Read Online Cocaina: A Book on Those Who Make It by Magnus Linton, John Eason - Free Book Online
Authors: Magnus Linton, John Eason
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— tall, thin, and blonde — and can conquer with frivolous purchases and shows of wealth.
The term traqueto refers to a culture as much as to a certain type of person, and as dawn draws closer the more traqueto the atmosphere becomes, as silicone and gold pour out of stretched limos to mingle with the flashpackers. Most of the ordinary Colombians, who like their pot but are bored with coke, have left the scene, knowing that the early-morning hours are devoted to this strange ménage à trios: dressed-down travellers, dressed-up traquetos , and minimally dressed prepagos — a disparate combination to the eye, but all three happily united around the club’s white gold and its ability to provide total, instant gratification.
All of a sudden a police van rolls into the parking lot. Two officers step out. They just happen to stop in the middle of a line of people entering the club, right in front of a girl wearing high heels and a tight dress. The officers walk two laps around their vehicle, one stopping for a few seconds to rub his neck as he surveys the scene, pondering over his and his colleague’s institutionalised degradation. Once they are done, they climb back into their van and head off against the light.
Håkan is now rummaging through one of the vendor’s boxes, but does not find what he wants. Suddenly he remembers something and happily blurts out, ‘Right!’ He maneuvers the battery out of his mobile phone. Voila! Enclosed between the interworks, like a pressed white flower, is an ecstasy tablet. After a night of incessant cocaine use, his teeth rattle like a child in the morning cold as he sticks the pill in his mouth and mutters, ‘Mother’s Day, Mother’s Day … haaave to call.’ He snaps the battery back in. Switches the phone on. Finds his mother’s number and hits ‘call’.
Standing straight, his eyes fixated on the club entrance, where a stream of high-spirited traquetos and drab gringos enter and exit, Håkan rings his mother’s phone, on the other side of the world. He waits.
From the air, Medellín resembles a vulva: a river runs from north to south like a slit cutting the oval city into two halves. Over the past 50 years, this place has been the site of a vast number of recurrent cycles of violence, at the root of which lies all sorts of patriarchal desires, especially the desire for control. The ultimate guarantor of this has always been physical strength, and weapons in particular. And the vicious cycles seem ongoing. Given the subtle symbiotic relationship between the mafia and both the upper and lower stratas of society, it stands to reason that the city has not only become more attractive and a safer bet for a wide range of investors, but also a highlight on ‘the cocaine trail’. It is incredibly well suited to the avant-garde of postmodern backpacking; a thrilling but safe stop for gringos, in a setting surrounded by gangsters, whores, and cocaine — sometimes with Mum only a phone call away.
But not now. Håkan lowers the phone. ‘Damn it. She’s not answering.’
GREEN GOLD
the carousel of war
‘Just eight years ago there wasn’t a coca plant in the region. Today there’s nothing else.’
— GRACIANO, COCA GROWER
SEVEN SMALL CANOES dance around in the water like pieces of flotsam. The arrival of the morning sun does nothing to alter the appearance of the jungle, beach, town, cliffs, sky, or people, all of which remain dark. Coal-grey clouds block out the day and, as usual, a light rain falls over those living by the Pacific. But suddenly a beam of light breaks through the grey and meets Leo’s glance.
‘ Vamos! ’ he says.
Each fisherman has his own canoe, and Leo’s, a hollowed-out tree stump like all the others, has a number of deep gashes in its sides where fishing lines can be fastened permanently. The lines are used to exhaust the beasts, which are as big as men, by dragging them through the water so they can more easily be knocked out and pulled into
The term traqueto refers to a culture as much as to a certain type of person, and as dawn draws closer the more traqueto the atmosphere becomes, as silicone and gold pour out of stretched limos to mingle with the flashpackers. Most of the ordinary Colombians, who like their pot but are bored with coke, have left the scene, knowing that the early-morning hours are devoted to this strange ménage à trios: dressed-down travellers, dressed-up traquetos , and minimally dressed prepagos — a disparate combination to the eye, but all three happily united around the club’s white gold and its ability to provide total, instant gratification.
All of a sudden a police van rolls into the parking lot. Two officers step out. They just happen to stop in the middle of a line of people entering the club, right in front of a girl wearing high heels and a tight dress. The officers walk two laps around their vehicle, one stopping for a few seconds to rub his neck as he surveys the scene, pondering over his and his colleague’s institutionalised degradation. Once they are done, they climb back into their van and head off against the light.
Håkan is now rummaging through one of the vendor’s boxes, but does not find what he wants. Suddenly he remembers something and happily blurts out, ‘Right!’ He maneuvers the battery out of his mobile phone. Voila! Enclosed between the interworks, like a pressed white flower, is an ecstasy tablet. After a night of incessant cocaine use, his teeth rattle like a child in the morning cold as he sticks the pill in his mouth and mutters, ‘Mother’s Day, Mother’s Day … haaave to call.’ He snaps the battery back in. Switches the phone on. Finds his mother’s number and hits ‘call’.
Standing straight, his eyes fixated on the club entrance, where a stream of high-spirited traquetos and drab gringos enter and exit, Håkan rings his mother’s phone, on the other side of the world. He waits.
From the air, Medellín resembles a vulva: a river runs from north to south like a slit cutting the oval city into two halves. Over the past 50 years, this place has been the site of a vast number of recurrent cycles of violence, at the root of which lies all sorts of patriarchal desires, especially the desire for control. The ultimate guarantor of this has always been physical strength, and weapons in particular. And the vicious cycles seem ongoing. Given the subtle symbiotic relationship between the mafia and both the upper and lower stratas of society, it stands to reason that the city has not only become more attractive and a safer bet for a wide range of investors, but also a highlight on ‘the cocaine trail’. It is incredibly well suited to the avant-garde of postmodern backpacking; a thrilling but safe stop for gringos, in a setting surrounded by gangsters, whores, and cocaine — sometimes with Mum only a phone call away.
But not now. Håkan lowers the phone. ‘Damn it. She’s not answering.’
GREEN GOLD
the carousel of war
‘Just eight years ago there wasn’t a coca plant in the region. Today there’s nothing else.’
— GRACIANO, COCA GROWER
SEVEN SMALL CANOES dance around in the water like pieces of flotsam. The arrival of the morning sun does nothing to alter the appearance of the jungle, beach, town, cliffs, sky, or people, all of which remain dark. Coal-grey clouds block out the day and, as usual, a light rain falls over those living by the Pacific. But suddenly a beam of light breaks through the grey and meets Leo’s glance.
‘ Vamos! ’ he says.
Each fisherman has his own canoe, and Leo’s, a hollowed-out tree stump like all the others, has a number of deep gashes in its sides where fishing lines can be fastened permanently. The lines are used to exhaust the beasts, which are as big as men, by dragging them through the water so they can more easily be knocked out and pulled into
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