Teacher on Two Wheels

Thursday 5/1/08  San Gil, Colombia

The corner store was packed with small groups of men crowded around tiny circular tables.  All were staring up at the TV hanging in the corner of the shop.  All were mesmerized.  Colombia´s national soccer team was playing one of their rivals, Venezuela, and, thanks to the fact that the following day was a national holiday and no one had to work, the vibe in the place was charged with an almost tangible optimism, an edgy eagerness.  Co-workers unbuttoned their collars, put their ties in their pockets, and laughed in ways they never could in the office.  Taxi drivers parked their cabs and motorbikes outside, deciding that 15 or 20 minutes spent watching the game was worth a few missed fares. 

Everyone synched up to the game.  A nasty push by a Colombian player was met with instantaneous cheer; one committed against him brought angry yells and fiery grunts.  Colombian goals brought people to their feet while Venezuelan ones made them sink in their seats in silence. 

In this scene, Stefan and I floated.  Prior to the game we had little knowledge of the workings of Colombian soccer, so as we watched, we pestered two Colombians behind us with questions about Colombian league play.

All of the sudden, like a lion´s roar ripping through the silence over a stretch of quiet grassland, an English sentence cut through the muddled fog of Spanish chatter around us.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I smoke?”

A shrewish little man in front of me was holding out an un-lit cigarette for me to see.  A small, sharp, hooked nose rose from the plain of his tiny face like the tip of a craggy mountain summit poking through a flat sea of clouds.  His eyes were brown and intense. 

“No, of course not,” I said.  Pause.  “You speak so well, where did you learn English?” I asked.

“Thank you,” the man said.  “I learned in high school only.  I never studied in another country or anything.  I like English music and that helps me a little.  U2 is my favorite.”  Pause.  “But I have always felt like English is easy for me.”  Pause.  “My name is Nicolas.”

“Andrew.  Nice to meet you.”

We shook.  His hand was small and convex-shaped.

As the first half slipped away from the soccer game, Nicolas, Stefan, and I talked about Colombia.  I couldn´t resist asking about the one topic U.S. news stations love to cover:  The actions of Colombia´s most feared guerrilla group—the FARC.  Thanks to cocaine production and export, the FARC generates enough money to buy the weapons and cocoa it needs to both fight the Colombian government trying to suppress it and pay local farmers enough to stay quiet and continue cultivating cocoa.  As the Colombian government focuses more and more on cocoa eradication with each passing year, the FARC enlists farmers to grow cocoa in more remote and environmentally sensitive areas.  Some of Colombia´s most pristine park land is fast succumbing to the agricultural chemicals and clear-cutting techniques used by cocoa farmers to convert dense jungle into arable land. 

“Before we came to Colombia,” I said, “lots of our family and friends warned us about the FARC.  Some said we should just skip Colombia all together and fly straight to Ecuador.  Do you think that—”

Nicolas smiled and cut me off.

“I know, I know—all you guys see in other countries is negative stuff when it comes to Colombia.  Let me guess–before you came to Colombia, all you had seen of Colombia were pictures of cocaine packages being pulled off big boats, kidnapped people in the jungle, and armed paramilitary groups, no?  This is not Colombia.  Sure, it´s a part of Colombia, but a very small part,” Nicolas said.

“Yeah, I´m sure.  It´s a shame that those types of things are what come to mind when most people in the U.S. think of Colombia.”  Pause.  “But, the FARC is here.  Maybe not everywhere, but they are still here, right?  Are there certain areas of Colombia that you think are still really dangerous because of the FARC?”  

“Well, most parts are safe now.  Even five years ago, that wasn´t the case.  But since President Uribe took office, he´s made big progress with the rebel groups and with safety.  He´s made Colombia so much safer.  We can all feel it.  But let´s see…unsafe areas…hmmmm.  I´d say Putumayo in the south near the Peruvian border is still very dangerous.  And also the Darien area near Panama.  And sure, there are FARC in other small places around the country, but those two areas are worst, I think.  But really, most other areas are fine now,” Nicolas said.

Just then, everyone in the store jumped to his feet; a Colombian player made a clean shot, sending the ball barrelling into the top corner of the net.  Stefan and I laughed and started applauding with everyone else.

“They get so excited!” Stefan remarked.

“Yeah, of course.  This is Colombia!” Nicolas explained, smiling and feeling a bit patriotic.  “You know, in Colombia, soccer is our religion,” he said.  “We have many churches from the Spaniards and many people say they are Catholic, but really, soccer is what most Colombians believe in.”  Pause.  “But yeah, what I was saying earlier about Uribe, he has really made a difference.”

“So you think most Colombians would support him if he tried to run again for a third term?” I asked.

“Yeah sure, I think so.  Even though he´s a friend of Bush and he´s right wing, no one can deny what he´s done for Colombia.  He has done what he promised he would.  People feel safe, our economy is growing very quick, and we are excited about Colombia´s future,” Nicolas said.  

Nicolas excused himself and went to the bathroom.  I thought about what he said, about Colombians being excited about their future, about a president delivering on promises he made.  Nicolas returned.

“You know, I have to admit, I´m a bit envious of you,” I said to Nicolas.  “Actually, I think a lot of people in the U.S. would be envious of you, too.  This feeling of optimism you have about the future, your country, the economy—I think many Americans don´t feel that same type of optimism because they feel smothered by all of the negative things that have happened over the last seven years under the Bush administration.  Our economy is not doing well, the perception of America in many other countries is not at all a positive one thanks to our invasion of Iraq, and lots of young people are feeling jaded about their chances of bringing about lasting, positive political change,” I said. 

Nicolas gave me a look that I´ve gotten before during similar conversations, one that revealed our mutual perplexity, our frustration at being frustrated with no clear relief in sight.  He felt sorry for me, for America.  I decided to change the subject.

“So how do you think Colombia should deal with the whole cocaine thing?  I mean, as of now, Colombia annually produces 80-90% of the world´s cocaine supply, right?  Despite how optimistic you feel about the future, don´t you kind of think that Colombia is going to continue to have problems with safety, with corruption, with rebel groups as long as people continue to produce such large amounts of cocaine here?” I asked.  

“Oh sure,” Nicolas said.  “Yeah, it´s a huge problem.  The way to deal with it, though, is to educate people.  To educate people not only about how cocaine affects Colombia, but educate people about how beautiful and amazing Colombia is.  How safe it is.  How friendly Colombians are.  If we can convince international companies that Colombia is a safe, welcoming country, then international investment will increase.  But the main education needs to be about cocaine,” Nicolas said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, think about it.  How often do Americans think about cocaine when they are snorting it or buying it.  I mean really think about it.  About how cocaine makes our mountain towns unsafe, makes kidnappings more common, makes corruption increase.  If we could only teach Americans about how cocaine destroys us here, they might be less likely to buy it in America.  And then, if the demand slows down, so will the production.  I hate to blame you guys in America so much, but you are our largest customer when it comes to cocaine.  It´s up to America to stop consuming so much.”

*****

When we said goodbye to Nicolas that night, he invited us to a small colonial town in the mountains the following day.  We accepted his invitation and spent a few hours walking around Barrichara with him.  To say you go back in time when you stroll its streets would be an extreme understatement.  You are time when you go to Barrichara.  You are the modernity absent in its cobble-stoned spirit. You are the artifacts of a distant future, symbols of the speed and hurry missing in the shadows that bob gently along its white-washed walls.

Above:  Me on the streets of Barrichara

Above:  The streets of Barrichara

Above:  The cathedral in Barrichara at sunset

Above:  Builders building a house the old-fashioned way in Barrichara.  Huge, thick, mud walls.