La Chorrera where can I buy cocaine

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La Chorrera where can I buy cocaine

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.

High Weirdness: Drugs, Esoterica and Visionary Experience in the Seventies

La Chorrera where can I buy cocaine

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 where can I buy cocaine