(Editor’s note: This article was originally published in the July/August edition of Vacaville Magazine, and is reprinted here with permission of the author and the magazine.)
The bellows of macaws, parrots, and an occasional howler monkey rang out as the open-air truck traversed the dirt road through the dense jungle. The heat of the sun was tempered by a canopy of clouds, while ardent humidity enveloped the group on a November day in 1978. Dreams this day might come had kept them going. They were now released by their captor, but it was impossible to trust and believe it was true. Many who left before them had been killed. Could they make it to the Port Kaituma airstrip, and simply fly away? As each moment brought them closer to freedom, Thom Bogue struggled to push down his rising fear.
Every passing mile ignited deeper hope in his soul, while trepidation still held onto his heart. Maybe this was their way out after all. After thwarted escape attempts, and their resultant humiliation and torture, this 17-year-old was willing to risk death to be free from the tyranny of Jim Jones and the Peoples Temple. The freed rebels included other members of his family—his mom, dad, two older sisters (one other was left behind), a few handfuls of defectors, Congressman Leo Ryan, and his Congressional Entourage.
Thom ruminated on what led him and his family to this fateful day.
In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, the streets of America were erupting with protests against Vietnam. There were assassinations, violence, and unrest, leading many people to seek security and peace in religion. Thom was five-years-old when he was introduced to the Jim Jones way through his parents and grandparents who sought solace in Jones’ biblical preaching. They found a sense of comradery as they embraced his teachings and their fellow followers. The goal at first, was to erase lines of division such as racism, and cooperatively become their own private society. The Peoples Temple went beyond the boundaries of a standard church, providing such things as automotive, laundry, and attorney services for the members in Redwood Valley, California. Over time, this led to the development of a commune and the turning over of funds to the church to support it.
Jim Jones’ enthralling, dynamic delivery, and charismatic persona drew many parishioners. Even as a child, Thom remembers being taken in by his message and style. His early sermons began with the preaching of the Bible, and over time were perverted into self-serving addresses blending Christianity with socialist and communist ideology, setting Jones as the ultimate authority. His followers were slowly turned from the worship of God, to the divinity of Jones. His devotees began to call him Father.
When Thom was around 8-years-old, his mom was promoted to the inner circle, a select group known as the Peoples Council or the Planning Commission. This was nothing to be taken lightly; true allegiance to Jones and his cause had to first be proven. By the time he was 12, Thom’s dad had enough of Jones’ twisting of reality, and was prepared to leave the church and take his children with him. Jones had built-in a safety for just such occasions. He had directed all in the congregation, including the kids, to sign blank pieces of paper. Everyone did, including Thom’s dad, not understanding how this would come back to later hurt him. When he expressed his intent to leave, Jones and the district attorney who attended the church, came to him with this piece of paper he had signed. No longer blank, it detailed a falsified statement saying he had raped his own children. He was invited to go to prison based on his “confession” or join others in Jones’ newly-create utopia in Guyana. Not to worry, he was promised his children would be sent to him later.
Thom explained what Jones had convinced many followers. “’We are building a place where we can be left alone. We will have our own utopian society—live under our own rules.’ Jones would show movie clippings/home movies about what it looked like. This was after they had already cleared areas and put up some buildings and planted some bananas. They showed the flowers that people buy here, that were growing wild there, and pictures of macaws, parrots and things that were natural to the habitat. They really played it out like a fantastic place to go.”
Jonestown, as it became known, was established in Guyana, 150 miles from the capitol in Georgetown. It was an isolated destination, six miles from the air strip, and surrounded on all sides by dense jungle. Jones leased a tract of land—3,852 acres—for a mere 25 cents per acre per year ($1,000 annually) for 25 years. The Guyanese government was happy to have American presence in this politically strategic spot, near their disputed border with Venezuela, serving to quell military invasion.
Thom’s mom had since given up on raising him through his rebellious years; and when he was 13, offered him to a southern black woman in the church named Dorothy Harris, who said she could, ‘straighten him out.’ “I lived at the end of a rubber garden hose many a time, but she never broke my spirit,” said Thom. From there, Thom and his make-shift family (Dorothy, another woman, and her daughter) moved into Jones’ commune.
Thom had a growing and substantiated fear of Jones, who had no qualms about “disciplining” his followers and their children. “If kids were messing up, he would introduce them to the green-eyed monster. It was one of those therapeutic muscle machines that work off of electrical impulses to make your muscles move, like a tens machines, but stronger. Jones would attach those to kids in a closed room and put the microphone at the bottom of the door so you couldn’t see what was going on, but you could hear, and they would start turning that unit up until the kid was screaming.”
