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Two degrees above the Equator, in a sultry, lowland province of eastern Colombia, runoff from the Andes begins to drain away from the Caribbean and flow south toward Brazil. This place, called the Guaviare, is the upper reach of Amazonia, where coastal savannas disappear beneath unbroken forest, rain falls for 10 straight months and biological fervor builds to near-delirium. About the size of Belgium, the Guaviare has no paved roads, or barely any roads at all. The main exception is a mile mud trench that, in dry weather, connects the provincial capital of San Jose virtually inaccessible except by air or river to the jungle outpost of Calamar. On the Friday evening of June 9, , nothing special was happening in Calamar. The afternoon cloudburst had been torrential but brief. By sunset, men and women in clean cotton shirts and dresses were picking their way through slick, brown muck along the nameless main street that parallels the Rio Unilla, the northernmost tendril of the Amazon, heading to public radiotelephone stalls to make weekend calls back to civilization, and then on for a chilled beer, a game of chess or dominoes and some news and entertainment on the big screen. In the wooden storefront cafe belonging to Ernesto Romero, a stubby cheerful barkeep in blue shorts and sandals, families sat at white plastic tables, engrossed in bullfights transmitted live over a Madrid network. Yet just as the action heightened--a flashy young Basque matador had managed to get himself gored--Cali itself intervened. The alert came from the excited shouts of radiotelephone operators outside. The biggest news to hit Colombia in two years was soon roaring over every TV in town, overwhelming scores of throbbing portable diesel generators and the squawking green parrots overhead. On the screen, General Rosso Jose Serrano, director of the National Police, his steel-gray hair flecked with confetti, proclaimed this a moment for all Colombians to be proud. Colombian President Ernesto Samper mopped his forehead with undisguised relief and announced his intention to sleep for 12 straight hours. It referred to a videotaped sequence being replayed nearly continuously, showing a pudgy, middle-aged man in a goatee and tan khaki jacket seated glumly in an overstuffed chair, his hands shackled. Three hours earlier, Colombian police had pushed aside a bookcase and revealed Gilberto Rodriguez Orejuela cowering in a hidden crawl space. Hundreds of roadless miles away in Calamar, dozens of beers joined his toast. No more monopoly controlling the market and dictating what growers get paid. To these people, the fortunes of celebrity cocaine capos like Rodriguez Orejuela had little bearing on what actually happened in the drug trade; hundreds of ambitious young entrepreneurs would promptly step in to fill the breach. Still, it had become an irritant. During the previous four months, under growing duress emanating from the Clinton administration--which was pressured in turn by Senate Foreign Relations Committee Chairman Jesse Helms--Colombia had embarked on what President Samper and the U. Embassy were touting as the biggest drug-eradication program in history. With estimates of up to , acres planted in illicit crops here, this plan could require the destruction of acres per day. They worried that, in response to assertions widely repeated in the U. Over the following months, Operation Radiance would become the least of their troubles. Still, State Department officials privately suggested that, although encouraging, the plan was more symbolism than substance since Colombia, compared to traditional growers like Peru and Bolivia, was far more involved in processing and shipping cocaine than cultivating it. And although Colombian marijuana farming had dwindled to insignificance, as imaginative indoor agro-technology helped make pot the most lucrative crop in the United States, mounting demand in U. Drug Enforcement Administration warnings that no one disputed. In addition, President Samper and his country were already pinned in the cross-fire of the U. Republicans led by Sen. Helms had branded Bill Clinton a wimp on drugs for failing to decertify Colombia--certification being a process by which the United States annually judges the sincerity of producing and transit countries in the war on narcotics. Failure to pass muster would effectively make Colombia a pariah nation, unfit for loans from the World Bank or other such institutions, and severely restrict sales of its oil, bananas, coffee and flowers to its biggest international customer: us. Although falling short of directly implicating Samper himself, the charges were not playing well in Washington. But could Operation Radiance actually work? Unfortunately, the growing taste in the United States