I first passed through the area on the bike tour I took. I made a mental note to not cross Avenida Caracas in Chapinero if I didn’t have to. Then The Mick started taking me to the market for cheap food. I always hated going because the place is crawling with indigentes, bazuceros, stumble-bums, and drunks. After countless times going, I never stopped getting uncomfortable. I thought pictures or video of the area would be great for this blog, but I could never imagine stopping to take out a camera around all those dirty junkies. I even joined the conversation about 7 de agosto on Poorbuthappy, recommending tourists steer clear of the area.

I’ve been going to 7 de agosto alone for the last few months. I noticed a stark difference from before: there are no indigentes. None. I asked myself, “Why was I so nervous?” All the people around here are normal working Colombians – definitely not rich or even middle class, but nothing to be afraid of.  None of the filthy addicts and beggars I came to associate with the neighborhood were around anymore. What happened? Where’d they go?

I brought the issue up with some Chapinero neighbors and they all agreed. The scum of 7 de agosto seems to have disappeared. They said there must have been a limpieza – a social cleansing. Squads of police, military, paramilitary, or just vigilantes sweep through picking up the undesirables. They bring them to the mountains and shoot them, then dump them in the gullies where nobody will ever find them. Social cleansing is a well-known practice in Colombia and much of Latin America.

I usually use the word, indigente, to describe these people. Some are bazuceros and others borrachos, but they’re all indigentes. There’s another word in the local slang I don’t use: desechables. Disposables. Merriam Webster definition: subject to or available for disposal.

I heard of a well-known case from Barranquilla in the early 90s. The private security guards for the Universidad Libre were behind a massive for-profit limpieza. They drove vans around the city looking for vagrants. They told them they had loads of cardboard they needed to get rid of, which the vagrants could have if they just came and picked it up (recycling cardboard is one of their primary money-makers). Once the guards had the vagrants away from the streets, they killed them and sold their bodies to the university’s medical department. It was a major scandal. Source: Deadly ‘social cleansing’ hits Latino poor

Every article I found about social cleansing featured a quote from a citizen defending the practice. From that last article, a restaurant owner in downtown Bogota said:

“The social-cleansing violence stems from a lack of legal guarantees. We pay our industry and commerce taxes and the government is supposed to keep the streets lit and provide a safe atmosphere for business … But the government does not keep its part. It is incapable of fulfilling its role as the regulator of peaceful coexistence among citizens.”

Here’s a 1994 NY Times article on social cleansing in Colombia: Vigilantes in Colombia Kill Hundreds in a ‘Social Cleansing’. That article confirmed something else I heard about limpiezas, especially downtown. I’d heard that the groups sometimes announce their sweeps in a given neighborhood. They warn the junkies when and where they’re coming with signs plastered all over the streets. So the junkies who (A) can read and (B) are sober enough to read have a chance to escape. Here’s a quote from a political science professor at the national university:

“No state is viable with 30,000 homicides per year … Only 3 percent of those crimes go punished. Social-cleansing organizations spring up as a substitute for real justice.”

I’ve had some harsh words for the addicts of Bogota. Apparently, a lot of people dislike them more than I do. If I hated going to 7 de agosto because of them, imagine how much those local business owners hated them. It wouldn’t take much of an effort to take up a collection between those dozens of businesses to finance such a sweep. Maybe the business owners weren’t involved, but a group of police and military who felt it their civic duty. However it happened, the change in 7 de agosto is undeniable.

Here’s a recent tweet of mine (twitter.com/gringocolin):

A beggar came up WITH A BOTTLE OF GLUE IN HAND. He asked for change in between huffs. Unbelievable.

Social cleansing is obviously wrong and should be condemned. But to play devil’s advocate, I had often looked at some of these people and wondered why they don’t just kill themselves. It looks like many, many locals took that thought a step further. I just went to 7 de agosto today and concluded I’d have no problem whatsoever bringing my camera to take pictures or video. The only problem is there’s nothing interesting to take pictures of.

Revolution is a long shot. In Hong Kong I was studying for a Master’s degree in economics. None of my classmates seemed to have strong political views. Most took up economics because their parents told them to, or because they thought it would lead to a well paying job, or just for the prestige conferred by higher education – any subject would do.

I once attended a seminar on China’s one-child policy, where the guest speaker was a Hong Kong-born Ivy League professor. He explained its effects and stated that he thought the policy should be repealed. Chinese students rarely speak up in class, and never to contradict someone so distinguished. But surprisingly, a few classmates vehemently defended the one-child policy – because the buses and trains are so crowded.

Equally ridiculous was a question asked by a different professor who attended the seminar: “Could there possibly be multiple equilibrium points in regard to population?” Multiple equilibrium points? At any rate, Westerners may find the one-child policy abhorrent but many Chinese do not.

I’ve seen little of the political fanaticism necessary for government upheaval. The over-a-beer debates commonplace in the West don’t exist here, at least not in my presence. Yes, everyone in China knows about the Tiananmen Square incident and may even refer to it as a “massacre”. But I’ve also heard separatists in Tibet and Xinjiang described as “troublemakers”. The discussion usually stops there.

Once a group of Hong Kong students were complaining about how they couldn’t change their government by way of vote. (There is universal suffrage in Hong Kong, but only 1/3 of the legislature is elected; the rest are appointed by Beijing.) I asked if they thought things were unfair, or if they thought the government was not active enough, or what exactly they wanted changed. After all, it doesn’t get much better than Hong Kong. “We just want to vote like other countries.”

In Beijing I once thought revolution possible. Just next to my first apartment was a small shop selling instant noodles and beer. I rarely saw any customers other than myself. This place was just outside of a network of hutongs – alleyways with one-story, traditional-looking buildings generally occupied by poor people – within the Second Ring Road. In the hutongs some people burn charcoal for heat and you can find cages with live chickens. The most traffic my local instant noodle/beer store would see was a group of middle-aged men who played a version of checkers outside in the evenings.

Once as I was opening the fridge I turned my head to see a string of chain-linked bullets lying on the ground next to the shopkeeper. Holy shit. “Ni shi jun dui ma?” I asked, which is undoubtedly incorrect Chinese for “Are you in the army?” He made a nervous laugh and pushed the bullets behind the counter with his foot. He then responded with something I didn’t understand, not just because my Chinese sucks, but because he spoke in thick Beijinghua. I put five kuai on the counter for the beer and didn’t inquire further.

Although my experience with weapons is limited to what I used in the army, chain-linked rounds are indicative of automatic rifles – the kind you have to periodically lay off the trigger to keep the barrel from melting. And those bullets were big, not quite 50-cal but larger than the 5.56 mm used by the M-16 – very illegal. As violent crime is rare in China, I don’t think the shopkeeper would need to deter robbers with something that could be mounted on a tripod. Running drugs maybe? This also seems unlikely as I rarely see evidence of drug use, and he was in his forties and poor. This was the most compelling thing to make me think revolution could happen.

Despite the display of some desire to vote and the strapped shopkeeper, a revolution is less likely than Western media leads you to believe. A Chinese friend once told me that Chinese culture is centered more on the family than on any transcendent ideology or absolute truth, personified by the traditional importance of religion in Western cultures. Just as the Inuit language has more words for seal and snow due to its importance in their culture, the Chinese have something like 35 words for family members which do not readily translate into English – paternal grandfather, maternal grandfather, older female cousin on the mother’s side, father’s older brother, on and on. What this means is that most Chinese people probably don’t care about “freedom” or political issues so much as a train ticket home for Chinese New Year. True, there have been two revolutions here in the last century. But from what I’m seeing, I can’t imagine a third.

Security

I’ve been to many corporate office buildings all over the city. To enter, you have to leave your identification at the front desk. Or they record your ID while taking your picture and sometimes even your fingerprint. All this just to go inside! They have X-rays for any bags you’re carrying – this is just as much to prevent laptop theft as sneaking bombs in. They’ll record the serial number of your laptop on your way in, which must match up to take it out.

There’s no protection against “illegal search and seizure” in Colombia. Street police have the right, which they often use, to demand your identification for no reason at all. I’ve never had mine with me when they’ve asked, but they always let me go. I don’t like to carry my wallet around, so I printed a photocopy of my cédula and work visa to show to the coppers.

This may seem insignificant to the Colombian reader, but first-world citizens probably think it’s intrusive or fascist to require leaving your ID just to enter an office building, or to surrender your documents to authorities with no probable cause.

And of all the world airports I’ve been to, El Dorado in Bogota is the only one that subjects everybody to a manual search of their carry-on bag.

Once in a while, the street police carry out what I’d call sweeps. There are a lot of cops and military around normally, but the number spikes so they’re everywhere for sweeps of undesirables or whatever they look for. During these times, you see teams of them on almost every block in Chapinero.

Another common scene in the city is when somebody important is getting ushered out of a neighborhood. I’ll be walking wherever when all of a sudden a motorcycled cop, siren flashing, will whiz by escorting a group of SUVs with all tinted windows. The trucks haul ass past me, always in a rush.

Militarization

Once while walking through a crowded family park on a Sunday, I saw the Brinks guys dropping off at an ATM. It’s a standard scene: one guy with the 12-guage pistol-grip shotgun (finger on the trigger) covers the other guy with the money bag, who holds his revolver up in the air at eye level (finger also on the trigger). Fingers on the trigger among whatever’s going on in the area.

The regular infantry servicemen walk around with standard machine guns. In Chico – between 72 and 100, east of 11th – live many of the country’s politicians and high-ranking generals. So those affluent neighborhoods have military with assault rifles on almost every block.

You see military with machine guns so often I have pictures.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

One day while walking past the Chamber of Commerce office in Chapinero, I saw Colombian special forces positioned on each corner of each block facing the building. I don’t know who was in the building (Uribe?), but this team with bad-ass machine guns was ready for serious urban warfare. They wore berets and different uniforms than the personnel you see every day. I looked for the guns I saw and learned they use are the Israeli IMI Tavor TAR-21, pictured below.

bad-ass artillery

I learned that force is an urban counter-terrorism unit. From the Wikipedia article about the Colombian Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas:

Due to terrorist acts conducted in cities by guerrilla groups, the Colombian Army needed a specially trained unit to deal with this threat. This unit was required to be able to both operate and co-ordinate operations with other units of the army, or from other military branches.

Then there are the super decked-out guys you see around Plaza Bolivar and sometimes on Calle 72, the financial district. They carry regular machine guns, but are different for their armor. These guys’ outfits go beyond riot gear. I assume those plates are supposed to resist bullets, shrapnel, rocks, fire, and more.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Colombia has mandatory military service for all males. You can get out of it if you pay an amount based on your family income.

All this stuff isn’t so bad (mandatory inscription aside). You get used to it, and Colombia’s recent history certainly warrants such measures. In fact, this stuff fuels my optimism in Colombia’s increased security, which I discussed in my recent post: Why I’m Bullish on Colombia. And here’s a pretty pic of Colombian military in their nice dress uniforms:

SPOILERS DISCLAIMER – mad spoilers follow.

If you don’t need a plot summary, jump to the analysis below.

The film starts by introducing us to Casper, a member of the Mara Salvatrucha gang (MS-13), in Tapachula, Mexico. Then we meet Casper’s young friend, Smiley, who couldn’t be older than 12. Casper takes Smiley to his MS-13 initiation, a 13-second beat-down from the gang. We also meet gang leader Lil’ Mago, who it’s worthy of mention is covered with tattoos, a prominent MS drawn from above both temples all the way down to his jaw-line and chin.

