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This is a fluid division since many street dwellers live in flux as their fortunes wax and wane, some days getting lucky and enough coins to pay for a hostel bed, other nights blowing it on a peso twist of basuco — low-grade coca paste, a residue of cocaine labs — and ending up in the rain again. Some street dwellers themselves estimate the true figure to be around 40,, but there is no hard data. Everyone agrees it is many more than 10, Some have had to flee for their lives to the city to escape massacres or death sentences imposed by paramilitary groups linked to the state; with these memories they approach the local authorities with caution and are too spooked to register for assistance, particularly given the jobs-worth approach by most city officials that requires filling in every small detail of your life, address, birth data, even where you were baptised, even before you get inside the door. All these thoughts are rattling around my head when I set out to talk to some street dwellers. Several interviews are done literally on my doorstep, and one in my kitchen. These are people I realise I know and see nearly every day, maybe throwing a coin from time to time, or a bag of old clothes on a cold night but never thinking of who they are or where they come from, never stopping to ask their name. So actually conversing is something of a revelation. But it must be said my quest is filtered towards people able to understand my request for information, and aware that their comments will be published, which means those habitantes en calle that are in a more stable stage and are on the rebound, so to speak, or at least in a moment of lucidity. It is difficult from a practical perspective, and morally dubious, to interview a glue sniffer semi-conscious in the gutter. Life on the streets usually comes in stages of descent from hard drinking, often adulterated alcohol called chirrinchi , to smoking marijuana and basuco done by pistoleros to smoking the coca paste in pipes done by piperos or sniffing glue, a brand called Boxer. After you hit rock bottom, if you survive, you may bounce back, and then fall back again, a cyclical process that might depend on your own will-power or outside help. This help can come in the form of ambulatory and local hospital-based detox programs, including internships, overnight shelters and back-to-work schemes, and psychosocial support. In fact the police are officially prevented from obstructing or moving any street person from their chosen site, a regulation that has infuriated shop and business owners in areas where street people congregate, namely central zones such as Santa Fe and Los Martires. The massive operation mysteriously failed to catch any major kingpins the rumours are that corrupt cops tipped them off but did manage to scatter street folk and drug dealers into nearby business sectors. In fact, not one social services department was briefed to prepare for the outcome. The impasse with local businesses lead to some politicians to predict a return to the dreaded fumigaciones of recent decades. The question arises: where do all the drugs come from? The answer is a 6, billion-peso local drug market pushing low-grade cocaine residue to school-kids to secure future business. At the top of this pyramid of misery are the same drug capos that export refined cocaine overseas. Ironically, it is the disruption of cartel export routes that has led to large quantities of the low-grade drugs flooding home markets. And the soft target for these peddlers is the vulnerable street people, at the bottom of the pyramid collecting the coins to feed the giant monster above. Street people are also the targets for violence. While most well-heeled rolos live in fear of beggars, it is the street people themselves most attacked, robbed and murdered. Of course one must add that a quarter of these crimes are by other street people, and there is clearly lack of trust within the community if you can even call it that of Estrato 0. Should we automatically see Estrato 0 as victims? Some commentators suggest that street life can be an alternative, interesting and fulfilling existence. True, most people I talk are in good humour and have pride in many aspects of their lives, and one detects a certain machismo in sleeping out, dodging the authorities and avoiding the help programs. But dig a bit deeper and everyone is looking for a way up and out. What tears most is losing contact with friends and family, living without knowing where children or grandchildren are or even knowing if they exist. Get clean, get work, get back to the family, is a common mantra. But invisible barriers, the tentacles of addiction or mental health problems, hold them back. I throw the question out. But slave to the drugs. Gabriel, 76 years old, from Arauca. Displaced by the conflict. But we stayed, we did not want to lose out jobs. They came back and burned houses and killed some 15 people. I had to leave everything behind. I have never been back to Arauca. I did not know how to survive or where to go. There was no-one to help me. But after some time I had learned the code of conduct of life on the streets, where to go and how to ask for money. I have two daughters, and some grandchildren, but we lost contact many years ago. I have no resources to find them. Now I am alone. The poor rob the poor. There are many bad people so I work alone trying to get money and food. Better alone than in bad company, I say. I need to get enough cash every day — at least 6, pesos — to pay for the hostel where I can stay the night, in a room just big enough to lie down. The country is changing but will be difficult to heal. I sometimes talk to truck drivers from Arauca to see how things are there. My hope is one day to go home, but how to get the money? Sundays are the worst days — less people around so less money for the hostel. Last Sunday I had to sleep out. Also the police wake us up and move us on. Sometimes we get a good beating. I would like to go back to work. I spend all the money I earn on food and the hostel, there is nothing left over for other things. He carries an oxygen bottle after a stab wound to the lung. They were coming to take me. So I had to flee, at night, in the back of a truck to Cucuta then on to Cali where I lived on streets. Cali was too dangerous with the social cleaning, the fumigaciones , street people were being killed. I did not let go so they stabbed my twice in the back, puncturing my lung. The oxygen is