during that decade for potent marijuana and, gradually, for harder stuff also stirred another old Colombian tradition: smuggling. During colonial times, dealing in contraband here was practically considered an honorable act of defiance against a Spanish crown that only permitted trade with Spain itself, and many elite families originally grew to prominence by doing it. In the 20th Century, this legacy inspired lower-class entrepreneurs to traffic first in black market Colombian emeralds, then in hallucinogens and stimulants. As the hapless international war on drugs has served mainly to encourage the narcotics trade by keeping prices high, today more than , families grow coca or poppies in the Guaviare and neighboring provinces--a figure equal to the number of Colombians propagating coffee. Already the drone of spray planes had invaded the tranquillity of their forest, inevitably drawing the retort of automatic weapons fire. The government was promising a costly, radical crop substitution program, but a relic of when that was last tried--a fading, defaced color poster of a United Nations project, showing caricatures of campesinos happily digging fish ponds and reforesting--hung on his barroom wall for comic relief. As pilot Cesar Quijano knows too well, Colombia already has a civil war on its hands. The difference in Colombia is that, after nearly 40 years, it burns on, pitting the government against seasoned guerrilla armies operating in terrain so tangled that El Salvador or Vietnam seem comparatively featureless. Colombia has not just one Andean cordillera but three, separated by valleys that everyone covets or jungles where anyone can hide. Over the past decade, the guerrillas, originally inspired by leftist doctrine, have made some ideological compromises to finance the war effort. In exchange, the FARC provide muscle and security, ostensibly to defend peasant coca growers but also to guard their cash cow. Since the program began, guerrillas have already shot down four of them. When Colombian officials inquire at the U. Quijano is used to such inconsistencies. Once, he and his crew sprayed benign targets like corn and rice for a living. Not only did crop-dusting jobs vanish, but many of the now-bankrupt farmers whose crops they formerly dusted ended up either in the Andes tending poppies or right here in the Guaviare planting coca. Moments later, two fixed-wing spray planes, four support choppers with dual mounted M machine guns, and an ambulance helicopter are airborne, heading south from San Jose. From above, a healthy rain forest is as dense as a living coral reef, so impenetrable that no ground can be glimpsed through the green. Here, the Colombian Amazon is pocked with dead scabs: olive-gray patches sown in wispy coca shrubs, brown scars where the planes have fumigated with glyphosate, and charred black holes where campesinos continue to advance into the forest. Glyphosate, a common weedkiller sold in the United States under the trade name Roundup, blocks photosynthesis, effectively suffocating a plant, but it supposedly biodegrades within a few weeks. The controversy over its use presents a conundrum for Colombian ecologists: Which is worse for the forest, herbicide or the slash-and-scorch assault of dope cultivation? Every week, new three-hectare coca clearings are making the jungle resemble a vast field of craters. Forty minutes out of San Jose, the pilots veer toward a thick, black column of smoke on the horizon. There, a police commando scouting unit has already swooped into a hectare coca plantation along the shores of a swollen river. Under covering fire from the circling helicopters, the commandos had descended by rope from the troop transport. After discharging several hundred rounds into the surrounding forest, flushing dozens of terrified toucans and macaws but drawing no answering fire from guerrillas, they radioed for the spray planes to come in. From the barracks where the rasperos --the harvesters--live, Serafin Baret watches the twin Turbo Thrushes approach, about feet above the ground. From 64 ducts spaced along the underside of their wings burst jets of opaque white mist, dispersing over the coca. Despite U. State Department claims that the nozzles were ingeniously designed to unload only upon the desired objective, Serafin takes an acrid blast through the open window. Outside he can see the commandos, coming across an adjacent soccer field, also wiping glyphosate from their faces. Six of them enter, carrying Ms, Galils, and a grenade launcher. The most careful farmers immediately prune sprayed bushes down to the stalk, then process the leaves, glyphosate and all. Baret shrugs. Already the fumigation planes have gone, their gallon capacity quickly depleted. A former rice farmer, he works harvests here, bagging coca flour, but