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This is a podcast about drugs, history, and the endlessly fascinating interaction of the two. Sometimes we'll talk drugs. Sometimes we'll talk history. Sometimes we'll talk about both. This podcast is connected to the Substack newsletter of the same name. OCT 1. You can read the History on Drugs newsletter here. Episode Outline Introduction. Will LSD make a comeback? This is a public episode. AUG Willard is the Henry R. Our conversation centers around a great adventure from which Willard had just returned—sailing a foot sailboat from Lake Erie to Finland. We discuss not only the ins and outs of sailing a small boat across the North Atlantic, but Adams' earlier voyage and U. Willard also tells some amazing stories about visiting the Soviet Union in the s as well as working as a translator on a Soviet fishing boat. This is a great, wide-ranging conversation that takes us from Ohio to Finland to the Soviet Union and back again. Episode Outline Episode introduction. MAY 5. In this episode I talk to Nancy Campbell about a life in drug history. From growing up in small-town Pennsylvania, to Seattle and northern California in the s during the height of the War on Drugs, to a historic s summit of young drug scholars organized by the legendary David Musto, to a quarter century of researching and publishing on drugs, gender, addiction, and overdose. Episode Outline with approximate time stamps Episode introduction. APR In this episode, my colleague Jeff Zalar joins me. This is a wide-ranging conversation that takes us from the post-industrial, working-class Rust Belt, to Panama and the first Gulf War via the Marines , through graduate school at Georgetown, and finally to the University of Cincinnati. It also includes about the finest explanation of the value of a humanities education that you will ever hear. Plus thoughts on the culture of drinking in the military. Episode outline: —Episode introduction. You can hear the church bells at the start of the podcast, though that was totally unintentional. MAR James is a really interesting guy with a really fascinating story, and he generously shares a lot of it. We talk about his growing up in Maine, youthful drug use, families and addiction, becoming a historian, researching Afghanistan, opium, cannabis, and much much more. It brings my research on marijuana in the United States to a broader public. Emily Dufton is a historian who has written about marijuana in the United States. Haggai Ram is a historian who has written about hashish in Mandatory Palestine and Israel. David Herzberg is a historian who has written a lot about drugs and the pharmaceutical industry in the United States. David Courtwright is the dean of American drug historians. Paul Gootenberg is the dean of Latin American drug historians. He has written a lot about cocaine. He was also on my doctoral committee many moons ago. Oliver Dinius is a historian of Brazil and was a colleague of mine in graduate school. Matthew Connelly is a historian of international and global history and my first mentor in this business. James Mills is a historian who has worked on cannabis in the British empire and cocaine in Asia. Patricia Barton is a historian of pharmacy and drugs in the British empire. Stephen Snelders is a historian who writes about drugs in the Netherlands and beyond. Lucas Richert is a historian of pharmacy and psychedelics. David Guba is a historian who has written about cannabis in France. Ethan Nadelmann is a drug-policy-reform legend. Campos has a smooth and easy style that really shapes a narrative without sounding obtuse or preachy. He also presents the complexities of drugs through a historical lense that is fascinating and refreshing. Updated Semiweekly. Updated Biweekly. To listen to explicit episodes, sign in. Stay up to date with this show. Sign in or sign up to follow shows, save episodes, and get the latest updates. Home Browse Top Charts Search. History on Drugs Podcast Isaac Campos. Latest Episode. Smooth like butter…with a of flavor! Apr 27 KazBMe. Get to the point! Mar 25 Andalucha. History on Drugs Podcast. You Might Also Like. Film Reviews. Sign In. Select a country or region. Asia Pacific See All. Europe See All. Latin America and the Caribbean See All.

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La Chorrera buying coke

Forced coca farming that feeds a booming drugs trade is bringing misery to villages on the Pacific Coast. An update from the front line communities where a cruel war between armed groups headed by former FARC guerrillas is trapping Afrocolombian communities in new cycles of violence. Tulio is afro-descendant and part of a small close-knit community like thousands of similar settlements that dot the tropical lowlands where muddy brown rivers rush down from the Andean slopes carrying their mineral-laden waters to the Pacific Ocean. He has already lost two sons, he tells me, as tears well in his eyes. None of this is new in Colombia. What is surprising though, as I travel downriver, is that much of this violence is unleashed by armed groups formed by ex FARC guerrillas. Comrades-in-arms once famed for their discipline and purpose no matter how much you agreed — or not — with their Marxist Leninist philosophy have now fractured into factions squabbling over drugs and dollars. Or the real names of my hosts. But what I recount here is a scenario all too common in areas of Colombia where coca is grown and armed groups reign. We begged them to spare him. The neighbour recounts how the group collected all the cell phones in the village and smashed them with a hammer. This community is ramshackle with a half-built school now abandoned after its roof blew off, and the small health post a concrete shell consumed by tropical vines. So they fined us instead. The local guerrillas I met are frequently drunk, stoned and paranoid. At night, fuelled by yet more beers and cheap hooch, they crank up an old generator to play vallenato music on giant speakers until the cascading accordion rhythms penetrate every nook of the bullet-holed wooden and tin-roof houses. Then, in the small hours, when the generator fuel runs out, they shout random insults into the jungle air and fire guns. There is no escape from the noise, just like there is no escape from the conflict. Next morning beer cans litter a small concrete cancha which forms the village hub, shaded by a wall where banners hang with faded photos of illustrious FARC leaders from days gone by. Diego is effectively a prisoner in his own community. Sure, he can travel downriver in his canoe to the town to buy supplies. But his wife and young child must stay behind. In public, Diego puts on a good act of being confident, moving with casual ease among the guerrillas as they shoulder their Uzis and pack 45 pistols in their rubber boots. In private his eyes are wide with fear. The nearby football pitch has been mined during recent combat, and just beyond the line of jungle lie bodies still unrecovered because of fear of explosive traps. Along the river other leaders face house arrest, banned from communicating or traveling having lost the confidence of the current armed group. Several times I hear how a leader has stepped in to defend the community from the gunslingers, sometime physically putting themselves between an angry commander and a local youth hauled into the bush for execution for some perceived transgression. Other leaders campaign against coca and suggest alternative crops like cacao, with high market value in a world equally hooked on chocolate. Their voices are usually silenced, sometimes for ever. It dawns on me why so many community leaders get killed in Colombia: they are pawns in a pitiless drug war pitching endless economic power — a sizeable chunk of the global economy — against poor farmers clinging to their ancestral lands. All for the love of cocaine. Of course, in its early days, coca cropping seemed like a good idea. The miracle plant offered a financial lifeline for remote communities long abandoned by the state. And the afro communities were steeped in agricultural knowledge from generations of tending plantain and other tropical crops, which along with fishing formed their main form of livelihoods. But, like the drug itself it eventually turns into, Erythroxylum coca is a false friend. Now, every morning soon after daybreak, every able adult arrives at the river beach soon after sunrise to form teams that set to the coca fields up or down river. Each farmer is carefully dressed with a long-sleeved shirt, long trousers and rubber boots, and carries a small pack with water and a lunchbox. Some carry sacks of coca seedlings. Others backpack sprayers and cans of chemicals. Everyone carries a machete. Here, I notice, farming vernacular is now shorthand for everything coca. Sembrando, sowing the young shrubs with their innocent green leaves. Raspachando, stripping the darker mature leaves from the white stems. Triturando, making a mulch of the coca leaves. Procesando; mixing the mulch with chemicals like petrol which forms the coca base, a white cake sold on to the armed groups for processing into cocaine. In , the whole production line appears to be under the control of the former guerrillas. Sure, campesinos are paid for the coca they harvest, or a daily wage to work the fields. The story seems the same in many parts of the river: the armed groups are labour gangmasters running their business with an iron fist. As I watch from the beach a senior commander arrives with his entourage. They came just before dawn in a long fibreglass canoe indistinguishable from the others already laid up. Their uniforms are low key consisting of a black T-shirt over dark coloured shorts. But two things give them away: their attitude, which compared to the farmers who seem a bit cowed can best be described as cocky. And their guns. Just after arriving they pull back a plastic sheet covering their canoe to reveal some machine guns which they are now draping around their shoulders. Ironically though, and perhaps disappointingly, this guerrilla group are currently involved in a coca war with another bunch of ex FARC guerrillas, similarly dressed, similarly armed, also calling themselves FARC-EP, also name-checking the same former leaders. And this is no theoretical struggle. Not to mention five civilians injured, including a year-old girl with a bullet still lodged in her brain. The youngster pulls back her braided hair to show me the entry wound at the back of her head. The lost bullet somehow entered her skull without killing her and is now embedded where no brain surgeon dares to go. So they sent her back to the village. The kid is fine physically, for now, but desperately wants the alien object removed. These kind of stories hardly make the news in Colombia where there is a concerted effort to keep the lid on anything happening in these backwaters all better to ensure the cocaine keeps flowing. To my surprise, the army are present, and some well-armed troops wave to me from a high riverbank. Turns out they are clearing land mines planted by armed gangs on jungle tracks that form short-cuts between the river systems. These form a much larger labyrinth of conflict trails linking a vast network of illegal installations — cocaine labs, hidden camps, home-made submarines, weapon caches — dotting