Then we flash to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, to meet the beautiful Sayra. Sayra meets her father for the first time in what’s implied to be a long time or maybe ever. She’s to join him and his brother on a journey to the United States, from where the father had just been deported. He wants Sayra to join his new family in New Jersey.

Next we see Casper visit his girlfriend, Martha Marlene, at her place for a textbook example of a Latin love session. After the loving, Casper takes Smiley to the gang hideout where, under Lil’ Mago’s direction, Casper helps Smiley execute a rival gang member to complete his initiation. (Then they feed the deceased to dogs!)

The plot develops two storylines: the first being Sayra’s resentment toward the father she never knew, who she believes never would’ve returned for her if he weren’t deported; the second being Casper’s neglecting his responsibilities to the gang because he’s spending more and more time with Martha Marlene. She’s increasingly angry with him because she feels he’s hiding something from her, which he is in trying to keep her separated from his gang life. In fact, she knows him as Willy instead of his gang name, Casper.

The latter conflict culminates when Martha Marlene crashes a gang meeting in a cemetery in which Casper (Willy) is about to be disciplined for neglecting his duties. Willy tries to escort her out of there, but Lil’ Mago overrules. He insists on showing her out while Willy gets his 13-second stomping. Away from the gang, Lil’ Mago tries to have sex with Martha Marlene, citing ‘generosity’ as a crucial element of friendship. When she refuses, he tries to rape her. In the struggle, he accidentally kills her. Casper has to accept it because Lil’ Mago is the boss and devotion to Mara Salvatrucha trumps all else.

This particular MS-13 “clique” earns much of its income from the Bombilla, the train station in Tapachula which sits on the border with Guatemala. All the Central Americans migrating to the US pass through the Bombilla to jump on trains headed north to the Texas border. The local MS-13 gang robs the migrants on their way north.

Lil’ Mago had Casper and Smiley accompany him for one of these robbery trips. So the three are on top of the train, robbing each and every passenger for everything they have when Lil’ Mago comes across the beautiful Honduran, Sayra. He gropes her and forces her down in what appears to be an imminent rape. Casper, still not over the loss of his love at the hands of Lil’ Mago, and watching him unleash on another innocent girl, whacks him with his machete, cutting through half his neck.

Lil’ Mago falls from the train dead and Casper orders Smiley off. Here the main plot has developed. Sayra feels indebted and befriends Willy (he’s not ‘Casper’ anymore). Smiley goes back to the gang and tells them what happened. They order Willy killed and appoint Smiley to do it, along with everybody else in their clique plus the others all along the train route, throughout Mexico and the US.

So Willy’s been marked for death by the largest gang in the Western Hemisphere. Noting Sayra’s growing attachment to him, Willy jumps from the train as everyone’s sleeping but she awakes and jumps after him, leaving her father and uncle behind. Willy then resolves to go for life redemption by helping Sayra safely cross the border into the States. There’s action, there’s hope, there’s sadness, there’s beautiful (and ugly) Mexican culture and countryside, and there’s stimulating footage of MS-13 culture.

Just as Willy sends Sayra swimming across the Rio Grande, waiting his own turn, the gang appears and guns him down on the riverbank. Smiley scores the first shots. The final scenes show Sayra at a Texas Sam’s Club calling her dead father’s family in New Jersey (her dad died after they split up), her uncle starting a new attempt to cross the border from Guatemala into Mexico, and Smiley getting “MS” tattooed inside his lower lip.

Powerful shit!

Clichés

I’m going to start with a few petty gripes, specifically the film clichés.

I don’t know about you, but I am burnt out on the accidental death via head-hitting-the-rock-or-metal-bar-or-whatever. Martha Marlene died after Lil’ Mago kicked her in the ass, sending her head into a rock. I’m tired of that shit! I attribute that to laziness or lack of nerve on the part of the writer. If you can’t create a motivation to kill her intentionally, don’t go to the tired-ass playbook. Maybe he could’ve successfully raped her, admonished Casper (Willy) for not sharing, and then she commits suicide. Anything but the head-accidentally-hitting-the-rock bit.

Aside from the scene where he helps Smiley execute a ‘chavala’ begging for mercy, Casper’s never seen as the vicious gangster he must’ve been to have a career with MS-13. He didn’t pistol-whip anybody on the train, or rape or rob anybody for the whole film. Granted, his transformation may have started long before in his falling in love with Martha Marlene, but it was still too sympathetic in the marked contrast between his innocent white face and the viciousness of the other MS-13 gangsters.

It turns out I only have two gripes and one kudos to give regarding happy endings. American films (which this is), Hollywood, and American audiences are incredibly biased toward happy endings. When I first heard of this film, I read all about it and I could’ve sworn I read that Casper (Willy) arrives safely in the US. The sad ending made it a better film.

Mara Salvatrucha

Many may not know, but MS-13 is the largest gang in the United States. It started in a Central American section of Los Angeles to protect Salvadorans from Mexican and black gangs. It’s since exploded to also include Mexicans with chapters in the United States, Mexico, Central America, and Canada. They’re known for their tattoos. There are a dozen or so MS-13 videos on YouTube, some featuring MS-13 music.

-
Immigration & human rights

I’ve stated my support of immigration in this blog before, but the images and visualization of the reality facing migrant workers in this film re-awakened my interest in the cause. The human rights issues and violence along the US-Mexico border is horrific. Girls are forced into prostitution; gangsterism thrives. What is the fucking point???

All these people want to do is work in America, the land of opportunity. Their own countries were flawed in their design so the same opportunity doesn’t exist. Migrants’ big mistake in life was being born on the wrong side of the border, to a family in the wrong social class. I’ve known many illegal immigrants and I admire their work ethic. And I’ve known a lot of lazy and incompetent Americans who live luxurious lives in comparison simply because they were born on the other side.

Last year I read Ben Casnocha argue immigration is a solution to poverty. In that post, he mentions the idea of “free movement of people” among countries. I’m pro-immigration, but I wasn’t eager to jump on board when I first read that. Now I’m more receptive. There’s rarely reform without an extreme position underneath. If free movement of people among nations seems extreme to you, it doesn’t to me.

Why should I have free reign to move wherever I want in Latin America to reap the fruits of these countries using my gringo-ness, my native English, my height and blue eyes, my American education, etc., while Latinos born on the bottom in these countries can’t do the same in my country?

I’ll now count myself among the extreme camp of free movement of peoples among nations. I’d love for it to be a regulated process of accountability, but I’m in the camp regardless. Michael Clemens is the most outspoken advocate and dedicated researcher for this position.

Love in Latin America

Having written extensively about Love in Latin America, I’m not covering new ground here. But the film captured that aspect perfectly.

I was sad as fuck watching Sin Nombre. Despite the few clichés, the film established credibility with me in its depiction of Willy’s and Martha Marlene’s relationship. Their first scene in her bedroom goes exactly as I’ve found love to go down here. She slapped him. They made love. She accused him of cheating and threatened to cut his penis off. They cuddled and professed eternal love. Despite her getting angry with him in other scenes over ‘disowning’ her (kinda difficult to translate “desconocer”), the chemistry and time spent together made me long to be in love again.

Edgar Flores stars as Willy, and he was excellent in the role. Willy’s love for Martha Marlene was convincing; I could feel his pain when his gang killed that love – the same gang Willy defended his whole life. And just as it seemed he might have love with Sayra, the gang killed him too. I look forward to more of Flores’ acting.

Foreshadowing and magic realism

Magic realism is prevalent in Latin film and literature, but not so much in Sin Nombre. However, Sayra always alludes to an old witch in her neighborhood who predicted she wouldn’t arrive in the States in the arms of God, but The Devil. I’d call that magic realism and also foreshadowing, which is prevalent throughout. Willy consistently warns Sayra that he’s a dead man, which proves correct. And in a great foreshadowing scene, Willy and Sayra come across MS-13 graffiti that reads something like “Lil’ Mago – don’t worry, El Casper won’t pass…”

Notes:

• Machetes – Willy killed Lil’ Mago with a machete, which was pretty bad-ass. The use of the machete in Latin America is under-represented in film.
• Mexican / Central American gangsters and face tattoos (politically-incorrect warning) – The older I get, the more I err on the side of genetics over upbringing, nature over nurture. In his autobiography, Malcolm X says whites are correct in believing blacks are born with dancing in their blood, and there are dozens of other cases like the higher per capita rate of AA meetings in Irish neighborhoods. In looking at the images of MS-13 gangsters, I couldn’t help thinking they look like the Indians from Apocalypto. Is it in the genetic DNA dating back to the Mayans and Aztecs to paint their faces up and kill? Look at some of those MS-13 videos on YouTube to see what I mean.
• The film was produced by Gael Garcia Bernal (Motorcycle Diaries) and Diego Luna (Milk), who co-starred as best friends in Y Tu Mama Tambien, another kick-ass film set in Mexico.
• Sin Nombre won Sundance Film Festival awards for directing and cinematography (Director Cary Joji Fukunaga and Cinematographer Adriano Goldman). The film wasn’t nominated for any Academy Awards because the Oscars suck shit.
• The Sin Nombre soundtrack only features the score, but the songs from the film are great. Check these out:

Dick el Demasiado – Flaca de las Coloradas

Vakero – Ya No Hay Gente

Amandititita – Mecánico

As I outlined in the first post to this blog, a major reason in my moving to Latin America is to make a career in an emerging market. Globalization is a product of two worldwide trends: the fall of socialism and the rise of the internet.

20 years ago, 60% of the world lived under some form of socialism. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, capitalism triumphed and East Germans poured across the border to go to McDonald’s. Countries from Eastern Europe to Africa to Asia to Latin America implemented market reforms. Protectionist policies and barriers came down in favor of free trade. Manufacturing in China, in all its glory and criticism, is the poster child of this historic development.

The internet represents another leap in human productivity by eliminating the need for service-oriented jobs to be performed locally. The world got wired and the textbook example of this change would be the call centers and IT industry in India. Where in the world we are doesn’t matter anymore, for many jobs.

Globalization got a bad rep in America and industrialized economies because it moved jobs to countries with more attractive costs of labor. Developing countries, on the other hand, saw the emergence of a middle class. Goldman Sachs coined the term BRIC (Brazil, Russia, India, China) for those countries that would grow to eclipse traditionally rich countries. Then the investment bank identified the Next 11 countries that could possibly join the economic ranks of the BRIC. GDP growth in emerging markets, sometimes upward of 10%, is simply impossible to achieve in developed economies where 4% growth is considered rapid expansion.

So enough context on the world economy, why Colombia? Because I believe the best opportunity lies in the greatest unrealized potential. Emerging markets see so much growth because of their vast unrealized potential – mostly due to limiting economic policies. For example, China had so much unrealized potential because its 1.3 billion people lived under the inefficiency of a government-planned economy. Allowing all those people to produce for a profit motive is why China is now the world’s second largest economy, and set to become the largest in my lifetime.

Brazil is the Latin American emerging market most economists drool over because of its size. But if we look at unrealized potential, Colombia may be the most attractive. Where does Colombia’s unrealized potential come from? Security. I’ve written extensively about the crime here. I’ve complained more than it deserves because Colombia’s undergoing a historic turnaround.