he has a few of his own three-hectare plots a few miles further into the forest. Days like this are a pain, but surely not the end of coca in the Guaviare. A C transport that flew from Bogota to San Jose del Guaviare carried no less than President Ernesto Samper, nearly his entire cabinet, the federal prosecutor general and, among other dignitaries, the ambassadors of Peru, Spain, France and the United States. In fact, the occasion for this auspicious gathering was meant to resurrect it. The only thing about drugs that everyone in Colombia agreed upon, from the government to the growers to the guerrilla, was that in order to get rid of them, farmers would need something else to do--something that paid. But before he was able to present it, he was publicly lectured by the governor of the Guaviare:. A growl of assent elicited from the campesinos present. How many times had they heard this business about substitution crops? Everyone here knew the history of government and U. Rubber Corporation into the Guaviare, back when practically no one lived here except for forest-dwelling Indians. Abruptly stranded, the rubber tappers turned to hunting jaguars, tapirs, river otters and alligators, whose pelts provided sustenance until the wildlife was virtually exterminated. In desperation, many fled to wild places like the Guaviare. In the former rubber port of San Jose del Guaviare, war-sick, dispossessed refugees were sold machetes and axes and told to walk until there were no more houses. They did, taking turns helping each other clear the jungle, turn tree trunks into boards, trap monkeys when there was nothing else to eat, and bury the children who died of malnutrition. Then, in the s, government agricultural agents appeared with a plan. The Guaviare, they promised, would become a cornucopia of rice and corn. They distributed seed, which everyone planted. When there was no more room, the people erected tents. Then they commandeered every available public space. Finally, when even the church was bursting and cereals were spilling into the streets, they knew that something had gone wrong. The problem was simple: hauling commodities over the Andes to markets in Bogota or beyond cost many times what they were worth. The agricultural agents stopped coming, and the mountains of rotting grain had to be dumped into the river. The colonists of the Guaviare were again left to survive alone--until , when some now-legendary, husky blond men appeared, bringing very different seeds. This time, buyers would come to them. Many doubt that we can do this. But we must. It would make low-interest credit available for substitutes with good market potential, like rubber, oil palm, palm hearts and tropical fruits. During the four to 10 years it would take for these trees to mature, the farmers could grow perishables--grains, bananas, sesame and cassava--that the government guaranteed to buy itself. Polite applause. That substitution program had actually stimulated coca proliferation: To qualify for their credits, you had to be growing ilicitos. So we started. When it all began, buyers had paid top prices to hook them. Soon, colonos were exchanging their banana-stained shirts for fine silk and their plastic jugs of homemade sugar beer for multicolored bottles that lined the mirrors of new San Jose night clubs. Every week, chartered flights arrived filled with prostitutes from Bogota, even in backwaters like Calamar. The intoxicating effect of such affluence led eventually, of course, to overproduction. By , prices had collapsed and civic order along with them. Deranged by the sudden loss of their unaccustomed wealth, neighbors turned on each other. Thieves ran amok, and every morning bodies lay in the streets. Fortunately--thanks to the United States--coca prices crept back before everyone either fled or perished. But for many, a more modest living free of wild price gyrations, with guaranteed land titles and credit to grow viable, legal crops and run a few cattle, is increasingly an attractive option--if the government could ever be trusted to keep its word. Why not let people gradually phase out, say, a third of their coca each year while the government builds the roads and markets? Hector Moreno, the man in charge of making the government keep its word, realizes much more than that. But how can drugs be fought without spending money? Colombia has just half that budgeted and is counting on the balance coming from interested foreign countries. Thus far, the European Union is interested. The United States is not. Over the past five years, the coca equivalent of 30, prospectors have arrived in Miraflores, an old rubber camp nine hours downriver from Calamar--not to colonize but to engage in narco-agribusiness. The official explanation mentions strategic police timetables, but the truth was