paid for by the government, and most of the medicines I need, since I have the Carta de las Habitantes de la Calle Street Dweller Letter. I am officially Estrato Zero. Didier, 38 years old, and Marcela, 28 years old. They met living on the streets of Bogota. Didier is an electronics engineer originally from Santa Marta. Drugs are like a knife at your throat. I just wanted to leave the system, and ended up on the streets. Since then I have been on the streets. I met Didier two years ago. But it harder for women on the streets, and once they get addicted they have to sell themselves to get money for their drug habit, it is more dangerous for them and more health risks. There you can get a bed with blankets and food, sometimes work, but I prefer to stay on the streets. We sleep every night on the street, usually on the same corner. William, 55, originally from Ibague, Tolima. His life was first disrupted when, at age 8 years old, his father threw him and his mother out of the house. Lately I have been sleeping out in the cold. Last month the police came and took all my blankets, it was raining, they threw my blankets in the back of a rubish truck. It is good they also cleared the Bronx, it was a terrible place where gangs fed people to dogs or dissolved them in acid. These are not rumours, the stories are real. I know. So they sent me to jail. My kids are grown up now, but I have lost touch with them since five years ago. But I do have friends and we meet up, every few weeks. Then I fall back into the vice again, sometimes for a week. They have a life. You a fearless. One night I slept in front of a garage and a car nearly ran me over. Some people get killed, stabbed, maybe by other street people. I never back down from a fight, even if they have knives. You have to stand your ground. I was an intern for six months, in a large center with good facilties, we got clothes, bedding, food but had to do many workshops. I ended up as a voluntary outreach worker at the Hospital Santa Clara, helping other addicts. I refuse to take the pills from the hospital to treat this, they turn you into a zombie. I prefer to live real. But I never drink around my kids, I want to be a good example. Some tips for travellers. Viva Villa de Leyva! Building battles Viva Villa de Leyva! Is Colombia Safe? A reciclador. Collecting reusable rubbish is seen as a good job on the streets. A basuco cigarette with cocaine base. Don Gabriel had to flee murderous armed groups in Arauca. Carlos fled conflict and ended up on the streets. D idier and Marcela: together on the streets. William used to visit the notorious Bronx.

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I was aware of the reputation. How could I not be? But after five years in recovery it no longer felt like a concern. First stop Bogota. A vibrant mishmash of red-tiled colonial buildings with painted balcony balustrades. Narrow streets swoop up green mountains decapitated by clouds. A few people smoking crack in the street. That always grabs my attention. Then, curious red brick neighbourhoods that could have been transplanted from Oxford. They sprouted in rebellion against Spanish influence, after the 19th century wars for independence. He told me of a park with lots of parties and drugs and great opportunities to be robbed. I worried this was too ambiguous, and then wondered whether this was strategic ambiguity, that sneaky part of me leaving the door ajar without overtly leading him on. I felt a thrill of excitement, my skin tingling. What new experiences awaited in that light-flooded valley? He paused for a moment then reached into the glove compartment and handed me a box of injectable oxycodone ampoules. At this point my body became a travelling circus. My stomach launched into all sorts of acrobatics, somersaults, soaring trapeze stunts, fireworks going off down my spine, my breath hot and heavy like a fire breather, elephants stomping a foreboding death march across my brain, and my mind teetering on a tightrope above it all, its little arms outstretched, flailing to stay balanced and not tumble into the chaos below. I handed them back like a hot potato. Words that could have been said? Eventually, my urge to maintain polite conversation — the least consequential of all the urges and competing priorities clashing inside me — overrode everything. Just a few hours of fun, then leave it all behind and see the city, do what I came here for. The pharmaceutical protagonist of these fantasies, inches from my knees, was easy to cast. Then the rational voice kicked in: half a day? Yeah right. But… things are different now; after five years, you know enough about this beast to keep it in check. A one off would be fine. Just one more time. You can take it or leave it, which means you can definitely take it then leave it. Finally I hauled myself out of that debate and marvelled at how two voices, so distinct and persuasive, can co-exist in the same mind. We arrived at the hostel and the fantasies remained, for now, unconsummated. But the deviant part of my mind saw it as an investment. Now the sensible thing would have been to delete his number and forget all about it. And that idea certainly occurred to me. Yes, just in case. Upstairs in my room, two very wise courses of action occurred to me: delete his number, call someone. Neither were followed. Instead I chose a moderately wise course of action that kept the fantasies at bay until my eyes closed for the night — distract the shit out of myself. Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. Plump Botero statues bulged from plinths. But despite this visual feast, my attention was quickly consumed by people smoking crack around the perimeter. He theatrically brandished a colossal crack pipe, leaning back at 45 degrees, Matrix style. He went to light it, but performed yet another improbable feat; he paused, and brandished the pipe some more like a traffic conductor, before finally taking a hit. Beside him stood a woman, tranquil, calmly lighting her pipe over and over, without changing her posture or expression. My mind slipped into theirs and I wondered what they were feeling. My stomach lurched. Back on the bus I summoned the most vivid, euphoric snippets of speedball memories, like a butcher selecting the finest cuts of meat, savouring them until that circus started up again. Then I realised what was happening and how dangerous that was, and conjured the most miserable moments of those days, like a horror film connoisseur on a YouTube binge, seeing my old self