Current president Alvaro Uribe was elected on a campaign of hard-line security measures after the soft policy of previous president Andres Pastrana, who granted FARC a safe haven the size of Switzerland. FARC bombed the capital in Bogota as Uribe was being inaugurated in 2002, missing Parliament and the presidential palace but killing a dozen poor people. Kidnappings for politics and profit were so rampant that any Colombian with money stayed in the city. Domestic and international tourism was nil.

The 80s and 90s were marked by the cocaine cartels’ contribution to instability, most notably Pablo Escobar’s Medellin Cartel. Aside from bribing government officials, the cartels kidnapped or assassinated politicians and policemen. In his last years, Escobar paid a set bounty on any police officer killed. Medellin was considered the most dangerous city in the world. Right-wing paramilitaries also contributed to the chaos and human rights atrocities.

For decades, the climate of violence and insecurity repelled foreign investment. Who in their right mind would build a business in a country which could be taken over by Marxists, where management professionals are at high risk of being kidnapped, or where common street violence prevents people from going outside? In addition to tourism, foreign investment was also nil.

Times have changed. The New York Times ran an article last month on the attractive real estate market in Bogota. From the article:

Once a byword for kidnappings, bombs and chaos, Bogotá has become one of South America’s most attractive cities for foreigners to live and invest in … Álvaro Uribe, Colombia’s president since 2002, has taken a hard line on security issues and scored notable successes against left-wing guerilla groups in recent years.

Love him or hate him, Uribe’s government has kicked the collective ass of FARC - enticing mass desertions, killing high profile leaders, and remarkably rescuing Ingrid Betancourt and three American defense contractors.

Crime’s still a challenge but nowhere near levels of the 80s and 90s. Tourism is exploding behind the industry’s campaign slogan, “The only risk is wanting to stay,” which proved 100% accurate for me after my 2008 visit.

Check out this slideshow from Colombia’s Proexport:

A few highlights:

• Homicides cut in half in last six years
• Kidnappings down to a fifth of the level six years ago
• Foreign investment five times higher than five years ago
• International visitors doubled in five years
• In 2010 the World Bank named Colombia the most “business friendly” nation in Latin America

Uribe recently signed an agreement to allow four US bases on Colombian soil. Regardless of how much you hate America, you can reasonably assume a resurgence of FARC or invasion from Hugo Chavez in Venezuela is quite unlikely with US boots on the ground. Colombia is America’s closest ally in Latin America. Again, regardless of how you feel toward the USA, and I know this statement will piss off a lot of people, but a look at the nations which allied with the US / “the West” over the years shows it’s not a bad choice economically: Taiwan, South Korea, Japan, Egypt, Poland, Israel, etc. Not bad company.

The unrealized potential in Colombia stems from how little was being produced due to insecurity, as wells as how business-friendly the country is now. Capitalizing on this kind of unrealized potential is called “extreme investing” in this 2007 BusinessWeek article, in which the author calls Colombia an “extreme emerging market.” Here’s a selection from that article:

Colombia’s stock market has soared fourteenfold since October, 2001 … Colombia’s strong fundamentals stand out. Its $130 billion economy, a world leader in the production of coffee, petroleum, textiles, and flowers, is growing at 6.8% a year, two full points faster than the Latin American average. In the past 10 years, Colombia has slashed its inflation rate from 18% to 5%, and since Uribe was elected, unemployment has dipped from 16% to 13%. The nation has never defaulted on its debt or experienced hyperinflation. And entrepreneurial thinking is spreading. Run a Google geographical-hit query, and you’ll see that, per capita, nowhere in the world are there more searches for the words “Peter Drucker,” the late management guru, than in Bogotá. No. 2? Medellín.

I’m also bullish on Colombia because of the people. Bogota is known as the “Athens of Latin America” for its high student population. You can’t walk far without passing a university. It’s an educated populace, which is why many multinationals decide to build their Latin American headquarters here. When companies decide to build such an office to manage Latin American operations, it seems to follow a pattern. Of course, they build an office in Brazil to manage Brazil. Another in Mexico City for Mexico, the Caribbean, and Central America. And they often choose Bogota for at least the Andean countries (they sometimes separate the more developed Argentina and Chile from the rest of South America), over Lima or Caracas.

The professionalism and education of Colombians puts them at an advantage in other ways. Medical tourism is major growth industry projected in Latin America. Soaring healthcare costs in developed countries is causing those citizens to look for operations abroad, cosmetic surgery being no small part of that business.

Natural and organic consumer products are another growing trend in developed countries. With a sizable chunk of the Amazon rain forest, Andes Mountains, two long coastlines, and a tropical climate, Colombia is one of the most botanically diverse countries in the world. See this New York Times article about the growth of HPC products from the Amazon.

Colombia has coastlines along both the Pacific Ocean and Caribbean Sea for convenient shipping (and receiving) to Australia, Asia, North America (east and west coasts), Europe, and Africa. Buenaventura is the major port on the Pacific; Barranquilla on the Caribbean.

Aside from import/export, those two coastlines draw tourism because they feature some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Tourists will love Colombia for its beaches, mountains, rain forest, ethnically diverse culture, and WOMEN. I’ll never hear the end of gringos’ drooling over Medellin and the paisa women. Latin men seem to drool more over the women from Cali, which proclaims to be the salsa capital of the world. Colombian women are among the most seductive in the world, which is why the country’s also a major destination for sex tourism. Colombian tourism in general is a major growth sector.

For an indepth look at Colombia’s economy, see this Harvard researcher’s 2008 report Revisiting Economic Growth in Colombia – A Microeconomic Perspective. Unfortunately, it reads like only a Harvard researcher could’ve written it. The main argument is that, for Colombia to maintain its strong performance, it must make a priority easy access to financing (low interest rates).

Threats:

Venezuela – While Hugo Chavez is Alvaro Uribe’s political nemesis, Venezuela is Colombia’s biggest trading partner and the countries have a long, shared history. The economic disaster that is modern Venezuela primarily hurts Venezuelans (many of whom face water and power rationing at the time of this writing), but Colombians will also take a hit from their plight, as detailed in Bloomberg’s December article, Colombia Growth in 2010 May Be Cut by Venezuela Trade.

Crime – Security is improved but it’s still not the safest place. The low cost and widespread availability of drugs produce tens of thousands of addicts roaming the streets, which doesn’t create the best atmosphere to shop.

Insurgents – FARC has suffered crippling losses during Uribe’s tenure, but they’re still 10,000 strong. That’s ten thousand trained guerillas aiming to overthrow the government.

Alternate Title: Old Prison Pal of The Mick Lives Fast, Dies Young

The Mick first heard of John Rowley in his days as a heroin-addicted thief on the streets of London. Both worked among the criminal underworld of petty crime and bank robberies. The Mick had heard of an established gunman named John Rowley but didn’t meet him until their paths crossed in Colombia.

In The Mick’s words, John Rowley was a conman and playboy who’d charm anybody he met while relieving them of value, then would turn around and spend everything he stole with anybody around him on amazing excess. This story of John Rowley is entirely based on what he told The Mick and what The Mick saw with his own eyes.

In the early 80s, the South London underworld included lots of Irish immigrants or local Brits of Irish descent (hence the Irish names), and The Mick was never sure exactly what Rowley was. But he’s sure Rowley was a known gangster who cut his teeth in South London.

After being sent to prison in Bogota for trafficking cocaine, The Mick learned of a John Rowley locked up in Medellin, Colombia. He heard through the prison grapevine that Rowley was a bazucero who’d been in a few knife fights. They became pen pals around 1986 and briefly met in 1990 after The Mick was released. He visited where Rowley was finishing his sentence in Ibague.

In their brief year of friendship, The Mick learned how Rowley came to Colombia. He had been involved in the 1983 Brinks-Mat robbery near London’s Heathrow Airport, the biggest gold heist in England’s history. It was an armed robbery team of six masked gunmen with sawed-off shotguns, plus a few others involved in planning, using inside information from a connection in Brinks’ warehouse security. Rowley was a gunman.

The team had only been aiming for £3 million in cash. In the heat of haphazard madness, they coincidentally stumbled upon three tons of gold bullion worth £26 million ($200 million today). Here’s a National Geographic segment on the robbery, a small episode of the long story that ensued:

Long story short, gang leader Micky McAvoy was quickly arrested and sentenced to 25 years. Also arrested were Brian Robinson and security guard / inside man Anthony Black.

A scramble of double-cross and murder played out over the years as the gold changed hands and was slowly melted down and sold throughout London. Insiders were knocked off while the criminal establishment of South London took murky ownership of the gold.

Kenneth Noye was instrumental in disguising the gold’s origins, and got rich until he was convicted of murder in 1996. City and private resources have been dispatched with the only aim to recover whatever money it can before it’s all invested in global tax havens.

According to this 2000 BBC article recapping Brinks-Mat in all its glory:

Despite dogged police work spanning nearly two decades, it seems most of those involved have simply got away with it – and most of the gold will never be recovered … It is claimed in some quarters that anyone wearing gold jewellery bought in the UK after 1983, is probably wearing Brinks Mat.

Rowley didn’t hang around for the drama that followed the robbery. Three tons of gold and two boxes of diamonds are on the record as part of the loot. Not reported was a bag of Thomas Cook traveler’s checks Rowley claimed to have grabbed and kept. Rowley may have also gotten the diamonds or a relatively small cash payment before fleeing the UK for Spain, and then to the Colombian paradise islands of San Andres in 1984.

Rowley lived his good life (booze, coke, and women at the beach) for a year passing off the traveler’s checks for cash or trade in a country with no extradition treaty. With rudimentary Spanish and the swagger of a playboy, he was changing the checks for cash in Medellin and partying in San Andres. After about a year, the bad checks caught up with him and he was arrested in Medellin.

Rowley was quickly jailed (in paisa prison), where he spent over five years. At this point, the British Embassy would’ve learned about him. Maybe due to whatever extradition situation existed at the time, or perceived slim chances they’d successfully convict him in the UK, or if they knew he didn’t have any Brinks-Mat gold, or for whatever reason, the British Embassy staff ignored him and probably assumed he’d get cut up in Colombian prison. This is when The Mick and Rowley started a correspondence.

The Mick was released from prison in 1989 and, while living with the family of the semi-connected Cali Cartel guys he was arrested with, found a job teaching English. He settled into Bogota and visited Rowley when he was moved to Espinal prison near Ibague. The Mick brought Rowley fresh, nutritious food unavailable in prison for their first face-to-face meeting. Rowley had no interest in the food; he wanted cocaine. The Mick slipped him seven grams, one of which Rowley vacuumed up his nose immediately. That was The Mick’s first impression of John Rowley.

Rowley was released around 1990 and immediately went looking for The Mick in Bogota. He found him having lunch with his boss at the English institute he’d been working for. For their second face-to-face meeting, a surprised Mick went along with the amazing lies Rowley spun to the institute manager. By the end of the lunch Rowley had a job at the same institute and a few days later was temporarily living in his new boss’ house. (Note that, due to the security situation in Colombia, native English speakers were in high demand for teachers’ jobs).

Within a week, Rowley had money for booze and coke and was having sex with the institute manager’s wife. Things quickly soured but Rowley scraped up enough money to leave the institute and started staying at hotels and brothels on credit. The Mick introduced him to his Colombian underworld friends operating out of downtown Bogota. They needed a native English speaker who could use financial terms in phone conversation and in writing. Before introducing Rowley, The Mick refused to vouch for him as trustworthy and even warned them to be careful.

Fax machines were going mainstream and provided ample potential for scams, especially on banks, that Rowley assisted in executing with the Colombians. However, Rowley also started getting over on them – asking for weekend loans he would never pay back or passing off checks and other stolen goods for more than they were worth. According to The Mick, Rowley was an incredibly gifted sweet-talker who could trick and manipulate people in English and Spanish. He once showed up at the dive bar The Mick frequented with other English teachers and introduced himself to the manager as The Mick’s partner, ultimately convincing him to cash a bad check. The Mick learned this the next morning when Rowley came back for more, the manager all too eager to sell him pesos for traveler’s checks at a favorable exchange rate on the dollar. This stunt planted the seeds of The Mick’s distancing himself from Rowley, given he’d been shielding this bar and circle of gringos from Rowley.

The Mick didn’t trust Rowley but got intoxicated on the times they had together. Rowley was also a native English-speaking thief and drunk. He’d steal and blow it all immediately. He often laid his entire pile of money on the table in a discoteca to spend on any indulgence they might have: beer, whisky, coke, marijuana, or drinks for women. Rowley spent weeks at a time living in brothels. One time The Mick saw him being pleasured by six women. The Mick went along with him for these times.

Rowley soon stole from so many people in Bogota, drank so much alcohol, and smoked so much crack that he broke down. Cold and shivery, Rowley met The Mick and a friend for lunch one day. Rowley asked for cocaine as they invited him to beer and aguardiente. The Mick says that with each additional snort or swallow, Rowley transformed into the smooth, manipulative guy he’d known before.

Rowley proposed a scam. He noted the British ambassador was traveling in China, then asked The Mick to call the embassy and, posing as a British tourist, find out the name of the interim ambassador. Once The Mick got the name, Rowley used a posh, uptown-London accent in a call to a first-class hotel just next to the embassy building on Calle 100. He posed as the interim ambassador and explained that an important British diplomat had been robbed and needed immediate accommodation at the Embassy’s expense.

In new clothes from The Mick, Rowley also played the British victim to get a room. The Mick explained that the staff was drooling over Rowley, almost intimidated by how he carried himself with an air of importance and urgency. Plus, they were trying to upsell him as much as possible as he was on the embassy’s tab. They put him into new clothes and a watch. They brought him room service and bottles of booze. Rowley arranged for cash advances and withdrew sizable amounts at each shift change of the hotel cashier. After spending five years in Colombian prison for ripping off hotels in Medellin and San Andres, he started in Bogota.

Around this time, approaching his one-year mark as a free man in Bogota, Rowley invited The Mick to party on his tab at a brothel. Rowley had been there for a few days – drinking, snorting, and banging whores per his usual. The Mick joined him at a round booth with four or five girls. The girls were topless while making out and fondling each others’ breasts for Rowley, each with a glass from the bottle of whisky on the table and each helping themselves to his pile of cocaine.

The Mick joined this rather standard party. The tab grew as beer and whisky were ordered, cocaine disappeared, The Mick drank himself stupid, Rowley snuck off with various girls (on the tab), night turned to dawn, dawn turned to sun, and The Mick woke up in Rowley’s room at the brothel. Rowley had left, explaining to the brothel management that The Mick would stay until he returned to settle the tab.

The Mick called one of his clients (he was teaching English classes independently by that point) and asked for a loan to pay the ~1 million peso tab (only $500 at the current exchange, but this was an astronomical sum in 1990). The next he heard of Rowley was that he was in Bogota prison. He’d been picked up having a beer on a café patio on some Bogota street. A security manager for one of the hotels he defrauded recognized him and called the police. Rowley did six months in Modelo.

The Mick was angry about the brothel tab incident, but he let Rowley stay with him for a few nights after getting out of prison. One night they were drinking late when The Mick went to bed around 3 am. He woke up to find his brand-new stereo and speakers missing, and no sign of Rowley. On his calendar was a note that read something like, “Had to go, see you soon. Don’t worry about the money!”

The Mick swore Rowley off forever. A few months later, The Mick’s then-girlfriend met Rowley on the street where she was selling merchandise. He ran his game and lured her attention away, stealing the Colombian emeralds The Mick had given her to sell.

The Mick was walking downtown with that same girlfriend the next time he saw Rowley, who had joined the indigente / bazucero / crackhead / stumble-bum populace in Bogota. He was wearing shoes too small for his feet with no socks or laces, pants revealing his shins and tied at the waist with a rope, and a suit jacket with no shirt underneath. He begged The Mick for 500 pesos so he could get to the north of the city and rob. The girlfriend mentioned the emeralds and The Mick told him to fuck off.

The last The Mick heard of John Rowley came from a prison friend who was plugged into the crack / crime scene in downtown Bogota and the Cartucho. Rowley had started robbing among that world and was soon wanted dead by different people. He got it with a knife on some unknown night, on some unknown Bogota street, by some unknown indigente.

When asked what his greatest memory of John Rowley was, The Mick told me about the Samantha Fox after-party.

Samantha Fox was a British pop singer on tour in Bogota. Rowley and The Mick went to the after-party and provided mountains of cocaine to everybody and ordered bottles of champagne. They were the center of attention among that gorgeous singer and her entourage, the virtually all-British mix of rich and beautiful, plus whatever Colombian models were there. It was a first for many of them to see so much cocaine being given away – not uncommon in Colombia.

-

-

-

These watercolor paintings by Chicago painter William K. Moore may resemble what the bogotano who finally killed John Rowley looked like:

Extras:

Low-budget British film about the Brinks-Mat heist, Fool’s Gold starring Sean Bean on IMDb:

Cheesy clip of robbery from Fool’s Gold on YouTube:

Death Warrant by Will Pearson, a book about Kenneth Noye and what happened after the Brinks-Mat robbery

Best article on Brinks-Mat heist, ‘Curse of Brinks-Mat heist claims its latest victim’ (The Guardian)

Shitty song by Samantha Fox:

If you liked this post, see all The Mick’s stories.

I wasn’t around during the Great Depression; I only have the impression I got from American textbooks. My impression was that it was depression, a miserable time that spanned over ten years. Similar to that impression, my feel for the current economic stumble was limited to what I’d read in newspapers and among economists (In Peru, GDP growth still hasn’t dipped into the negative). This work holiday was the first time living in America during the biggest recession of my lifetime. Things were noticeably different, some in unexpected ways.

My goal and justification for 6 weeks was to earn as many US dollars as possible. Before leaving Colombia, I secured a 30 – 40 hours / week job serving and bartending at my old college employer. I also lined up retail promotional work for about 15 hours / week. Finally, I presented the same company a proposal for an e-marketing campaign (a four-figure deal), which was accepted.

So I definitely found work. In fact, I gave up all my restaurant shifts my last week because I felt I hadn’t spent enough time with family and friends.

I worked 3 long weekends doing promotions inside Costco stores, one of the more innovative retail giants in big-box capitalism. Many of the deals I saw in the States were in similar stores: Target, Walmart, etc.

The VitaMix Solution for $394.99 – This product was featured in a similar promotion to the one I was working in Costco stores, on the same days. The Solution included a big power blender, a disc and recipe book to make your own juices. VitaMix demonstrated the product and handed out samples of the juice they made. The one I tried had pineapple, carrot, spinach, strawberries, and more. It tasted excellent. The blender easily hacked through the carrot and pineapple, which weren’t chopped but simply cleaned.

I’m biased being accustomed to cultures that drink juice from a blender as opposed to a bottle or can. And the VitaMix is a big powerful blender with extras that add value, but I couldn’t help thinking they’re selling a $400 blender during the worst recession since the Great Depression. You don’t have to sell many to make a profit at that price.

¼ pound hot dog + free refill fountain drink for $1.50 – Everyday in the Costco food court: ¼ all-beef hot dog with a refillable drink for 3000 pesos? Not in Bogota. Big-box capitalism with a selection of fountain flavors, deli sauces, chopped yellow onion, and napkins in the service bar. I must’ve eaten 20 over 3 weeks.

6 lb bag of EAS protein blend for $29.99 – I stock up on protein powder In the States because it’s profanely overpriced in Latin America. In Bogota, I paid 80,000 pesos ($40) for a 2 lb tub! In St. Louis, I grabbed three 6 lb bags of EAS from Costco to fit into my luggage.

Levi’s jeans for $19.99 at Target –The Levi’s brand suffered overexposure in America during the 90s, but it’s a top quality brand internationally and especially in Latin America. I’ve seen authentic Levi’s and Wrangler jeans retail for $60 – $100. The ones I got at Target didn’t have that red tab on the butt, but they’re classic dark Levi’s nonetheless for $20.

City Museum’s best year to date was 2009 – My friends who work at the City Museum told me the fast growth from before the recession never slowed, their best year being the last one. Something had changed though. They said they’d often heard some redneck from Missouri or Southern Illinois or wherever explain his family usually goes down to Florida this time of year. But with the economy the way it is, they decided to road-trip it to St. Louis.

I noted St. Louis is an inferior good to Florida, as far as tourism’s concerned anyway. When a product sells better in a down economy, it’s defined an inferior good. Busch beer, Wal-Mart, and vacations to St. Louis are examples of inferior goods.

PBR: $2 pints at Fitz’s, $1 16 oz cans at Delmar Lounge – Pabst Blue Ribbon was always widely available on Delmar, but never at these two places. One carries the sub-premium brand on tap and the other in a 16 oz can. These two bars didn’t have PBR because they didn’t want the PBR crowd. Any increased distribution isn’t due to branding ground gained but the recession. PBR is also an inferior good.

High-end marijuana and vaporizers – My smoker friends (most aged late 20s, early 30s) have abandoned cheap marijuana. Everybody pays $50 for 1/8 ounce of bright green, super-potent marijuana. Things apparently aren’t so bad to warrant sacrifice in this category. One health-conscious friend ordered a vaporizer on eBay so he could vaporize his marijuana instead of smoking it. Vaporizers have apparently become popular in California in an apparently new legal industry sprung from the state’s legalization of medical use. This gadget provides for a smoke-free THC high.

Restaurant food costs & revenue – The restaurant where I worked had changed the burgers from an 8 oz patty to 7 oz, while standard price increases on burgers kept with inflation.

Labor costs – The same restaurant runs a much leaner operation than before. Former management subscribed to the TGIFriday’s school of using lots of staff. However, when sales are a significant percentage down from previous years, cuts must be made to stay profitable. The floor managers won a bonus by achieving their goals in cutting labor costs.

I used to work in three different positions: bartender, dairy bartender, and server. Instead of the opening bartender coming in at 10am to prepare the upstairs, at least for the winter (slow) season, they come in at 11am and the owner takes down all the chairs and makes it easy to set up quickly. The dairy bar position was where, in the winter, I got much of my grad school reading and homework done while getting paid $8 / hour. Now they’ve cut the position for Monday – Friday, servers making their own ice cream drinks (working harder but not tipping out the dairy bar). The servers are also responsible for cleaning and closing the dairy bar Sunday – Thursday nights. So in addition to adding these extra tasks to the server’s responsibilities, they also reduced the number of server hours by staggering start times for the shifts. There used to be two start-times: 10am and 4pm. The new system had so many start-times and I had three different positions to learn that I never really learned how it worked. However, when I had shifts that historically weren’t money makers, I saw that I got busy during those off-hours and ended up making good money during those hours. They trimmed all the fat they could from the shift and job tasks to get the most production as possible for the money.