that Miraflores is too remote for planes to safely reach and return. The solution means finding money to build and fortify another base. Years before running for president, Ernesto Samper wrote an article suggesting that the sole remedy for such distortions, so costly in dollars, lives and ecosystems, may be legalization. Given current geopolitical realities, that option is inconceivable. Unless--as many here pray--the gringos manage to synthesize the cocaine alkaloid and eliminate the need for coca leaves altogether, both Samper and Moreno believe the only hope is for farmers to accept the carrot of substitute crops. Yet Moreno, who spent years studying rural colonization, knows that carrots and sticks are behavior modification tools that avoid confronting root causes. Until we give people land to colonize and the infrastructure to live in it, drugs will exist for generations more. But the issue of land reform here is no longer just a matter of rich versus poor. The pressure to launder money, combined with macho ranching fantasies, has translated into a nationwide real estate nightmare. Their immense acreage is rarely economically productive: the narco norm is owning a few show cattle and having stables filled with expensive paso fino horses. This rural tragedy has deepened with the continued onslaught of cheap agricultural imports, as more Colombian farmers willingly give up and sell. Drug dealers are even buying up year-old coffee plantations and ripping out the bushes for pasture. Nor have cities been spared. Property values in north Bogota now rival Manhattan or Tokyo, as narcos burdened with excess dollars routinely purchase entire neighborhoods. Then, because construction is another deft way to launder cash, the old dignified brick homes of Bogota are swept away by monstrous condo towers, with prices that defy laws of supply and demand and designs that shatter all standards of architecture taste. Worst of all are the horrors rising over the once-graceful city of Cali: multistory spires and prisms with diagonal yellow sashes and red racing stripes, grotesque Greek-Renaissance miscegenations topped with pink vaults and the inevitable parabolic antennae encrusting the skyline like gigantic steel fungi. Such unbridled exorbitance has meant that few middle-class urban Colombians can afford homes anymore. Sidewalk vendors hawk hot designer fashions in front of legitimate apparel stores, ambushing customers before they get through the door. And nearly everyone fills their prescriptions and has film developed in cut-rate drugstore and photo-processing chains owned by the families of cartel members. But it weakens our commercial sector, our industry, our productivity. Our nation. A hundred miles south of Bogota, in Huila province, it is possible to stand atop the Andes and have the illusion that, except for its two seacoasts, the entire country is visible. There are also its people, a high percentage of them educated and enterprising, yet stigmatized everywhere because their nationality is linked to heinous substances whose consumption at home is negligible compared to that of the so-called developed world. Like their lowland coca counterparts, poppy growers on precipitous Andean inclines ravage about two hectares of nature for every one they plant in narcotics. The magnitude of deforestation is revealed by a World Bank statistic: Ten years ago, Colombia ranked third in world hydroelectric potential. Today it is 25th. The planes have been here to spray, but in the Huila hamlet of Turquestan, poppy farmers like to point out two things. One is the remains of the police helicopter that guerrillas downed in a ravine nearby. The other is growing on the steepest slopes, from the banks of gushing streams right up to the ridgelines. Concealed among thick, sheltering rows of corn are pink, white, red, and lavender constellations of tissuey poppies, bearing multiple buds swollen with raw opium milk. They have also learned to organize. He stoops to pluck a crimson blossom. And nothing can really stop us. De Los. Times Everywhere. For Subscribers. All Sections. About Us. B2B Publishing. Hot Property. Times Events. Times Store. Special Supplements. By Alan Weisman. Share via Close extra sharing options. Alan Weisman is a contributing editor to the magazine who lives in Sonoita, Ariz. His last article was on harnessing hydrogen as a fuel. More to Read. Catholic priest, noted human rights defender, assassinated in southern Mexico. More From the Los Angeles Times. Opinion Opinion: How Trump and Republicans distorted federal data into an imaginary migrant murder spree.
RIYADH: A live theatrical spectacular that honors and celebrates the culture of Saudi Arabia will open in Diriyah on Thursday. The artistic production, Terhal.
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