Heat mixes with sewer gases as I
finish fighting over the fare with a taxi driver. I find it surprising that I
still live in Cartagena, Colombia. Cartagena has all the trimmings of a great
tourist spot; all wrapped up in a pretty travel website, filled with vibrant
Latin-Afro-Caribbean culture. Drumbeats and rapid-fire Spanish penetrate the
air. Seafood is caught right off a fortress wall the Spanish built 300 years
ago. Fishermen in wooden canoes with tattered sheets for sails are straight out
of a scene from Hemingway´s Old Man and
the Sea. Sipping cocktails at sunset from a former Spanish guard’s perch
inspires even the most seasoned traveler.
The glare of the sun on the ocean can only conceal the crime, poverty, and
corruption for so long. The city’s barnacles start to cut and scrape at any
long-term visitor’s feet.
In 2010, I arrived to Cartagena
as a Peace Corps volunteer and never left. After working in all sort of schools
and marrying a Colombian, I am still stricken by the co-existence of
Cartagena’s beauty and filthiness. I have become transfixed on the whale and
the drag of its barnacles. Its geographical and architectural splendor endure
despite human failure. There have been
seven mayors in the past eight years. Two were indicted on corruption charges,
two were assigned by the president of Colombia to replace the jailed leaders,
two completed full-terms and one passed away. During their reigns, the sewers
pour straight into the bay where high-priced call-girls board luxury yachts. Rich
and poor sectors, including the historic downtown, flood within five minutes of
a downpour. School lunch programs have been cut. Teachers have gone on strike
for not receiving salary increases ensured by federal law. Roads crumble and
potholes shred tires. The beaches are washed away by currents and covered in
plastic. A humpback whale can withstand 1,000 pounds of barnacles, but
Cartagena has reached its weight limit.
As a
foreigner, unable to participate in the political process, I guard my opinions
and only reveal them to sympathetic students. My true outrage might alert immigration.
Cartagena was a haven for poor
farmers and townspeople. Many ran from the violence caused by territory wars
between the subversive FARC, ELN, and paramilitary groups. Refugees of the
civil war arrived whether Cartagena was equipped or not. In 30 years, the city
has doubled its population from roughly 500,000 to 1,000,000 residents. The
government doesn’t need a gringa
rousing the populous.
Foreigners are already scrutinized
favorably by narcos and unfavorably
by authorities. Ninety percent of “Locked Up Abroad” episodes on Nat Geo is
about foreign drug mules getting caught by Latin American police. Even the
shrewdest get lured by money and thrills. The good news is I´ve never been
offered any kind of drug in Cartagena and I´ve only seen the outside of the
women’s jail. It is hard to miss being that it is right next to Plaza San
Diego, a great place to eat and buy local handicrafts. My male friends indicate
that machismo is the reason for my
drug naivety. They´ve all been offered drugs while perusing the Spanish
colonial streets. Male dominance has its advantages. Men carry heavy bags, open
doors, drive women home, and pay for dinner, so it makes sense that only men
would buy drugs too. On this front, I am thankful that feminism is being
ignored.
I would love to believe that drugs
are only being sold to the party guy from Bogotá and backpackers who think
doing Colombian cocaine would be as cool as smoking a Cuban cigar in Havana.
However, the presence of the FBI, DEA, and US Border Patrol shows drugs are in
great supply and they are exported from Cartagena. After meeting some of the agents
and learning about security and inspection protocols at the main port, I was told
that drug trafficking is in full swing and my Colombian and US taxes are paying
for its enforcement. As a US citizen, (I
understand the importance of the job while being skeptical of the results. Colombia’s
cocaine production is at its highest in history meeting the American and
European demand of pure snow.
At the airport, drugs become real for
me and I witness my tax dollars at work. Every time I fly to the US, the
counter agent reminds me that dogs will be sniffing my bags. Then in security,
a Policía Nacional detective assigned
to detect mules, asks me why I was in the country. I fear someone secretly deposited
narcotics into my luggage. Fortunately, the detective always lets me through, but
I often see Colombians and foreigners being taken to a private room for
questioning. Some I see at the gate; some I do not.
As I witness the mistakes only
humans can make: corruption, drug trafficking, pollution, my silence can only
be broken by only one thing: stupid Americans. Not so long ago, while eating in
a little pizzeria near my house, five big, white, sunburned, and very drunk
Americans stumbled in. They all wore Panama Jack hats, black concert t-shirts,
long cargo shorts, and white sneakers. They slurred their speech and spoke as
if they were joking around in high school Spanish class. The fattest guy groaned
that his whore was too expensive, and he couldn’t believe he paid 250 bucks. He
dragged out every little detail about his sexual encounter as I ground my
pizza between my teeth. The biggest and loudest one looked down upon their
Colombian sex-tour guide and pushed his finger into his chest asserting, “Next
time, cheaper putas!” The guide
nervously backpaddled into my table and spilled my soda. There was no apology
by anyone. A young waitress ran over to wipe up the mess and the drunken leader
spits out, “nice ass! How much?” At that moment, my silence broke.
I marched over to the ugly
Americans’ table. I shouted with my pointer finger in the air, “you are an
embarrassment to the United States of America! How in the hell could you talk
about being with prostitutes in a family place? You all disgust me. You are the
reason why so many people hate Americans.” My self-preservation kicked in: I paid the
bill and ran. I wasn’t followed.
I would never recommend doing what I
did. It was foolish and hotheaded, besides my words fell on deaf ears. However,
there comes a time when we all crack; when silence ends, and rage emerges. I
listen to Colombians tell me their frustrations about their city’s current
state and future. I needed to tell my fellow countrymen mine. Societal, economic,
and governmental barnacles create drag on Cartagena. The drag of tourism that
will soon bring the great city of the sea to a halt. A beautiful whale pot
marked by foreign greed, stupidity, and carelessness.
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