Whenever the economy is back to healthy growth, the restaurant will enter the season of opportunity after having gotten stronger during the down-time. The labor costs and work environment at the restaurant taught me to look at recessions as belt-tightening seasons and opportunities to cut fat, rather than misery and depression.

Unemployment – A couple family members are out of work. Another big conclusion on recessions and their real impact on quality of life is that it’s not so bad so long as you don’t lose your job, but life’s still grand for them too.

I got these pictures of Latinas for you assholes. They’re mostly from Peru; Colombia and Chile are also represented.

Note: I haven’t had relations with any of the girls pictured here.

Estimadas amiguitas, si prefiera que no publice su foto, mi vida, mándeme un correo a webmaster [arroba] expat-chronicles [punto] com. ¡Gracias, besote!

Marijuana

I was to arrive in St. Louis just before Thanksgiving. At Thanksgiving, the men in my family always burn one after dinner. It’s usually the same guys who provide the jibber, and I realized I’ve never been the provider as I stared at a pile of cheap-ass Colombian marijuana on my counter. So I stuffed a fat bud into the pocket of one of the artesania handbags I bought as Christmas presents.

My strategy is generally not to use bags in smuggling tiny personal amounts in obscure places that would necessitate a thorough search to find. I’d brought weed from Amsterdam to the States before, but this was the first time I brought the other contraband items in this post.

Everybody got a kick out of the Colombian dirt-weed.

Cocaine

Once upon a time shortly after I booked my 6-week stay, my brother and our good buddy John were having a beer. When my brother told him I’d be in town for so long, John volunteered to let me stay at his place since it’s more convenient to where I’d be working. He was newly single and had an extra room.

John and I used to work out together. He uses steroids and, sometimes, cocaine. So I decided not to email or mention staying there until I saw him in person, where I’d surprise him with steroids and cocaine.

In keeping with the strategy, I was able to special order cocaine in such a hard rock that it wouldn’t need a bag or paper. If anything, it might’ve been overlooked as a piece of detergent or trash. I paid 20,000 pesos ($10) for one gram, and it proved to be what one would expect from Colombian quality. I ended up staying at his place around half the time I was in town.

Steroids

Steroids were actually the sweeter part of the deal for John.

I didn’t know exactly how to get steroids; I was apprehensive being a gringo from a land where it’s illegal without a prescription. One day in a pharmacy I saw a box prominently displayed which read: DecaDurabolin. ‘Deca,’ as it’s known in performance-enhancing drugs circles, is one of the most-used steroids in athletic performance for its low rate of side effects.

I asked to see the box, which contained 10 small single-use vials. These steroids have beneficial uses for injuries and physical therapy. It’s sold as treatment for muscle pains - para los dolores is what the guy told me. Each vial cost 18,000 pesos.

Just before leaving Bogota, I bought all 8 vials that were available at a different place called Drogas La Economia, which is a low-cost pharmacy with only a walk-up counter (no walls separate the store from street). The lady there didn’t say anything about pains. She kept saying “para los musculos” and “fuerza” (strength). That eased my apprehension about buying drugs.

I removed the plastic case of vials from the box (which read in big letters, DecaDurabolin) and put it in my shaving kit. Each vial also had the name printed on them, but I thought it was a little more subtle and may pass for insulin shots or something. I flattened the box and used it as a bookmark in my flight book so I could show John how legit this stuff was.

John was thrilled. In his own words, “You can’t go wrong with deca.” He recognized the brand as being one of the industry’s most respected, but wasn’t impressed with the price I paid.

Sinalgen

My last day in Bogota, I called my brother to touch base on a ride from the airport. He asked me if I was going to bring him any “yummy drugs.” He wanted Vicodin, in which I learned the active ingredient is Hydrocodone. A Google search or two yielded this Sinalgen discussion on Poorbuthappy.

Sidenote: Poorbuthappy Colombia, an English-language community for expats in Colombia, is the best online resource for information specific to Colombia.

Drogas La Economia didn’t have Sinalgen, but the para-los-musculos lady upsold me into something else for 10,000 pesos. I figured I’d bring that if I couldn’t find Sinalgen. “Para los dolores,” she said about that second package I bought.

After purchasing the steroids and runner up to Sinalgen, I went to Colsubsidio, a posh, corporate pharmacy across the street. They had Sinalgen. I don’t remember how much I paid, but it wasn’t much in terms of US dollars.

Both Hillbilly Heroin packages went in the shaving kit with the steroids. My brother was thrilled with both of them, which he says are for hangovers.

November 22, around 10am, I ran into The Mick at the bike repair shop in Chapinero on the west side of Avenida Caracas. The west side of Chapinero is a poorer, ghetto section that features 7 de agosto and a drugs-and-prostitution district. The shop’s located on an OK block where there isn’t anything to worry about during the day.

The guys usually have our bikes ready within an hour so we usually wait. After The Mick dropped his bike off, I saw him striking a match with a joint fatter than his nose hanging from his lips all the way down past his chin. We walked down the block.

At the next corner, The Mick told me two cops on a motorcycle saw me hitting the joint. We saw them double back so we ducked around the corner. I stashed the joint on a brick window ledge about as high as my head (about 6’ or 190cm high).The cops turned after us, parked, and ordered us against the wall for a frisking. The pat-down was a haphazard endeavor; they weren’t looking for weapons so much as going through the motions.

One cop, who I’ll call Fuerza Mestiza, walked back to the corner looking for the joint. The other cop, Chubby Cheeks, started questioning us. Neither one could’ve been more than 21 years old. And judging from how he carried himself, I believe Chubby Cheeks’ mom still cooks his meals, does his laundry, and makes his bed. He had baby fat on his neck and round, pink cheeks.

When Fuerza Mestiza couldn’t find the pata, Chubby Cheeks asked us to give him the joint, implying he’d let us go if we gave it up. I walked back down the block to the window and pointed it out to Fuerza Mestiza, who dropped it on the ground and stomped it with his boots, smearing marijuana grains over the pavement. I remember thinking that stuff would definitely get cleaned up by some junkie that evening, as long as it didn’t rain.

Then Fuerza Mestiza, who was playing Bad Cop to Chubby Cheeks’ Good Cop, told us they were going to take us to indigente jail overnight. They had previously implied they’d let us go if we gave up the weed , but now they were taking us in.

Sidenote: Indigente is the catch-all term for Bogota’s crackheads (bazuceros), drunks, stumblebums, junkies, panhandlers, etc. There are tons of them and it seems there’s a lockup just for them. (For more on indigentes, see my post titled Bogota Zombie Bums)

The Mick has bribed Colombian police dozens of times in his life. I knew this ordeal wouldn’t amount to jail, but I’d never bribed a cop yet. I was nervous. Fuerza Mestiza played a good Bad Cop by acting like he had called something in on his walkie-talkie and was waiting for a response. He kept looking down the street in the distance as if looking for the car that would haul us off (but there obviously wasn’t any such vehicle on the way).

Again, I was supposed to fly out in the morning and hadn’t packed my bags. There was no way I could spend the evening in indigente jail and make my flight. I was nervous. “Don’t you worry a bullocks about these two,” The Mick told me, and then to Chubby Cheeks in his strong English accent, “Yo sé como está.” I know how it is.

“Ah, ¿Sabe como está?” Chubby Cheeks repeated with an ear-to-ear grin, dreaming about the big expensive lunch and extra dessert he’d just hustled by closing this sale. He smiled so bright his fat rosy cheeks got dimples in them. He told us to walk around the corner while Fuerza Mestiza started up the motorcycle. The Mick feigned his briefcase up so nobody would see him slip Chubby Cheeks a 20,000 peso note ($10 USD). Chubby Cheeks jumped on the back of the motorcycle and left us with a closing statement: “En las casas está bien. Pero en las calles, no.” You can get high in your houses, but not in the streets. And then they hauled ass out of there.

The Mick lit another joint – no bullshit – he lit a second joint on the same block.

REFLECTIONS: I technically didn’t pay Chubby Cheeks so I technically didn’t bribe a cop. However, I’ve seen the process now and I can do it on my own if needed. I’ll say something like “Yo sé como está” or “¿Es posible cancelar en este momento la infracción?” Or just go with the flow and play along until it’s time to pay.

It’s actually a good system. Such a petty infraction shouldn’t take up court or correctional resources if the perpetrators paid a penalty immediately. And anybody getting stoned on the street who can’t afford to pay off these cops should spend the night in indigente jail anyway, for the public interest of Bogota.

American groups, from rock bands to hip hop acts, typically have four or five people at most. Salsa and cumbia bands bring out the whole neighborhood: trombones, trumpets, guitars, various percussion instruments, leading vocals, backup vocals, etc. The horns are the key that differentiates salsa and different types of cumbia from gringo music. Once you come to love the sound of the horns, you’ll be addicted too.

Another difference is the theme of the lyrics. Read my post about Love in Latin America for context on why and how Latin music is far and away more romantic. The following songs, as you’ll see in my selected translations, are all about love (with the exception of the last dance song, La Ricotona). These musicians aren’t just singing about love, but live to die for. The passion in these songs simply isn’t in gringo music.

Peru is a poor country (second to only Bolivia in South America), and I’m of the opinion that poverty enhances art via stronger emotions. People lacking in material things feel love more intensely.

I must warn any readers who’ve lived in Peru for an extended period – these songs may arouse longing for that very special country.

Grupo 5 “Motor y Motivo”

This is a meat-and-potatoes chicha track by Grupo 5, the most popular of Peruvian cumbia groups. This is a good warm-up for the gringo ear to start dissecting the sounds, from the horns to percussion to Spanish lyrics.

When some of these popular tracks play in a discoteca, everybody in the place will sing along. If you don’t know the words, you’re not in the club. Popular sing-alongs include El Embrujo, Te Vas, or the top hits by Hermanos Yaipen.

Grupo Nectar “Arbolito”

This is a classic track from a classic group, Grupo Nectar. Grupo Nectar only achieved popularity after most of them died in a tragic bus crash.

I noted earlier that many Peruvians dismiss cumbia for various reasons. I understand how I could think this stuff is corny (cursi) if I’d have grown up hearing it in Peru. But I didn’t grow up hearing it so I think it’s cool. It makes me emotional when I hear it. Lyrics with translations:

That tree, where it’s written …
Your name and mine, your name and mine …

Papillon “Triste Payaso”

The passion in the singing and of this anthem has made it a repeated mainstay. The lyrics aren’t many but they count as another example of how love is a more passionate affair in Latin America. A catchy, solid orchestra backing it up and the lyrics tell the story better than me. Also note the song’s written about a lost girlfriend but sung in a woman’s voice.

No hay licor que me ayude a saciar mi dolor…

There’s no booze that can ease my pain…

No hay mujer que me ayude a olvidar este amor…

There’s no woman to help me forget this love…

Estoy llorando, estoy sufriendo, ella se fue…

I’m crying, I’m suffering, she left…

Llevo la vida de un triste payaso que rie por fuera y llora por dentro…

I live the life of a sad clown who smiles outside and cries inside.

Mis amigos me ven sonreir pero no saben que estoy destrozado de amor…

My friends see me smile but don’t know I’m destroyed from love…

Esa es mi vida, así vivo yo, así muero yo…

That’s my life, that’s how I live, that’s how I die…

Mi rostro sonrie y mientras mi alma llora su lamento de amor …

My face smiles while my soul mourns its love loss…

Dilbert Aguilar “Vuela Palomita”

I chose Vuela Palomita for an example of raw vocal power, some of the best singing to come out of Peru. When I listen to this song, I can actually picture the Peruvian people: from their voice to their skin to their hair. Damn I miss that country!

Armonia 10 “La Ricotona”

This is a chicha dance song. Chorus lyrics translated:

La Ricotona ya empezó a pegar
con este ritmo que te pone a gozar
a que toda mi gente lo baile sin parar
para que toda mi gente lo tenga en todo lugar

La Ricotona has started to hit
with this rhythm that makes you hot
to all my people, dance without stop
so all my people  have it everywhere

(Some of this stuff is hard to translate, so leave it in a comment if you have a better translation)

After months of reluctance, I agreed to practice golf with The Mick. The Mick had scheduled to play golf as a class with a student of his, Maribel from Medellin.

Maribel was a tiny little dandy with short hair that stood and hung. She wore big lens sunglasses. She also wore black aerobics tights to show off her shapely legs. The tights were the cotton type with straps underneath the foot inside the shoe to keep the cotton tight (not the shiny, polyester tights that cyclists and old school hip-hop dancers wear). After Maribel and I did an airkiss greeting, she warmed her legs up by stretching her quadriceps with a foot in her hand. She bounced around and twisted her legs up and about as if warming up for a run. It was a little hard not to get caught looking.

She started mix it up with The Mick. They had a spunky relationship, getting in each other’s faces. I laughed when she called him a “fucking cunt” (apparently The Mick taught her his favorite insult). I asked her if she knew what a “cunt” was. She didn’t. I explained how I don’t have one but she does. Then I listed some Spanish equivalents: chucha, concha, panocha. She smiled and noted it’s not a nice word. She was grateful I told her the meaning; The Mick never would’ve.

I noticed her arms were a bit hairy and she had braces on her lower grill. And she’s tiny, a couple heads shorter than me and half my weight. So I dismissed the possibility of an affair but she seemed fun, a free-spirited aura. The Mick mentioned they smoked weed together sometimes and she was taking yaje that evening. A little bohemian paisa, apparently.

She and I walked next to each other while The Mick led us to the bus stop. I asked her questions in English. She said she’s originally from Medellin and that I must visit Medellin. She said it’s too small to live in but the culture is magnetic.

Consistent with what I hear, Medellin is the best source of Colombian culture: paisas, coffee, aguardiente, vallenato. The paisa people include Juanes, Pablo Escobar, Alvaro Uribe, Fernando Botero, and of course Juan Valdez. Most things Colombia is known for originate in Medellin. It’s the soul of Colombia, the purest source of Colombian culture and also the most modern city.

First and foremost about Medellin, people drool over the women. They get lots of plastic surgery: butts, lips, boobs. Their lure isn’t pure physical beauty, but their attitude. The paisa women are said to be warm and flirtatious. I’ve heard wives will accompany their husbands on business in Medellin, or call them repeatedly every night they’re in Medellin.

I agreed with Maribel that I should see Medellin, and asked about the Medellin women. The paisa women. Tilting her head and bowing, she said “Yes, I am a paisita.” When I asked what’s so special about the women, she said “They’re very beautiful,” while almost blushing and looking away. I didn’t believe that, and I sensed she didn’t either.

When we got to the bus-stop, The Mick had to detour around the corner to buy some weed. On the corner, I sat with the paisita waiting. She told me she fell and hurt her knee earlier that day. She pulled her knee up with her hands to show me while she rubbed it. This made a provocative shape with her leg in the aforementioned black tights. She moaned “Ooh,” while feeling her pain. And I got the first stirring in my pants for the day.

If you think that’s a shameless move, you’re correct. She didn’t have an ounce of shame in her self-pity about her painful knee. Nothing at all in the world to be ashamed about.

The Mick came back, hailed a taxi, and we went to play golf. The Mick taught us how to putt, which Maribel was hopeless at. Then we went to the driving range, where she was even more hopeless. I actually got the point where I could blast the ball, once to the 190 yard marker. The Mick’s a good teacher.

Maribel, however, was hopeless at golf. She gave up after ten minutes and picked out a nice spot in the grass to lie down. She laid face down with her shapely paisa butt in the aforementioned tights sticking out in the air. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her arms as if sunbathing. She looked completely natural relaxing and enjoying the peace.

I was distracted from golf by the sight of her tight butt. She’d mentioned a few times that she runs and plays active sports, and that golf was boring. Her lower body seemed to support her claims of physical activity. Her muscles were so tight I could see exactly where the butt, hamstrings, and calves stopped and started. A distinct line for each border. I wanted to go over there and knead the tightness out of them – massage the tightness out of both butt cheeks, both hamstrings, and both calf muscles with my strong hands. But I kept hitting balls.

If you think hers was a shameless move, you’re absolutely right. She was absolutely shameless because there’s nothing wrong with laying in the grass and enjoying the sun.

After The Mick and I hit all the balls, we went out front to leave. I stood with Maribel while The Mick was talking to someone he knew and waiting in line to pay. Maribel’s eyes lit up when she spotted a lovely spot in the grass to lie down. Once comfortable on her back, she carried on enjoying herself with an expression as if to say I was absolutely welcome to join her laying in the grass, and absolutely welcome to remain standing there thinking about laying next to her.

The Mick paid up and we all hopped into a taxi to get lunch. We had fish in Chapinero. While The Mick was off in the bathroom or somewhere, Maribel pulled her injured knee close to her face again, again making that wonderful view of her shapely thigh. She identified the exact spot on the top of her knee and caressed it in small circles with her index finger, moaning “ooh ooh” and then an “ahh, ahh.” All the while she looked me in the eyes. Her face and noises and thigh caused another stirring in my pants, this time a greater stirring.

If you think that’s a shameless move, you’re absolutely right. She was absolutely shameless because she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She’s simply living life as it comes and everything’s OK.

I had to go the bathroom when The Mick got back to the table, but only after a manual adjustment to my pants before standing up. After standing, I had to do some more adjusting after turning around because it wasn’t completely normal yet.

We finished lunch and had a dessert. When it was time to say goodbye, Maribel honed in and asked if I’d like to take yaje with them that evening. I gave a non-committal answer. She grabbed my arm and rubbed it up and down real hard, almost squeezing. Then she gave me a strong hug with all her body, a hug that showed just how tight and frisky her little body is. It felt good.

I can’t put into words how nonchalant she was in all respects. During lunch, golf, at the bus-stop, with her knee, everything, she was the embodiment of a fatalistic Latina woman. A free and fun spirit. Now I understand all the fuss about paisa women. I thought about her as soon as I got home. And again that night in bed. And again when I woke up the next day and one more time in the shower after playing basketball. Paisa women.

Bandeja Paisa

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

You’ll eat Colombia’s national dish and my favorite, bandeja paisa, throughout the country. Rice, beans, ground beef or steak, chorizo, chicharrón, arepa, avocado, platano, fried egg, and sometimes morcilla. Any paisa in Bogota costing 15,000 pesos or more should be solid. An economic but good choice is La Cucharita de mi Abuela (pictured) at Calle 63 & Carrera 13. Grande for 13,300. Be like me and mix it all together with a cup or two of ají for spicy, sloppy goodness. See my earlier post on bandeja paisa.

Ajiaco

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Bogota’s regional plate. Chicken, potato, and corn soup served with a plate of rice, avocado, and pollo sudado (stewed chicken). Add everything on the plate into the soup. Be like me and ask for extra capers (alcaparras) for the contrast. I didn’t see what the big deal about ajiaco was for a few months because I only had it at cheap and mid-priced restaurants. Make sure you have it at a decent place – it should cost at least 10,000 pesos ($5) and come with a thigh and leg of chicken (pierna y pernil).

Black Folks’ Fish

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

People don’t know there are black folks in Colombia. There are. Most live on the coasts (Caribbean and Pacific) so fish is a big part of their culture. They run the best fish fry houses in the city (not trying to perpetuate stereotypes, I couldn’t make this up). Latino cities tend to cluster their industries, so there will be a black folks’ fish street or district in any given neighborhood. I go to a place at Calle 57 and Carrera 8. If you’re staying in La Candelaria, there’s a district at Calle 20 on Carrera 4. Any place where you see black folks and fish should suffice. Buy an avocado on the street before you go in.

Note: it’s important to know how to eat fish. When I first moved down here, I’d attack it with a knife and fork. This is wrong. Eat it with your hands and eat everything. Unless it’s a bone, put it in your mouth and disintegrate that shit. Fins and the tail go down like potato chips. There’s only a tiny little skull bone in its head so you can digest everything else: its weak-ass face skin, eyeballs, the soft gunk, the hard gunk, everything. Omega-3 goodness.

Examples:

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Chiguiro

In this shot, chiguiro is served on a mixed plate with pork ribs, steak, potatoes, platano, arepa boyacense, and avocado.

I’d been eating chiguiro for about six months before learning what it was. At my asadero (barbecue spot), I was told it’s baby pig. I figured Colombians had a different word for baby pigs, kinda like ‘veal’ for baby cows in English. It tastes like lean pork, but better.

One day I was talking about chiguiro with a Colombian who explicitly told me it wasn’t pork, but a rodent. He didn’t know the word in English. He tried “hamster” and “guinea pig.” A hamster on steroids with gene therapy wouldn’t yield the big chiguiro filets. And I lived in Peru for a year, so I know guinea pig (cuy). That filthy stank wouldn’t yield the meat either (and it tastes like filthy stank).

So I did a Google Image search right then and there. This is what I saw! It’s a beaver! I couldn’t believe it. I’d been eating beaver for months and loving it! Some research later, I learned they’re actually called ‘capybara’ in English. Capybaras are native to South America so most wouldn’t know the word in English. My original theory was that beavers down here evolved past what they did in North America due to the combination of Andes Mountains and heavy rainfall, which must make for some killer dams. Some of them stand as tall as a human’s knees. I’m not a scientist or expert in evolution, but look at that thing! It’s a beaver!

-

-

-

-

-

You’ll have to ask around for an asadero that serves chiguiro. I go to one on Calle 61 at Carrera 13. Here are some closeups of the meat:

-

-

-

-

-

Arequipe

-

-

-

-

-

-

Known as dulce de leche outside Colombia, arequipe is my favorite dessert. Get it served with chocolate, in a croissant, in a wafer with cheese and blackberry sauce, or in herpos. If it’s got arequipe, it’s good.

Coffee

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

No shit, sherlock, it’s the best in the world. However, I’ve learned the best beans are exported to Italy, France, and Argentina where they fetch more money in absolute terms. Still, the everyday stuff is excellent. If you want a straight coffee, order a tinto. It comes standard with sugar, so you have to mention “sin azucar” if you want it black. You can get cafe con leche, cappucino, titero (coffee, milk, and panela), or chocolate-covered coffee beans. All excellent.

Changua

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

This isn’t that great, but I needed some filler crap because Colombian food ain’t as good as Kool-Aid drinking expats would have you think. Changua is good for a cheap, fast, high-protein breakfast. Hot milk soup with eggs, onion, cilantro, and bread crumbs. I’ve actually found this to be seen as a lower-class breakfast. See my earlier changua post.

Ensalada de Frutas

Colombians make the best fruit salads ever. Each bowl will have about a dozen different kinds of chopped fruit, cream, ice cream, and cheese. You can get these at various fruterías and cafes throughout the city, but the best (and cheapest) are at informal produce markets. These markets also have excellent morcilla and lechona, two plates that barely didn’t make this list. I go to 7 de Agosto (be careful!). See my previous post on fruit salads in Colombia.

Andres Carne de Res

This is the most talked-about restaurant in the city. It’s great steaks with a packed, party atmosphere. I won’t have any first-hand feedback or pictures until I can afford it. I was going to link to their website but it’s so tacky and annoying I can’t bring myself to do it.

Tramonti

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

This fine restaurant features one of the best views of Bogota, a city of 8 million whose skyline doesn’t suck. It’s actually located on Via La Calera, a country highway that climbs the mountain range to the east to La Calera. The restaurant overlooks downtown from less than halfway up the mountain. Open lunch and dinner for day or night viewing. That picture isn’t from the restaurant but a Google Image search for Bogota skyline. I haven’t been there yet either but this last one comes recommended by The Mick, who’s pounded beer, aguardiente, and cocaine everywhere in Bogota. See Tramonti’s website.

3 Things You Don’t Have To Eat in Bogota

Yuca

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Yuca is a major staple in countries throughout the Americas. It can be OK if it’s slow boiled in chicken broth, and anything’s OK if deep-fried. But yuca is generally hard and flavorless. What’s the difference between yuca and wood? Yuca grows below ground.

Panela

-

-

-

-

-

Aside from coffee and cocaine, Colombia is also the world’s leading producer of panela. Panela is a brick of evaporated sugar cane juice. I didn’t use the word ‘brick’ only because it’s sold in the shape of a brick, but also because it’s as hard and heavy as a brick. You can’t cut it with a knife; you have to break it in half by banging it with a metal rod. Pure sugar. That’s all it is. You can melt it into desserts but many people eat it in small brick form, letting it dissolve in their mouths. About once a week, The Mick regularly insists I tell the world in this blog that Colombian boys aren’t as strong or athletic because their parents feed them so much panela and in over 20 years, he “never lost a tackle!” OK, Mick. Done.

Arepas

You’ll have a hard time coming to Colombia and not eating arepas, a national staple. They’re basically a cornmeal biscuit. They taste like biscuits but with less moisture. The Mick calls them “carpet underlay.” I attribute much of my early depression in Colombia to arepas. You see, I suffered serious cognitive dissonance during my first month or two here, mostly due to the crime and bad food (bad compared to Peruvian). The arepa was central to my disliking the food. Although after a few months eating them, you start to like them a little. There are several different kinds. For more on arepas and lots of pictures, see my Arepas in Colombia post.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Arepas are basically cornmeal biscuits. There are different kinds, but they all derive from corn and they’re all shaped in a patty. They taste almost like a biscuit with less moisture. Most don’t have much flavor. They’re featured in my 3 Things You Don’t Have to Eat in Bogota. However, it’s impossible to visit Colombia and not eat arepas. They’re everywhere. They’re served with street-food. Arepa with chorizo, or arepa with egg and chicharrón.

The Mick calls them “carpet underlay” and refuses to eat most kinds. The arepa played a key role in my initial cognitive dissonance after moving to Colombia from Peru. You see, I was mugged my first week here. Then I realized that Colombian food is awful compared to Peruvian. So for my first six weeks or so, I was on the verge of depression due to the crime and food, and I had no means to go back. The arepa was a major symbol of my early displeasure with Colombian cuisine. The Mick’s first impression of arepas was in Colombian prison, where he heard the word often and would tense up. The pronunciation is ahr-dehp-a; the r-d rolls together to sound like ‘rape’.

I’ve since come to enjoy arepas. When you eat something every day for months, you start to appreciate it. Some can be delicious. But in general, you don’t appreciate them until you’ve been eating them for months.

An English-language magazine in Medellin chose to name their publication The Arepa.

Arepa paisa

The most basic arepa is the paisa variety. This is the blandest, most flavorless of them all. Pure white foodstuff without any taste-bud stimulation whatsoever. Below is the worst of the worst, the paisa arepas that come with your chicken order at PPC. I never eat these. I usually leave the little bag unopened on the table so it’s not wasted but I wanted to show you the inside of these little guys.

Arepa antioqueña

-

-

-

-

-

The arepa antioqueña tastes slightly better than the arepa paisa because you can almost taste the corn. It’s like a dry biscuit, sometimes served with butter. The arepa antioqueña comes with bandeja paisa and street foods. Alone, it’s worthless. But it usually comes with something to eat with it like antioqueño / criollo sauce, which is basically stewed tomatoes with oil.

If you can’t tell the difference in the photos between this and the paisa, it’s because there’s very little difference.

Arepa boyacense

-

-

-

-

-

The boyacense variety, from Boyacá, is where arepas start to add flavor. Boyacenses are a yellowish color and they taste sweet. I’ve read there’s cheese inside but it doesn’t taste like cheese. They’re sweet almost like a muffin. The boyacense arepas are actually moist if you get them fresh. Many mornings I’ve slept late and had to get an arepa boyacense on the run for breakfast. Professionals running around holding one of these in a napkin is a common Bogota sight.

Arepa con queso

The arepa with cheese is the best, most reliable arepa out there. It’s exactly as it sounds – the paisa / antioqueña mix filled with campesino cheese. I keep these in the house for when I want to gorge myself with carbs and fat, so I don’t go out or spend too much money. I fry ‘em up in a bit of sunflower oil ($2.50 / half-liter down here). A package of 4 costs 3500 pesos, or $1.75.

Arepa de huevo

-

-

-

-

-

Arepas with egg are a street food variety. They form the patty with the arepa mix around a raw egg. Then they deep-fry it to cook both at the same time. This kind’s OK with lots of ají.

Arepa con bocadillo y queso

-

-

-

-

-

This arepa is stuffed with cheese and guayaba jelly, so it’s sweet and the sharp cheese is a contrast. I loved these for a few weeks, but eventually got burned out on the excessive grease (these are also fried).

Arepa de choclo / chocolo

-

-

-

-

-

Choclo in Spanish means yellow corn, as opposed to white corn. Yellow corn is sweet. So the bread they make from choclo is sweet like cornbread. In Peru, they serve a similar food called pastel de choclo, or corn-cake. The Peruvian variety is thicker, not in patty form, and drier. More like cornbread. The Colombian arepa de chocolo is in disc / patty / arepa form and filled with a slice of cheese. It’s a bit greasier as well. The arepa de chocolo is the only kind of arepa The Mick will eat.

There it is. You now know more about arepas than you ever cared to.

An old man draped in filthy rags blinked in the unrelenting Mexican sun. His creased face was the color of a brown paper bag and he sported a dingy yellow cowboy hat. Out of tired rheumy eyes, he watched three white Ford trucks – Tijuana paddy wagons – hurtling down a broad street kicking up dust. Several police clung to the sides as they raced by – dark eyes filled with fear and hatred, faces covered in black masks. One stared back at the old man, fingering his shiny black AK-47. The old man stood glaring in apathy.

Seconds later and blocks away, gunfire and a rumbling explosion erupted. Five more trucks careened past, followed by monstrous paramilitary vehicles while the street teemed with pedestrians casually going about their affairs.

I stood in the coolness of an awning sucking on a cigarette. Three squad cars roared past the dusty greenery of Park Teniente Guerrero, their squealing sirens scaring a mother clutching her baby in her breast. Five kids raced behind, crossing the street of kamikaze taxis and rickety buses belching black smoke. Several shifty and dubious malandros turned to hide their faces from the barreling convoy. The police cars always travel in threes now, ever since the local cartel executed 14 people in the last month, many police officers included. Faces cold and featureless, masks of fear and suspicion …

I remember two nights ago in my room hearing the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire in the distance. Last night the symphony repeated itself down on the corner. Seven bodies lay akimbo in the darkened streets, blood oozing onto black concrete and vecinos didn’t care. Thirty minutes later a fat cop chewed a cigar stump, surveying the scene …

In the rural hills of Independencia where you can score speed, heroin, coke, crack – anything your junky heart desires – fires run rampant in the shanty adobes across from the school where a five year old boy timidly scuttled home, clutching his textbook. He passes roving gangs of cholos, their faces vicious with hate as they prowl and brandish pistols to deter the inquiring placas …

Down on Avenida Revolucion, the arrogant tourist still lurks, still drinks, still dances, still buys that ‘One-tequila, Two-tequila, Three-tequila … Floor!’ t-shirt that they must have for the folks back home, unaware of the slaughter occurring a few blocks from their reverie. This is Tijuana – my Tijuana – a place I call home …

Despite the utter squareness of the other students in our study abroad program, KT and I had some adventures in Deutschland. While they were practicing verb conjugations in our slumlord-governed apartments, we were buying drugs from the Turks in the park and smuggling mushrooms from the Netherlands.

After 5 weeks of studying German and drinking brown liquor, it was time to go. An opportunity to hit the road and see what excitement the rest of Europe had to offer. After hitting up our favorite happy-hour, we wheeled our collective 120 lbs. of luggage to the train station to take the 10:26 from Berlin to Munich.

On the platform, it was 10:20. Then 10:25. And 10:30. At 10:45, we realized something was up. Germans are NEVER late. This train was not coming. Using our rudimentary language skills at the information desk, we learned the train had been rerouted to the other side of town and would arrive at 12:13. We arrived at the new station around 11:30 and presented our tickets at the desk.

“Nein! Kein Zug am Abend!,” the attendant screamed at us, like most Germans do. The corners of the letters he spat were physically striking us. He explained the next train would be leaving at 5:26 AM. Frustration set in, for we had six hours to kill. We’d just walked a few miles dragging enormous suitcases, and were tired and dejected. KT had an idea. “Brain,” he said, “Let’s go to the bar.”

We rented a locker and stuffed our things inside. We ducked into the first bar we could find, happy to see the “Open till 4 AM” sign outside. The bartender empathized with our cause, giving us the first round for free. “We vills stay opened past four ifs you guyez vant to stay here and the drinking!”

Drink we did. Euros started to look more like Monopoly money with each Pilsner. We moved from German beer to fine scotches, expensive shots, and cocktails. We bought shots for the bartender, a few cute girls, and later for ugly girls. We were having a great time.

Eventually it was time to be on our way. Just as we were ready to pay, the bartender went into the back room. KT asked, “Hey Brain, you just want to bail?” We sprinted out the door and towards the station. The drizzle had grown into a maelstrom, adding to the drunken drama. When I was convinced we had escaped, I ripped open my soaking collared shirt like a young German Hulkster and spun it in the air above my head. KT let out his rebel yell.

As we high-fived, my excitement turned to fright. “KT,” I said, “The key was in my shirt pocket.” My shirt, or pieces of shirt, lay in the puddles with no key in sight. We dropped to all fours and searched underneath the streetlights desperate not to miss another train because of our unobtainable luggage. After a few minutes, KT found the key. Our excitement was more subdued at this point. I picked up my tattered shirt and we walked toward the station.

A voice screamed in broken English, “Hey guyez! What is your ideas? You have yet pay!” We saw the bartender. He stood, cell phone in hand, ready to call the Polizei.

KT cooly responded, “It’s cool man. My buddy lost the key. He freaked out, I came here to get him. How much do we owe you?”

“It’s 195 Euros!”

We paid, happy the Polizei were not getting involved. You saw what the Germans did to the Jews…

We walked on towards the station, broke with a drop of guilt. We had a nine-hour train ride on zero hours sleep with the inevitable hell of a hangover.

Scopolamine comes with a slew of side effects ranging from dry mouth and impaired speech, amnesia, excitement and restlessness, to hallucinations and delirium. In years past it was used in conjunction with painkillers to induce Twilight Sleep, which relieves pain during childbirth while keeping the patient awake. Scopolamine was studied by the Nazis and a few intelligence agencies during the Cold War as a truth drug. In very rare cases, scopolamine is used as a recreational drug for its hallucinogenic side effects. The chemical extract is highly toxic, so non-medical use is dangerous. The prescribed uses call for as little as 330 micrograms.

Unfortunately, scopolamine’s most common use is for robberies and assaults in Colombia. The extent to its damage is near endemic – 1 out of 5 emergency room visits due to overdose result from scopolamine. Organized groups of thieves prey on unsuspecting victims by drugging them and taking advantage of them once they’re under the influence. I started hearing horror stories as soon as I arrived. It’s described as a GHB that turns people completely agreeable to any suggestion, with the amnesia effects making it perfect for robberies and / or rape.

The stories I hear jump the shark from urban legend to nutty ridiculousness. One of those chain emails you idiots forward went around last year telling a story of an American woman incapacitated and robbed by accepting a business card brushed with scopolamine. Here’s Snopes debunking that nonsense.

Junk mail aside, the urban legend’s epitomized in the popular VBS documentary, Colombian Devil’s Breath. VBS won’t let me embed their content so you’ll have to watch the 35-minute documentary on their site.

Colombian Devil’s Breath – Part 1
Colombian Devil’s Breath – Part 2

Or watch Headline News’ 7 minute summary piece on the film, “Zombie Drug” (about as un-sensational as the VBS title):

After I saw the VBS film, I was curious. However, the natural skeptic inside didn’t buy it. It’s true that a tiny amount of this stuff is enough to take effect, but I don’t believe some of the reported methods of drugging victims. The most unbelievable is the taxi driver blowing it in your face, after which you’re immediately in a hypnotic trance at his mercy. I heard about somebody getting it into their skin from reading magazines in the back of a taxi and, most ridiculously, via ATM machine buttons.

After watching the VBS piece, I asked some born-and-raised Colombian bogotanos about scopolamine. Most echoed the taxi driver stories and urban legend fodder. One girl told me her cousin was taking a bus to Bogota from Girardot and somebody offered him a cigarette. The next thing he knew he was in a park with no money.

Another Colombian told me how he was drunk in a taxi. He didn’t remember much, but all of a sudden the taxi driver had some thugs around the car and they beat him up and took his money. I told him he didn’t get drugged and robbed. He got beat the fuck up and robbed. That’s not a scopolamine story.

Here are scopolamine stories I believe:

An Irish guy I knew living in La Candelaria had met a girl and they made plans to hang out. He met her and her friends at a bar on the west side of the city. He said he was drinking with them and that’s all he remembered. He woke up back in his room with nothing in his pockets. He called her to bitch her out and she hung up on him. Then she called back a few days later, saying something about how insulted she was that he accused her and she would never do that. She said he left her and her friends at the bar and she didn’t know where he went. While he was telling me this, he seemed to believe her story. I never saw that guy again, but God I hope he didn’t hang out with her after that.

An AA friend told me about a member in Medellin. This guy’s rock-bottom event came after partying in a brothel and waking up the next day in a run-down motel with no money and no clothes. He tried to leave but the motel staff told him he had to pay for the room. They didn’t care about his story. He had no recollection of what happened.

I looked for high-brow journalism on scopolamine but there isn’t much out there. I found a Reuters story about a Colombian woman who was found wandering topless in Bogota, asking about her baby. Police believe a gang trafficking infants was responsible. This story doesn’t appear on the Reuters site and seems a bit suspect. I found a Phillip Stewart on Reuters (the name on the byline), and emailed him asking whether he wrote the story and does he stand by it. His reply:

I met that poor woman years ago and never forgot it. Yes I wrote it.

A Canadian traveler told me a story that started in Medellin’s Parque Lleras. He’d lived in Envigado the year before so he wasn’t new to the country. He and a guy from his hostel started drinking beer and aguardiente with a couple Colombians they met. Things got drunk and his pal from the hostel was put into the back of a cop car while breaking up a fight, but the pal confirmed for to our Canadian traveler that he saw him get into a Mercedes with the two Colombians they were drinking with. He woke up the next day in Envigado, broke. A Colombian friend’s doctor father examined him and confirmed the symptoms of having taken scopolamine.

Of course there’s feedback from The Mick, who spent 20+ extremely alcoholic years in Bogota. We sometimes buy cheap stuff in 7 de Agosto, where we have to ride through this horrible little prostitution and drug zone. One time I asked if he partied there in his drinking days. He frowned and said he did, but that he hated those people because they always gave him scopolamine (which he pronounces “escopolamina”). He said he’s been drugged “loads of times” and “at least 30 times.” He took some heavy losses but generally believes scopolamine didn’t affect him as much because he was such an extreme alcoholic and drug user – getting drunk at breakfast, lunch, and dinner while smoking and snorting the whole time.

The Mick’s first time “scoped” came soon after an ex-girlfriend left him with their baby for five months. He, a raging alcoholic, was on a trip somewhere up north with a friend when they stopped for lunch and drink. He dropped the baby off at a day-care and started pounding beer and aguardiente at a tienda. They hopped into a taxi and The Mick clearly remembers his friend saying, “Everything’s gone white! It’s like we’re in heaven!” And then The Mick fell under the spell. (The campesinos at the tienda drugged them.)

The taxi driver ended up kicking them out of his cab. The Mick vaguely remembers crawling in the street, at one point crawling under a bus. They eventually remembered the baby and made it back to the day-care. They were stumbling and pissy while carrying the baby, and eventually made a scene in front of some cops and military guys. The Mick woke up in the Bogota British Embassy.

Another time he was drinking as hard and heavy as usual in the Bogota streets. He remembers bouncing around various street scenes; then he was kissing some girl. Then he woke up in his apartment wrapped in a blanket. The apartment was cleared out. He went to the police station naked. He’s done that a few times.

The open-to-suggestibility is the scariest aspect to the scopolamine rumors. You consciously allow thieves to take everything? It seems too crazy to believe. The Mick describes the buzz in a way that makes me want to characterize it as an extreme form of the ecstasy high, which you’re in love with everything and everybody. Everything is peace and love. No evil anywhere. You want everything to be pleasant and feel nice and it does. This all comes with an impenetrable amnesia effect from everybody I’ve talked to – except fuzzy memories from The Mick.

From the Crime section on the US State Department’s Colombia page:

Use of disabling drugs: The Embassy continues to receive reports of criminals in Colombia using disabling drugs to temporarily incapacitate tourists and others.  At bars, restaurants, and other public areas, perpetrators may offer tainted drinks, cigarettes, or gum.  Typically, victims become disoriented or unconscious, and are thus vulnerable to robbery, sexual assault, and other crimes.  Avoid leaving food or drinks unattended at a bar or restaurant, and be suspicious if a stranger offers you something to eat or drink.

Scopolamine is surely used in Colombia, but the urban legends are rampant. The amnesia effect of scopolamine is crucial to the scam, and also adds to the myth. If nobody remembers what happened, it slows our learning about this drug and how it’s used. And anybody who’s taken it doesn’t know how because they didn’t see it – which is the obvious intent of the thieves.

Some stories are silly. One says women can rub it on their breasts and have guys lick them later in the night. I could buy that one, but it’d render the skin-absorption through magazines or ATM buttons bullshit. The whore would get drugged if it can be absorbed by the skin. Similarly, blowing the powder at the mark’s face exposes the thief just as much as the mark. And if you’ve ever snorted coke, you know how far powder has to go to enter the bloodstream. You don’t need as many micro-grains of scopolamine, but you’d still need to snort it through some kind of tube like (with) cocaine. You’re not going to catch enough molecules out of the air with a casual nasal inhale unless somebody pelts you in the face with a handful of it – like flour – hundreds of thousands of pesos worth of the shit.

I think the vast majority of scopolamine cases come from spiking drinks or mixing it with cocaine. And I believe most of the scopolamine bandits operate in brothels, which adds to the urban legend. This is how: First, the amnesia effect of scopolamine completely confuses the victim as to what happened. He remembers he was at the brothel, and he knows he can’t tell his wife that. He realizes he was drugged and decides to tell her one of these bullshit stories about the taxi driver blowing magic dust or passing him a tainted copy of El Tiempo.

I’m convinced these bullshit stories and the extremity of the urban legend are due to (A) the amnesiac effect and (B) guys lying to their wives, girlfriends, and female relatives to cover up their indiscretions. Until I hear a scopolamine story from a woman who got robbed or raped while NOT drinking recklessly, I’m sticking with my theory.

I think what happened to the Irish guy is as elaborate as the scams get these days. I can see that being executed. A gringo just arrived to Latin America. He’s still living in La Candelaria and doesn’t recognize the difference in women that are easy and too easy. Those women may use different weapons, but they exist across Latin America. After meeting, they lure him out to their neighborhood to drink with a table full of girls, maybe one guy. The bartender might be in on the operation. They drink and have fun while slipping the gringo a mickey. Whenever they spot the effects, they get everything in his pockets and then put him in a taxi back to La Candelaria. In the case that he calls back and isn’t sure if they robbed him, they play innocent and try to get him again.

I was skeptical about the suggestibility aspect of the stories but undecided and unsure. The VBS film showed bank footage of a victim at the ATM fetching cash for his robbers. On the other hand, the Nazis and Cold War agencies all abandoned it for any use so could it really be that powerful? Ultimately, The Mick’s hazy recollections of a hyper-ecstatic ecstasy pill high make a strong case for how that level of agreeableness can happen.

Most Colombians haven’t been “scoped,” so don’t be afraid of Colombia. The Mick said the stuff’s very hard to buy; he would have a hard time finding it (that says a lot given his last 20 years, see The Mick’s stories). And almost every story I’ve heard involves reckless drinking. Not just drinking, reckless drinking. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, think me-in-Peru reckless drinking. Colombia can be tough on a drunk. And while stories of victims who were not drinking recklessly are rare, there are a few. (But even most of those are guys lying to females about the night they went to bang whores).

I’m thrilled to be living in Bogota, Colombia, and I realize that a disproportionate amount of my writing showcases the danger, the annoyances, the scary, the sketchy, the bad. That content is the most compelling, but life is beautiful here. I’m going to stay longer than the previous plan of one year. There’s almost a sensation in the country that all the beauty, the attraction, the romance, the draw, comes with an equally dangerous and bloody risk. The rose comes with thorns. It sounds corny, but it’s true.

The Brugmansia flower, which contains the main ingredient in scopolamine and grows wild throughout Bogota and Colombia.

I almost moved into one of these buildings but it was all the way up on Circunvalar, as high in the mountains as the buildings go. The view overlooking the city was better than any of these pics and the unit was the same price as I’m paying now, but the walk to the grocery store was ~10 minutes and ~20 minutes to the TransMilenio. I prefer to be in the action. (See pics of Chapinero west of La Septima.)

Chapinero Alto is a bad-ass neighborhood nonetheless. I aspire to live there when I can afford taxis. Enjoy the pics.