It wasn’t a place you were free to come and go. Jones held those little blank pieces of paper everybody signed over their head, and worse: “If you left, he would prophesy about your death and then you would die.”
Thom’s waking hours became consumed with plans to escape this repressive lifestyle. By the time he was nearly 15, he had run away a couple of times, and it was decided he would be sent to Jonestown to be with his dad.
At first, he was thrilled to join the small group of around 20-25 people as an early settler of Jonestown. It was exciting and Thom couldn’t have been happier. His days were spent in school, and he did his share of hard work, then he had time to spend with friends. “We’d still have chicken and Pepsi, and similar stuff to what you’d have in the United States, just the Guyanese version of it. You had your weekends off, and I’d spend most of mine running around in the jungle exploring.”
After six months, people began arriving regularly from the United States, and the citizenry of Jonestown numbered in the hundreds. In San Francisco, reporters were digging into Jones, seeking to expose him and his operation. Allegations against Jones were made—those of torture, the refusal to let anyone leave, physical, sexual, and drug abuse, and mind control. As the heat was turned up, he sought refuge from the law in his namesake town in Guyana.
Thom was 16, and everything good abruptly ended when Jim Jones arrived on the scene.
His bend toward sadism took a foothold and grew into twisted and extreme forms of humiliation and torture. He had a depravation chamber built. He would put those who stepped out of line there for a week at a time. “It didn’t happen on a daily basis, but I would say at a minimum, monthly. You stepped in line pretty quick when you started seeing things happening to other people.” If anyone tried to stand up for another, including parents for their own children, they would suffer the same discipline, and the one they stood up for would get worse.
“Jim Jones was nuts.”
There was a six-year-old boy who got into trouble once and Jones waited until nightfall to have him thrown into a deep water-filled hole. Ropes were suspended down and swirled around while the torturers told him they were snakes brushing up against him. It was pitch black in the jungle so the little boy had no way of knowing the truth. The screams of the child were heard throughout the night as he was taunted mercilessly.
“Very discreetly, people talked about wanting to get out of there, because that (expressing a desire to leave) would bring immediate punishment. The punishments all happened in front of people.” Jones was in control of all aspects of his followers’ lives, for example, you would have to get approval from him to have any type of relationship at all. “There was this couple who were starting to have a relationship and Jones found out about it, so he put them on display in front of everybody.” He had them strip down and have relations on a table in front of the entire group. “Naturally the guy couldn’t perform.”
“There was one thing that stood out in my mind more than anything, it happened to this kid named Kenny. Kenny had gone to Georgetown, taking the shrimp boat that Jones owned at that time, to pick up supplies. While they were there, he got to go around Georgetown a little bit, which is the capitol of Guyana. But someone said that Kenny at one point was standing there basically with this hand over his privates, (an assumption was made) and they said he was trying to influence girls down there. As far as I know, he was just standing there one hand over another, relaxed.” As soon as they told Jones this, his discipline was to force him to pleasure himself with cayenne peppers in front of everyone. “I’ll never forget him dropping to his knees from the pain.”
The same evening, Thom had gotten into trouble simply because he ate a small watermelon he had grown from seed. He ate it without sharing, so he was instructed to dig a 9’ x 9’ x 9’ hole to be used as an outhouse. As he dug, he was rationed a gallon of water per day, and if he didn’t dig at least a foot per day, he did not get to eat. He decided he would run away, and worked to build a native-style house a mile out into the jungle. Someone eventually followed him, and the discovery awarded him the punishment of digging a 13’ x 13’ x 13’ pit.
To Thom’s delight, his friend, Brian Davis, from America, arrived one day. It seemed no one remembered the relationship they shared in the States, and the mischief they had gotten into, including running away from the commune. “We were like thieves in the night when we were in the United States. You couldn’t separate us. We were probably closer than any two brothers could be. After we greeted each other, I immediately told him all the things to watch out for. It had been awhile since we had last seen each other, and I was surprised at his arrival. However, within an hour, it was as though we had never been separated. I showed Brian around the compound and took him into the jungle to explore. Brian took to the jungle like I did. He learned a lot about what plants you could eat, what to stay away from, and what vines you could cut to get a fresh cold drink of water. Over time the jungle became a safe haven for us.”
Jones in the meantime, was devolving into a drug-riddled, obsessed tormentor, who used fear to control people and keep them off balance. Whenever it suited him, Jones would use false reports to create panic amongst the citizens. One particular night, as the community peacefully slept, an urgent call was bellowed into the darkness, “’White Night! White Night!’ Jones yelled over the loudspeaker. ‘We are under attack, everyone to the pavilion!’ Jim Jones was having another one of his paranoid moments, and we all had to meet in the pavilion to stave off the imaginary attackers.”
“We stayed for hours listening to his babble. This time something was different: we were all going to have to die!! We were all going to have to drink the cyanide-laced fruit drink. People were scared, trying to talk Jones out of it. Not this time, we were going to drink it and die! Brian and I were sitting on the ground off to the side of the podium, watching people freaking out but unable to run because of the guards. One-by-one, people lined up. That’s when Brian and I started snickering, because of what we knew. Jones turned to us. Uh oh! ‘What do you think is so funny about this? Answer me!’
‘Ah, ah, Father, we are just so happy to be able to lay down our lives,’ I replied.
Jones looked at us. ‘You are so brave. Look at these boys who understand the importance of what we are doing. Come up here and drink!’ And we did without hesitation! We knew it was all BS, as Brian worked in the kitchen and helped to make the drink and carry it up! He had already told me nothing was in it. It was a loyalty test. But it was also a signal of what was to come and we knew it. We just didn’t know when!”
Everything became too much. The periodic sadistic torture, lack of nourishing meals, (instead, rice and gravy three times a day), sleep deprivation, and being held captive, served to stoke the fires of the boys’ desire to run. They came up with a plan to escape to the jungle—hike 30 miles to a military base at Matthews Ridge, and eventually get help at the American Embassy in Guyana. The day came, and they packed up some gunny sacks and retreated to the cover of the jungle, traversing six miles toward freedom. Once their absence was noticed, search parties were sent out, resulting in their capture and return to Jonestown. When they got back, everyone was gathered at the pavilion shouting their disapproval, followed by a physical attack on the boys. Brian was hit in the head, and guards jumped on them, beating them to the ground. Then Jones commanded everyone to get up.
They turned their attention to finding a suitable punishment for their betrayal of Father, ultimately ending in the decision to chain and shackle the boys together, and require them to work 16 hours a day. “We were taken to the machine shop. They welded some bands onto the ends of a chain, then welded one end onto each of our ankles, chaining us together, burning blisters into our ankles as they couldn’t cool it down fast enough. I still have that scar today. It’s a keepsake and a reminder. After the shackles were put on, we were brought back for Jones’ approval. He thought it was great, burns and all. Off to bed we went. At 4 a.m., we were awakened by a guard who told us to get moving. He was armed with a shotgun, so we did.”
They were marched through the compound to the backside of a field and introduced to an 80-foot long tree, about three feet in diameter. Their job was to cut it into two-foot lengths. They didn’t mind it so much, as they were eating better than most, with a high protein diet which included eggs and meat. It took two weeks to complete the job. By this time, their ankles were infected with large sores forming. They were then stationed in the kitchen where the logs they cut had to be split into even smaller pieces. Three days in, Brian asked Thom to please hit his hand with a sledgehammer—anything to put an end to this. He was begging for a trip to the infirmary. Thom carefully brought the hammer down on his thumb, just breaking the skin. This led to the desired trip to the infirmary where the nurse took notice of the condition of their ankles. Soon, the shackles were removed, burning them once again with the grinder in the process. After a shower and medical treatment, their ankles took a month to heal.
Back in the U.S., concerned relatives who had survived the church stateside, reported their concerns for family members in Jonestown. They thought they were being held without their consent. Their attempts at communication were sketchy at best, and clearly monitored by authorities in Jonestown. Congressman Leo Ryan decided to journey to Guyana for a congressional inquiry, and made attempts to secure a time with Jones for a visit. Rebuffed at first, he was ultimately allowed to come. He determined to document what was going on, and brought along his aide, and several members of the media with cameras and recording equipment.
In Jonestown, preparations were hastily made for the performance of a lifetime, necessitated by Jones insistence the congressman wanted to destroy them. The community was prepped in how to respond to any questions asked by the congressman or anyone with him. They were instructed to maintain a positive attitude and relay the message they were happy and at peace, and to never approach anyone in the entourage on their own. Nothing to see here…
The day came and the act commenced. Most, when asked, communicated the message of tranquility to the visiting group. As a bonus to the citizens, the tired rice and gravy had been replaced with nutritious and tasty meals, so they were enjoying the change of pace. Meanwhile, Jones kept a watchful eye on interactions between reporters and those under his charge.
Despite his vigilance, two people managed to slip notes to those on the congressman’s team. Thom witnessed one such exchange. “I was up in the cottage area and I saw this elderly woman walk up to one of the reporters and hand them a note. Right then, at that very moment it was like oh s***, this is not good, because she was breaking all the rules! I didn’t know what was in the note, but I guessed. I went and told my dad, and he told me to go get my sisters, and my stuff. He was going to get my mom (though his parents were not together at the time).”
Fifteen members of the Jonestown settlement joined Congressman Ryan and his group in an attempt to flee Jim Jones’ maniacal tyranny. All Thom could think was, “When people left, they died.” He knew the insult and distress it must be causing Jones with several from his inner circle (Thom’s mom and stepdad) abandoning his jungle utopia. He looked around and spied Larry Layton, who he determined an unlikely defector. His vigilance and devotion to Jones undercut his declaration he wanted to leave. Why was he there?
Then the unthinkable happened. Just as they were all hopping on the truck to leave, in a violent encounter, an assailant held a knife to the congressman’s throat. Others quickly intervened, ending the life-threatening confrontation. Amidst the struggle, the attacker’s hand was cut, spattering blood on Ryan’s shirt, creating an ominous reminder of the tenuousness of their situation.
Arriving at the front gate, they were accosted by Joe Wilson, Jim Jones’ head of security. He was looking for his son amongst the defectors. (He was with his mom in another small escape group on a 30-mile journey to Matthew’s Ridge.) Satisfied his son was not with them, he let them pass without incident.
At the airstrip, a call was made for an additional plane to accommodate the entire group. It would be at least a couple of hours before the craft arrived. Tensions were high and all remained on alert as they waited through the grueling hours. Hopes lifted as an almost palpable relief permeated the group when the second plane taxied onto the small airfield.
As they began boarding the two planes, Thom noticed a trailer truck pull up on the side of the runway. In a moment, a hostile group of armed gunmen stood up and began shooting at them. People were screaming as the ambush went full scale. Larry Layton, on the small plane, shot two people on board (who survived), while those still on the tarmac were ruthlessly gunned down. Thom had one thought as he saw Patty Parks, the woman in front of him on the plane, shot and killed. “Close the door or die.” He jumped up and struggled with the cables holding the stairs until his sister, Teena, joined him in his efforts. This is when each was shot in the leg. Thom with a shotgun, and Teena a .22 caliber.
The lives of Congressman Leo Ryan, journalist Greg Robinson from The San Francisco Examiner, plus Bob Brown and Don Harris from NBC were mercilessly taken that day on the Port Kaituma airstrip.
After the killers had driven away, someone started screaming, “They’re coming back!” Thom knew but one thing. His dad had told him if anything happened to grab his sisters and run into the jungle. He, Teena, and the Parks kids fled, spending three days and two nights hiding out in fear of their lives. They had no way of knowing the horrific and nightmarish scene unfolding six miles away.
Once Jim Jones was informed his directives had been carried out—the congressman and others had been slain at the airfield, he decided there was but one course of action.
“White Night, White Night!”
Convinced there were mercenaries out to get them, Thom laid low. They slept under the coverage of leaves, in the ink-black darkness of the Guyanese jungle. One morning they awoke to the scent of cigarette smoke, and spying a soldier, they retreated to a nearby creek and submerged themselves, navigating with only their noses above water. Thankfully, piranha don’t enter the tributaries much.
They were headed anywhere but Jonestown.
Thom had lost half his calf and plenty of blood by the third day. He was delirious, but still ambling on. The sound of a generator drew them, then a familiar voice—an Indian friend of Thom’s calling out to him from a canoe. The kids revealed themselves and were taken by water back to Port Kaituma and Thom’s dad. Waiting for a rescue plane to take them to Georgetown, they spent the night sleeping in a bar.
Later, Thom learned of the Jonestown Massacre, the unholy event he had narrowly escaped with his life.
On November 18, 1978, over 900 Temple members (including 300 children) were summoned to the pavilion and instructed to drink a Kool-Aid like concoction as they had previously practiced.
This time was different.
The grape-flavored drink was a mixture laced with sodium cyanide and tranquilizer drugs, of which some drank willingly, while hundreds were forced by intimidation or injection. (While commonly referred to as Kool-Aid, from which the subsequent, “Drink the Kool-Aid” reference originated, it was likely Flavor Aid, a cheaper substitute.) Guards were stationed around the pavilion with the order to shoot any who tried to escape. A few died by gunshot to the head, including Jim Jones himself, though no one knows who fired the fateful shot.
Jones’ final instructions to his followers are preserved on tape. He barks out orders to parents to help their kids drink the deadly mixture first, then follow in kind. He ends with, “We committed an act of revolutionary suicide protesting the conditions of an inhumane world.”
Ironically, a stenciled sign (a variation on the quote attributed to philosopher George Santayana) hanging above Jim Jones’ chair in the pavilion read, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Thom Bogue has gone on to lead a happy life, married (with nine children), and has achieved success in the political field including a time as councilman, and Mayor of Dixon (2016-2020). He is currently the vice mayor and ran for the Senate last year.
Find out more about what happened at Jonestown on National Geographic’s television special.