Whilst Gen chases birds, I've loosened my tongue in the local lingo to wander off and meet some locals to hear stories of jagged experiences. Nothing too detailed, of course, just snippets on the wing.
An indigenous park operative in the Amazon region, set up a reserve after she lost her husband to bandit invaders, mostly illegal loggers, goldminers, hunters or similar. She made a hugely appreciated success of the wildlife refuge, so much so, she was entered in a global conservation competition which had a first prize of US$10,000. She won, and her bosses bathed themselves in glory. For the prizegiving ceremony in Paris, only the 4 top executives of the conservation enterprise made the trip as a jolly to receive the prize, and then pocketed the money. The real winner never saw a cent.
We passed some real luxury pads on a giant scale, tucked away in the mountains outside Cali where we were tracking birds, not kilos of nefarious substances. These were the lairs of the kingpin narcos who tossed around fabulous sums of money, tons of blow, offed competitors like straws in the wind, and met their ends at the turn of the century either at the hands of local rivals or in a duel to the end between the warring Cali and Medellín kingpins killed on sight if they strayed out of their territories. The deluxe lairs have now passed into private hands. The most enormous complex we saw was a ruin, half-finished, as a monument at the end of the era, when the creator did a runner or did he?
If a player wanted to leave the business, it was too dangerous for the accomplices to let him go, so he was killed. If he surrendered to the local law, known for swift retribution, he disappeared in neat pieces. The only viable exit to keep breathing, was to get yourself into the US justice system voluntarily to do time.
A local gent took on the government contract to maintain a road. However he pocketed half for private delectation. Another local raised his head above the parapet and complained. A month or so later, in the evening, a posse of motorbikes arrived in the complainant's front garden for some target practice. The complainant escaped in his car, followed in hot pursuit by the assailants whose propulsion was more nimble, so he reckoned he was done for. Just as they were about to get him, he rounded a steep bend, crashed through a fence into a deep depression in a field favoured by cows, and lay low. The pursuers shot round the bend, missed him, but the lesson meted out was enough to buy his silence.
More than rumour has it that the small fish, wheelers and dealers nowadays of noxious substances are kept at untraceable, hence easily deniable, multi-layered arm's length from the top rung politicos who pull the strings. It was ever so across South America.
For dessert, some toilet humour. Feeling the call of nature, I entered the Medellín airport casi rapido. In the cubicle next to me was a Colombiano having an animated conversation with his amigo maybe brother about a lady with substantial attributes he valued mucho. Inadvertently I let a truly epic, atomic one fly, the voluble flow of conversation came to an immediate, stunned silence. Yes, I was laughing so much I barely kept my balance on the throne. I'm still laughing.
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Colombia, Stories, Anecdotes
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