sick and lonely, in a wonderful city surrounded by friends, yet unable to experience anything except cravings and misery. That shut the circus down. Funny that the best thing I could do for myself was tap into my worst memories. Imagining things induces similar neurological and physiological responses to actually experiencing them, which is why imaginal exposure can be such a valuable intervention for phobias, and safe-place imagery so helpful for PTSD. We can wreak havoc with our imagination, but we can also harness it to cultivate more helpful states. Sitting on that bus, I did both, over and over. A dizzying cycle of self-sabotage and self-preservation. He was reassuringly unconcerned. They come from nowhere, and if you let them, they disappear back where they came from; fucking nowhere. Research suggests a new thought arises every 4. What the hell should we do with them? Metacognitive perspectives suggest that our relationship with our thoughts matters more than their contents. The way we think about our thoughts determines the impact they have. Problematic metacognitive patterns in addiction include believing that you must control your thoughts and that thoughts are dangerous, which are significant predictors of relapse. I recalled my work with OCD, and the thought-action-fusion fallacy, which leads people to believe that thinking about something makes it more likely to occur. But you can think really hard about sitting down, whilst remaining standing. Having these thoughts after five years of recovery did not mean I was destined to enact them, or that something was going fundamentally wrong. The thoughts meant nothing at all, as long as I let them. The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. There is nothing new there. And sadly, in a way that is true. Nothing can feel as good as that intense flash of euphoria. One of the challenges of recovery is to accept slow burning pleasures instead. When you forgo the sublime intensity of narcotics, you need to find excitement elsewhere. And by God, Colombia was the right place to do that. Communa 13, with its brick buildings stacked precariously on a steep hillside, was one of the most violent parts. In , police raided Communa 13, killing nine people and wounding scores more. But since then, local projects and community centres have brought it back to life. The installation of nearly m of escalators has plugged it into the city. Buildings bloom with murals. Street dancers and rappers get crowds bouncing. The anthill alleys are cramped but not oppressive. It feels more vivid for the compression, human friction sparking festivity. But it also got me pondering my own complicity with the violence they were recovering from. Are western drug users responsible in part for the trail of destruction from Colombian coca fields to western mirrors and crack pipes? Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said :. The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. The jungle is not responsible. Society educated towards endless consumption, stupid confusion between consumption and happiness is what makes it possible for the pockets of the rich to be filled. Those responsible for drug addiction are not the forest. It is the lack of rationality of world power. Decreasing drug consumption does not need wars. It needs for all of us to build a better society with more solidarity, with more affection, where the intensity of life will save people from addiction. Art by Rhys James artbyrhysjames. I walked into the Botero Museum and started laughing like a delighted child. One painting shows a plump little conical nubbin of a Catholic bishop walking through a forest in a flamboyant pink frock, with a pink umbrella no rain and his pink cape trailing far behind. He is ludicrously, determinedly extravagant and inelegant against the effortless elegance of the towering trees behind. He is ridiculous. In a way that combination of levity and love is a guide to our relationship with ourselves. Laugh at the sincerity of our weird little pursuits, but love ourselves for the persistence of our pursuit, even in the face of this absurdity. Another painting, El Estudio, shows a colossal nude model, a vast expanse of buttocks dominating the foreground at eye level. The miniscule head of the painter peers at her from behind the canvas. His gaze is solemn and diligent, but the scaling mismatch renders his task and his solemnity absurd. How could he have enough paint? Standing in front of those inflated buttocks, I experienced an awe-inspiring sense of deflation like de Botton in the Sinai Mountains. I felt small and insignificant, like the pea-headed painter, and that downsizing left me floating free like a peanut shell dropped from a cliff top. I was drunk without drinking, and that is a good place to be in recovery. Forgoing those pleasures was a pleasure in itself. After an easy ride in recovery of late, the temptation to say yes reminded me of the thrill of saying no. Bobbing on a boat out at sea, I rolled backwards into another world. Instantly unplugged are the parts of your mind that process the past and the future and self and others. You are nobody. Just a floating awareness of coral brains covered in winding labyrinths and wrinkled purple pancake stacks. Architecturally adventurous alien cities. Flailing claws hint at crustaceans. A moray eel protrudes like a leathery hand puppet. Accusatory eyes. Accusing who? Not me. There is no me. Social anxiety does not exist here. Back on the surface the heavens had opened. I squeezed onto a bus into town. He looked up and smiled at me watching him watching. I felt alive. This is how I want to use this soggy bundle of neurons to pleasure myself, I thought. Keep mainlining reality. View all posts by Joel Lewin. The artwork by Rhys James adds a nice touch to the piece. Like Like. Enjoyed reading about your journey in the physical and mind. Skip to content. When I said I was going to Colombia some eyebrows were raised. Do you like drugs? Lots of heroin. When bad memories are medicine Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. It was time to call my sponsor. Intensity of experience The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. But… nothing feels so good. Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said : The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Next Dancing sober: the final frontier. Published by Joel Lewin. Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website.

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