This was my first visit to Colombia with Alfalit Latinoamericano. It was around 1986. I don’t remember the dates, yet the event is seared in my memory.
I was travelling to San Pedro de Uraba, close to the Panamanian border on the Caribbean side of Colombia. I arrived at Monteria which is the starting place for travelers entering the vast forests of northern Colombia. There were no paved roads, but rutted, muddy trails. No bridges, but only flat bottom, wooden ferries pulled by cables across rivers.
The only off-the road vehicles that were strong and large enough for the journey were not Jeeps, Toyotas, or Land Rovers. Only old Soviet off-the-road big, jeep-like trucks were suitable for the trip.
I waited in the parking area, as my truck filled with passengers. The driver would leave when his truck was full. The roof of the truck was covered with a thick canvas cover to protect the passengers from the hot son. Three wide benches were set one in front of each other behind the driver. The sides were open without doors. The air was sticky with humidity. There was no breeze. Standing still my shirt was brimming with sweat.
I selected a spot in the back bench with my back at the opening of the canvas. At least I could get a breeze. Yet, dust came in while we were moving through the dry spots in the road. We left at around 10:00 PM. I found out later that we would arrive at San Pedro at around 5:00 PM. Time is indefinite and flexible under these circumstances. You leaving is the time when you leave and arrival is the time when you arrive.
The average speed on the muddy rutted path (it wasn’t a road) was about 20 MPH. No need to fret about getting to San Pedro. My host knew that and would find out I had arrived when he heard the roar of the big, diesel engine.
At about the middle of the journey, arrived at a small thatch-roof road stand. It offered some sodas and deep fried empanadas (chicken or beef). I passed. Long ago I learned to avoid anything that was boiled or cooked and prepared with boiled water. I had a few crackers and water on me. But I had to go to the bathroom. There were many choices out in jungle. I got out of the truck and went into the bush. Once I was finished the truck was filled with the passengers and I was the last to get on. The truck had a spare tire bolted on the back. I was tired of swallowing dust, so I decided to stand on the tire, while grasping the metal frame of the roof. It was much better, as the clear breeze from the forward movement pass through my face. It had rained and the air was much cooler.
Eventually I got back in, into the back, and began to visit with the passengers. Everyone was friendly with me. Of course, they knew I was a gringo. How can a blond blue eyed, 6 – 1 man wearing Levi Strauss bluejeans hide his identity surrounded by black and brown skin, short people.
I spoke to a friendly young man riding with me in the truck. I would be greeted with a big surprise later due to this “chance” encounter.
José Navaja, my host and director of the Alfalit program In San Pedro greeted me. He is a lay pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Columbia. He occasionally preaches at the small church nearby, and conducts literacy classes for the students in San Pedro. That evening oriented me with the challenges he faces with his literacy work.
The province of Uraba is lightly populated, mostly farmland with a few scattered villages. Most of the people eke out living from subsistence farming is the primary economy. Most of the people living on the margins without the bare necessities: few clinics, food insecurity, lack of schools, have been the way of life for centuries. