Were it not for a fateful game night in the summer of '74, I might never have ended up living next to a dictator. Dad's college buddy cornered him after a rousing game of Boggle and put his spiritual finger in his chest called him a wimp for not stepping up and leading his family as God intended.
Fortunately (or unfortunately), Dad's friend held the golden ticket—two of them, actually—offering admission to Bill Gothard's Institute in Basic Life Principles in Ocean Grove, New Jersey. Think of it as a fundamentalist boot camp for the spiritually scrawny.12 After the seminar, our lives took a complete 180-degree turn: no more movie theaters, Mom donned modest dress, and Psalty the Singing Songbook became the soundtrack of our lives (if you know, you know).
Freshly fired up for Jesus, Dad ditched his career path in math and physics, answering a higher call to become a missionary pilot. After a stint at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, soaking up Scripture and altimeter readings, he bought us a big yellow school bus instead of a moving van, proceeded to pile up all our belongings, and pointed it south toward Elizabethton, TN, for his final exam. He fell short by just one spot, and off we trundled back to my grandparents' place in Western New York on a bus ride of shame.
There, Dad played janitor at Elim Bible Institute, where my grandfather served as president of an epicenter for a Pentecostal movement known as the New Order of the Latter Rain. Dad licked his wounds while restoring VW bugs in the body shop, buying spare parts off an old youth pastor with the same hobby. He painted them his signature Saturn yellow and got so good he could pull a motor and swap it out in under an hour. Things were going fine with his side hustle. Dad even picked up a job as a school administrator at the local Baptist school. One day, his competition played another wimp card, telling dad he wasn't trusting God for money; he was trusting Volkswagen. Dad was feeling like a round peg in a square hole, he left yet another job, and off we were off to Indiana for a go at the mission field.
In the mid-80s, Suriname (pronounced: Soo-ree-nahm) was home to two distinct types of headhunters. The first variety, deep in the Amazon along the Marowijne River, fancied boiling their enemies' heads, hearts, and hands in forty-five-gallon drums as part of a voodoo tincture to extract their intelligence. The second type was just your run-of-the-mill corporate variety, chasing after seminary grads in Central Indiana, promising them a shot at real action on the mission field.
On May 10, 1985, an advertisement in "Word Alive" (or some other Wycliffe Bible Translators magazine) snared my dad, a week before he was set to graduate from seminary with a double master's in divinity and education. The gig? Principal for a school in transition, formerly owned by manufacturing giant ALCOA Aluminum out of Pittsburgh.
The mission board saw the world as comprised of three types of countries. Freedom-loving, capitalistic Western countries—like America and Holland were number one—first-world countries. Then came second-rate nations run by communists, and finally, the third kind (apparently worse than communists, which I didn’t know was possible), who didn’t take sides at all and opted to stay neutral and independent. Suriname fell into that third world variety.
The prospect of a tropical adventure was a welcome break from Dad’s usual drudgery. He adhered to the Biblical mandate of neither a lender nor a borrower be. So, he studied Hebrew flashcards by day, and took a job slithering through crawl spaces laced with raw sewage, used condoms, and hypodermic needles, fixing frozen pipes in the dead of winters by night. That allowed him to pay cash for seminary while barely covering Christian school tuition for four kids. On Saturday mornings, he’d catnap at the stoplights during trips to the plumb supply store, “Wake me up when the light turns green.”
The day after graduation, he hopped one of only ten flights a week flying out of Miami into the capital city of Paramaribo (pronounced: PAR-uh-MAR-ih-boh). The majority of them were fully booked, and confirmed reservations were practically worthless. To complicate matters further, Dad had no visa. When I curiously inquired, "How did you manage to secure a visa to Suriname in under a week?" He offered a wry smile, "You know, that's an excellent question. I'm not quite sure myself. It certainly helps to have connections."
I reminded him of the time two months later when Senator Jesse Helms expedited a visa for Mark, my older brother, under similar last-minute circumstances. With a laugh, he clarified, "We didn't personally know Jesse, but we had friends who did.” Evangelicals had our own little secret society. Just look for the ichthus symbol on the business card or watch for those saying grace before dinner in the restaurant.3
As the crowded flight began its descent into Zanderij International Airport, dad glanced beyond the window, to the rusted hull of a ship named the Goslar laying on its side beneath the waters of Paramaribo's harbor. This sunken merchant vessel, scuttled by its own German crew to avoid capture. Up ahead, nestled amidst dense jungle, dad stared at a runway of historical significance. This airstrip, another relic of World War II, was crafted by the Allies as a strategic base, sufficiently removed from the reach of Nazi U-boat projectiles that sought access to the country’s strategic bauxite reserves.
More recently, the airstrip had gained strategic importance for President Reagan's MX Missile program. Five years earlier, two EC135s—essentially souped-up 707s of the United States Air Force (USAF)—made their descent into Suriname. These were airborne command centers, bristling with top-tier 1980s technology for military communications, satellite tracking, and overseeing the flight paths of missiles. These aircraft were also crucial for maintaining satellite communication over the South Atlantic's radio dead zone. At that time, the former Dutch colony was amenable to the occasional U.S. pop in. Following each satellite launch, two of these EC135s would stop into Paramaribo after collecting satellite film in the Azores.
On the night of February 25, 1980, everything changed. Two of these aircraft landed. Their crew—13 per aircraft—deplaned and decided to stretch their legs in the city before turning in. But on this fateful day, Suriname's fate was being rewritten. At dawn, Suriname's skies were lit not by the typical Chinese New Year fireworks of that month, but by the cold gleam of a coup d'état. Under the cloak of darkness, sixteen non-commissioned officers (NCOs)—barely more than a football team—seized control over an ammunition bunker. Armed with an arsenal of three hunting rifles, pellet guns, a starter pistol, heavy wire cutters, several packs of fireworks, two rolls of rope, and sixteen knives—ill-suited even for an Ocean’s 11 heist—they overthrew the corrupt regime of Prime Minister Henck Arron.
As the cries of rebellion echoed through the streets, the situation at army headquarters escalated rapidly. The roar of Quad-50s—a quartet of .50 caliber guns on wheels—was deployed to suppress the NCO uprising, a stark declaration that the revolt would not go unchallenged. Meanwhile, the river hosted its own bizarre spectacle: a naval patrol boat, tracing figure-eights like a drunken ballerina, lobbing phosphorus grenades at the police station in a desperate bid to liberate a trio of incarcerated sergeants who’d failed in an earlier coup. This onslaught resulted in a blaze that claimed four lives, a "relatively bloodless" affair by intelligence standards, yet a tragedy for those mourning the lost.
Meanwhile, the twenty-six American flight crew found themselves unwitting extras in a coup's screenplay, with two highly valuable and classified aircraft parked at the airport, just as the Sergeant's coup reached its peak. Adding to the complexity, Hindu radio, observing the planes' arrival, speculated that the CIA was involved in the coup.
The situation at the airport, now under the control of the insurrectionists, grew tense. The new rulers issued a stern warning: any attempt to move the aircraft would be met with gunfire. Coordinating the crew's safe return to the airport proved challenging amidst the chaos. Eventually, after navigating numerous obstacles and communication barriers, contact was established with the military HQ. The urgency was apparent—those planes needed to depart immediately.
Former pig farmer Desi Bouterse, now in command, was astute and multilingual. In Suriname, they called him a “wakaman,” a street-smart hustler extraordinaire— someone who knew which way the geopolitical winds blew and how to tilt his sails. His NATO training taught him that clashing with the Surinamese government was one matter, but provoking the American eagle was not a fight he was likely to win. Bouterse personally assured the safety of the American crew, arranging a rendezvous point for their unharmed departure.
As Dad's shoes hit the tarmac, it was tough to tell whether the humidity or his nerves made breathing more difficult. Glancing around the airport, he noticed that most other six-foot-two, blonde-haired, blue-eyed men, resembling Mormon missionaries, had already departed the country. A third of the entire population left the country for the Netherlands in 1975 when Suriname voted for independence. Many more left after the coup. He felt like Valentine Michael Smith felt arriving to Earth from Mars in Heinlein's “Stranger in a Strange Land” that he'd read as a child.
Two large—or hulking, as Dad described them—Black men greeted him and said they would be his escorts into town. One offered to carry his luggage, while the other extended his hand in greeting. As they boarded the bus for a drive through the two-lane road that cut through the pitch-black jungle, a thought occurred to my dad: "They could easily mug me and turn me into alligator bait! No one would find my body for days, months—maybe ever!"
The man riding shotgun turned around. "You American, like Rocky? Or Soviet, like Drago?"
The driver jabbed the air a few times and flashed a smile. Surinamese theaters offered both types of movies: Stallone and Schwarzenegger.
Dad nodded and offered a half-smile. "U.S.A. The good guys!"
The driver laughed and turned his face to the road. "No good guys. Both big enough to do what you want."
A pair of headlights double-flashed as a metro bus pulled into oncoming traffic, passing a man on a moped with a cow riding pillion. Dad grabbed the "oh shoot" handle as his driver calmly skirted onto the shoulder, kicking up dust and bits of gravel.
The driver laughed. "See," thumbing at the honking bus screaming by, "big enough to do what you want."
When the group reached the edge of the city limits, the driver pulled off the road nowhere near the hotel. Both men got out and entered a building where a party was going on from the sounds of things. Left alone with the night sounds of croaking Surinamese toads and hooting black-banded owls, my dad’s monkey mind started to chatter: This is your chance to escape! Grab your luggage and go!
Then, it occurred to him: he knew no one in the country. He didn't even know how to operate the pay phones or speak to an operator. So he trusted God and waited. Soon the men returned and drove him to his hotel, where his contact with Wycliffe was staying.
That summer, Libyans entered the U.S. national psyche as gun-toting terrorists. Just thirteen months earlier, a female police officer named Yvonne Fletcher had been gunned down in broad daylight outside the Libyan embassy in London while investigating protesters of Muammar Gaddafi. So, it didn’t help anything when the following morning, my dad's hosts drove him to see what was happening near his new office.
Next door to the newly organized American Cooperative School were plans for a Libyan cultural center—built and funded by Colonel Gaddafi. After the Dutch canceled a $2.7 billion foreign aid package to Suriname, Bouterse only had 4 months left before the country ran out of money. Gaddafi loaned Desi Bouterse $100 million, but loans always come with strings attached. The terms of Gaddafi's loan included plans for a Libyan military training complex near the Brazilian border, raising concerns among Suriname's French Guianan neighbors.
According to an article the following year by the Washington Post by Jack Anderson and Dale Van Atta, Gaddafi sent more than 200 advisers to Suriname; in return, he asked for Surinamese passports for his international assassination squads. So, Bouterse got his money, and Suriname's national army, their Death Squad, and the People's Militia received training alongside the Libyans, including Bouterse’s personal bodyguard, Ronnie Brunswijk.
To maintain Dad’s focus on the job's perks, his hosts drove him a block east to tour the principal’s accommodations. It was a low-rise home with jalousie windows covered in white wrought iron burglar bars. ALCOA offered to throw in a gardener and maid (who doubled as a cook) for the first year if he took the job. Dad told them he’d pray on it and talk to Mom. But, by then, he was no longer a wimp. The Gothard Institute had done its job in beefing up Dad’s conviction and spiritual muscles. We arrived in Suriname in August of 1985, the same month as 60 Libyan military advisors.
The month after my father returned to the States, a peculiar advertisement appeared in the New York Times "Herald Tribune," targeting individuals with a specific skill set and ideological lean:
"We are looking for men with military experience who are willing to protect businesses, factories, institutions, and hospitals against sabotage and communist guerrilla activities. Those with experience in guerrilla warfare will be preferred. Successful missions will be well paid." Interested individuals were instructed to contact the Ansus Foundation, P.O. Box 3493, Amsterdam.4
Four thousand miles away, in Frankfurt, Germany, the intrepid journalist Jürgen Roth came across the advertisement. He was deeply engrossed in investigating connections between Opus Dei, a right-wing Catholic organization, and arms dealers. An arms dealer in Germany, known by the code name "Wenzel," informed him about a group of exiled politicians planning to forcefully return to power in an unnamed South American country. They promised substantial rewards through the exploitation of the country's resources to those providing the necessary coup funding. The plans were laid out in detail, including the strategy for seizing the capital. Only the financing was pending.
Sensing a link, Roth drafted a response to the advertisement:
"A friend from London informed me that you are seeking individuals with military expertise. I would like to receive more information about the job you are offering."
In August 1985, he received a generic reply, dated July 17th, outlining a scenario of a beautiful country endowed with natural resources, yet oppressed under dictatorial rule and subjected to communism, leaving its population disenfranchised. The letter from the Ansus Foundation articulated a desire to counteract communism and liberate the population from tyranny, inviting cooperation to restore democracy, albeit admitting a lack of immediate funds for compensation.
The chairman of the Ansus Foundation, "Mr. John," extended an enticing proposal: a payment of "65 dollars per hour" for the assignment, with an additional "100 dollars" during "action time."
These details closely mirrored the information provided by "Wenzel," despite the Ansus Foundation's letter not specifying the target government. Nonetheless, the references to the population size, natural resources, a call for "liberation from communism," and the foundation's Dutch operation base corroborated "Wenzel's" insights. It was unmistakably Suriname.
Gothard and his brand of Christianity were featured prominently in the documentary "Shiny Happy People: Duggar Family Secrets."
Asbury Park Press. “Institute Uses The Word To Help Young People.” June 15, 1974. https://www.newspapers.com/clip/92882953/institute-uses-the-word-to-help-young/
Helms sat on the Committee on Foreign Relations with Senator Joe Biden and Mitch McConnell. Helms thought they spoke Spanish in Suriname—they didn't. .
Jürgen Roth. Makler des Todes: Waffenhändler packen aus. Hamburg: Rasch und Röhring, 1986. 26.
Spot on: “The driver laughed and turned his face to the road. ‘No good guys. Both big enough to do what you want.’”
I can remember first learning of Bill Gothard and his three ring binders when I was still a pious Pentecostal in around 1973 or 74. Even then he seemed like nothing more than a hardcore patriarchal authoritarian. In retrospect, I think I felt that he lacked any spiritual life. He was probably a response to the rise of feminism which undermined patriarchal authority. How did your mother respond to the patriarchal thumb? I had a number of Southern friends who thought Gothard was fantastic.