the tablelands between the Andes and the sea. I talk to a woman whose father was killed by a mine a month before, he was walking to his plantain plantation when the hidden explosive blew both his legs off. He bled out. She has had support from NGOs, and given psychosocial support, but the underlying problem is harder to fix. The groups are still there, and mines are still being sown. During my visit I walk some of the tracks making sure to stick to the trodden path and am quite surprised to see concrete bridges and rusty car hulks along the way: these were proper roads in their time, though never appearing on official maps. Also missing from the maps are the lines of control between opposed armed groups. These barriers are visible enough on the river, though: once abundant communities are now half-abandoned ghost towns. People still do live there, quiet families camped in the ruins of their houses scared to walk the river banks for fear of mines and constantly alert for the sound of gunfire. Both armed gangs — and sometimes the national army too — push up and down the river feeling for readiness and resistance from their enemies, ready to spring a surprise attack. It ebbs and flows with the cycles of coca production, with fragile truces being hammered out at vital moments to ensure the product can get to market. Once again, coca is king. Such realpolitik further underlines the futility of the fight. So why go to war? If it was too easy, they would charge less. Fighting, when it does happen is sudden and intense, fought out with small arms, grenade launchers, landmines and trip wire explosives. It shifts along the river from village to village, but also plays out in far hills and hidden camps. These local displacements are typical of upriver communities with no easy route to a local town. These crises are rarely reported to the outside world. Families must fend for themselves until they think it is safe to return, to whatever state their homes are left in. Not always. In one case an armed group left the dismembered bodies of their slain enemies scattered among the houses. Communities closer to larger towns along the river can generally flee there, living with friends or relatives, or in shelters provided by local authorities. Some families were displaced by combat several times in the last year, causing a new phenomena whereby people have shifted permanently to houses they have built in the cabeceras , headquarter town of the rural area they live in. The towns are by no means free of violence. Armed gangs also control the access routes and kidnapping and extortion is common. But there is some army presence and state scrutiny. People feel safer. Farmers can afford to buy canoes, outboards and fuel to make the daily journey. It also brings the money in the buy the house in town in the first place. The gold-and-coca boom has seen hundreds of new houses — some quite luxurious — being thrown up, turning many an unexpected backwater into a mini-Miami. But at a high social cost. Urban drift has always been a feature of Colombia, like most of Latin America, but conflict accelerates the process hollowing out formerly thriving rural communities. Migration has left behind a vulnerable caste of the old, the infirm, and the excluded or those simply too stubborn to leave their old territory. Empty houses in half-empty villages also gives free reign to armed groups to set up house within the communities. You can sometimes feel their presence behind shuttered windows as you walk by. Which reminds me to say: I was there for a reason, and they knew I was coming. And in the old days the FARC commanders were usually straight talking. This generation is a bit harder, often drunk or stoned or both and seemingly muddled in their own heads what they are actually up to. I have an order for capture by the state. He seems loose and dangerous: a man-child with guns, stumbling around between shots of liquor and yelling out, then sitting on the village stoop where he exudes both menace and vulnerability. He gets to his feet quick enough, though, when an unexpected canoe arrives from upriver. A child has fallen from a mango tree and fractured his arm. He comes ashore and sits on a stool crying as the limb swells. His father is absent, his mother is away working in the fields, so the local teacher brought him in. Nacho, Diego, Tulio and few village elders gather round for a conflab. Should the boy go further downriver by canoe to town and the health clinic, or shall they call the local bone-setter, the sobandero? Another fear — one not clearly spoken — is that the clinic is in a town dominated by the enemy group, who will be on the lookout for any canoes travelling downriver. They have armed checkpoints along the river route. To make it worse, the armed groups on this river have marked their territories with large cloth banners announcing their presence at the entrance to each village. That makes everyone a target. The former FARC would know better. Upriver communities are particularly vulnerable since they have pass through opposition territory to reach any town for supplies or health needs. Several people share their fears of these canoe journeys downstream: they can be harassed, their supplies or motor stolen, their canoe overturned. Or worse. I think back to Tulio and his tale of the two sons who went downriver and never came back. Regarding the boy, the decision is made, and the villagers call for the local sobandero , the traditional healer found in many rural communities who treats fractures, broken bones, dislocations, and a variety of physical ailments The local one is a large fellow and multi-tasking too, since he also runs a small shop, the local bar, and repairs outboard motors. For a brief moment the community has worked as one; strong, independent, resilient, the characteristics that help these afro-descendant communities thrive for so long in the margins of Colombia. Just as quickly the conflict cloud is back. Another canoe arrives, this time with a senior commander and his entourage. Their guns are to the ready. I see some serious faces. Then I see Nacho walk down from the village to meet them, swinging his own Uzi, but looking very scared. I get myself away behind the houses as fast as possible. Others do the same. The storm is in a teacup, and Nacho and his boss agree their differences. A tense calm settles back on the village. Later that afternoon, the liquor bottles come out and the guerrillas are yelling and whooping to the vallenato strains. No-one sleeps easy after dark. This is the heart of the coca conflict in rural Colombia. A waking nightmare of fear, sorrow, paranoia, and longing for better times. Families torn between their ancestral lands, and escape to a cruel city. A small girl crying with a bullet in her head. A young guerrillero drinking to forget past horrors — and to numb himself for those to come. A father dreaming of his two sons, and where their bodies might lie. Some tips for travellers. Viva Villa de Leyva! Building battles Viva Villa de Leyva! Is Colombia Safe?

La Chorrera buying coke