and it kept the toilets from overflowing when the rains came. Fortunately, that never happened while I was there.

The perimeter was lined with Hesco barriers—tall, sand-filled wire mesh containers used for blast protection. It wasn’t dense jungle pressing right up to us—we were inside a functioning Colombian Army base. The area had gravel roads, a motor pool, a soccer field, concrete buildings, and open pads under floodlights. We were also right next to the town of Saravena, so looking west, you could see rooftops and narrow streets. Looking south, the foothills and mountains rose up; looking north, the land flattened into wide open plains; and looking east, beyond the far fence line, you could see the tree line thicken and the jungle begin.

At the time, I was on temporary duty from Brooke Army Medical Center at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, where I had been named the Noncommissioned Officer of the Year. Somehow, that bit of news reached the 7th Special Forces Group we were attached to, and it created a funny dynamic at first. The Special Forces guys and I would trade jabs back and forth, talking a little trash during workouts in the covered gym between our two warehouses.

Despite the friendly rivalry, I built a great friendship with one of them—a 26-year-old Sergeant First Class from a Texas border town. He was a strong runner and loved to push himself, and running was something I had always excelled at in the Army too. That common ground broke the ice. We started training together almost every day, and over time, that friendship replaced any tension the others might’ve felt. Years later, he went on to become a Sergeant Major and is now pursuing his doctorate in business—a testament to the kind of men those Special Forces soldiers were: disciplined, sharp, and always striving for more.

A lot of people ask me what our camp looked like. If you’re curious, you can actually see it yourself—just pull up Google Maps and type in Saravena, Colombia. When I looked south from camp, I could see the large mountain ranges rising in the distance. Looking north, it was the complete opposite—nothing but flatlands stretching endlessly.

At the time, I didn’t realize that Venezuela, just a few miles away, held the largest proven oil reserves in the world. That piece of information later put a lot into perspective. Our Forward Surgical Team was there to medically support the 7th Special Forces Group, who were training the Colombian Army in tactics and counterinsurgency operations. Their main opposition consisted of two leftist guerrilla groups—the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) and the National Liberation Army (ELN)—both of which were active in the region and often clashed with government forces.

After my rotation back to the United States, I fully expected to be nominated for the Joint Service Medal, or whichever award applied to those serving alongside allied foreign forces. Unfortunately, that never happened. Communication with my point of contact faded away, which was disappointing because it would have been a rare distinction for someone in my field. Very few medical laboratory technologists (MOS 68K) ever had a Joint Service Medal in their records, and it would have looked great for promotion.

During my time in Colombia, I experienced one of the few moments in my 23-year military career when I truly thought I might be killed. It happened on what seemed like an ordinary day—just another mail and supply pickup from the inbound flight from Bogotá. I was the only medical soldier, joined by three Special Forces operators from the 7th Group.

As we were loading the last bit of supplies into our Humvee, a massive explosion suddenly went off about fifty yards away from us.

Our training kicked in instantly. We set up a quick perimeter, secured the area as best we could, and then jumped into the Humvee, racing back toward camp to report what had happened. I was in the passenger seat as we tore down that rough dirt road inside the Colombian Army base, bouncing hard over every dip and rut. All I could think about was getting home—to my family and my hometown in New Mexico. It was a frightening, humbling moment that reminded me just how fragile life could be, even during what seemed like a routine mission.

When we arrived back at camp, the soldiers were already in their bunkers, weapons ready, scanning the perimeter. My boss—a lieutenant colonel and medical doctor—called for an immediate meeting. The four of us who had been in the Humvee quickly briefed him on what had happened, then went to our assigned bunkers to stay on alert. We waited in silence for about an hour, uncertain if another attack was coming.

Eventually, the all-clear was given. We regrouped, went over the details of the explosion, and confirmed that everyone was safe. That was one of those moments that stays with you—the kind that reminds you how unpredictable deployments can be, and how close danger sometimes comes without warning.

When I later transferred to Bogotá for the final six months of my tour, it felt like entering another world. I worked inside the U.S. Embassy, coordinating medical supplies, assisting with military readiness evaluations, and managing logistical support for American and Colombian personnel. The Embassy compound was heavily fortified and surrounded by tall concrete walls topped with razor wire—an island of U.S. order in the middle of a sprawling Latin American city.

The Embassy was guarded by U.S. Marines, who maintained strict security around the clock. To enter certain parts of the compound, you had to pass through metal detectors, and in secure zones, no phones or electronic devices were allowed. It was a highly controlled environment where every movement had a purpose, every hallway felt deliberate, and every visitor was logged and verified.

Compared to Saravena, it felt almost luxurious: paved streets, organized schedules, restaurants, and city noise instead of jungle sounds. I even had the chance to purchase my first tailored business suit, something I’d never owned before. After months of living out of duffel bags and sleeping under mosquito nets, standing in front of a mirror in a Bogotá tailor shop felt surreal—a reminder that I was returning to the professional side of military life.

About two weeks before I was set to transfer to Bogotá, the Special Forces soldiers had finally managed to hook up hot water at our Saravena camp. For the first time in months, we could have taken a warm shower. But I didn’t indulge. I told myself I’d save that moment for Bogotá—and for a real hotel.

And that first hot shower I had saved for? It nearly scalded me. My body wasn’t used to hot water anymore after months of bathing in nothing but cold showers. I remember laughing to myself as the steam filled the bathroom, realizing that even comfort takes getting used to after you’ve gone without it for so long.

Looking back, that ten-month assignment taught me a lot about perspective. Saravena taught me humility and caution—the kind that comes from knowing how quickly things can turn dangerous. Bogotá reminded me of professionalism and diplomacy—the quiet side of service that requires patience and discipline. Together, they shaped how I understood leadership under pressure: it isn’t about rank or medals; it’s about steadiness when everything around you could fall apart.