Read Online Cocaina: A Book on Those Who Make It by Magnus Linton, John Eason - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Magnus Linton, John Eason
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past.
Leo’s wet arms glisten as he gazes out to sea longingly. For the last 20 years he has been taking his canoe out at 5.00 a.m. six days a week, in the hopes of catching one, two, or three marlin, the mighty swordfish of the Pacific Ocean, and selling them in town for 20,000 pesos, 11 USD, each. But for a while now he has been crossing his fingers every morning, hoping that he will soon be able to leave this profession behind and spend his time drinking beer and watching television, activities he would like to indulge in once he has met with the same good fortune as the many other villagers whose prayers have been answered.
As the rain subsides, the men reach the area where marlin always congregate in abundance. This place is the primary source of income for the village, a small circle in the green sea where the loyal fish come every morning just to be caught. And so it has been from year’s end to year’s end. Their well of food is a blessing, but the problem here is that the quiet lifestyle, filled with repetition, gets boring. Nothing ever changes. Yesterday and tomorrow are always the same as today, while the people in Pozón dream about doing the things they see others do on television: driving around in cars, going to the movies, shopping, studying.
Shadows from a flock of pelicans overhead pass over the water like a rolling chain just above the surface. Yet again, Leo searches the approaching waves. Up to now he has always come back empty-handed, apart from fish. ‘All the same, I feel good. Maybe it’ll be my turn today.’
POZÓN IS JUST one of the many villages in Colombia where every absurd facet of the modern cocaine complex is represented. The town’s fate was determined by its location on the largest smuggling route in the world, and whether they like it or not, the inhabitants have been subjected to the consequences of drug trafficking, thanks to all the valuable cargo that floats ashore and somehow has to be dealt with.
The first time cargo drifted ashore was more than two decades ago, when the villagers still hadn’t developed the more modern sense of commerce that would later refine their way of handling it. Pozón is located in Chocó, the poorest region in Colombia, and is just as cut off from the rest of the country socially and culturally as it is geographically. More than 70 per cent of los chocoanos are illiterate — three times the national average — and since 1819, when the Republic of Colombia was established, the central government has ignored the region in every respect, with the exception of the military. But gold prospectors, gem hunters, and loggers have occasionally, with the blessing of the state, come out every now and then from the white interior with their private mini-armies, and, convinced of being on a holy crusade, executed the few savages who have dared to stand in their way. This is how it still works today, though now cocaine is the cause of bloodshed and the guerrillas have become yet another stakeholder. Wise from experience and naturally sceptical of the state, many chocoanos have difficulty in identifying as Colombians, and whether they are the descendants of slaves or indigenous people, cooperation and collectivism have, for better or worse, been their only means of survival.
When the inhabitants of Pozón gradually became aware of what the strange goods bobbing up from the sea were, they sold it all to Leopoldo — the only man in the village who expressed an interest — for a song. It still seemed quite a sizeable amount to the fishermen, who were not used to handling large sums of money, and after sharing the cash, weeklong parties broke out in the village. No one went fishing again until a food shortage caused the women and children of the town to revolt. Once the money gave out, it was a return to the toils of everyday life.
Today the village still consists of little more than a muddy collection of shacks. The place is surrounded by tropical
Leo’s wet arms glisten as he gazes out to sea longingly. For the last 20 years he has been taking his canoe out at 5.00 a.m. six days a week, in the hopes of catching one, two, or three marlin, the mighty swordfish of the Pacific Ocean, and selling them in town for 20,000 pesos, 11 USD, each. But for a while now he has been crossing his fingers every morning, hoping that he will soon be able to leave this profession behind and spend his time drinking beer and watching television, activities he would like to indulge in once he has met with the same good fortune as the many other villagers whose prayers have been answered.
As the rain subsides, the men reach the area where marlin always congregate in abundance. This place is the primary source of income for the village, a small circle in the green sea where the loyal fish come every morning just to be caught. And so it has been from year’s end to year’s end. Their well of food is a blessing, but the problem here is that the quiet lifestyle, filled with repetition, gets boring. Nothing ever changes. Yesterday and tomorrow are always the same as today, while the people in Pozón dream about doing the things they see others do on television: driving around in cars, going to the movies, shopping, studying.
Shadows from a flock of pelicans overhead pass over the water like a rolling chain just above the surface. Yet again, Leo searches the approaching waves. Up to now he has always come back empty-handed, apart from fish. ‘All the same, I feel good. Maybe it’ll be my turn today.’
POZÓN IS JUST one of the many villages in Colombia where every absurd facet of the modern cocaine complex is represented. The town’s fate was determined by its location on the largest smuggling route in the world, and whether they like it or not, the inhabitants have been subjected to the consequences of drug trafficking, thanks to all the valuable cargo that floats ashore and somehow has to be dealt with.
The first time cargo drifted ashore was more than two decades ago, when the villagers still hadn’t developed the more modern sense of commerce that would later refine their way of handling it. Pozón is located in Chocó, the poorest region in Colombia, and is just as cut off from the rest of the country socially and culturally as it is geographically. More than 70 per cent of los chocoanos are illiterate — three times the national average — and since 1819, when the Republic of Colombia was established, the central government has ignored the region in every respect, with the exception of the military. But gold prospectors, gem hunters, and loggers have occasionally, with the blessing of the state, come out every now and then from the white interior with their private mini-armies, and, convinced of being on a holy crusade, executed the few savages who have dared to stand in their way. This is how it still works today, though now cocaine is the cause of bloodshed and the guerrillas have become yet another stakeholder. Wise from experience and naturally sceptical of the state, many chocoanos have difficulty in identifying as Colombians, and whether they are the descendants of slaves or indigenous people, cooperation and collectivism have, for better or worse, been their only means of survival.
When the inhabitants of Pozón gradually became aware of what the strange goods bobbing up from the sea were, they sold it all to Leopoldo — the only man in the village who expressed an interest — for a song. It still seemed quite a sizeable amount to the fishermen, who were not used to handling large sums of money, and after sharing the cash, weeklong parties broke out in the village. No one went fishing again until a food shortage caused the women and children of the town to revolt. Once the money gave out, it was a return to the toils of everyday life.
Today the village still consists of little more than a muddy collection of shacks. The place is surrounded by tropical
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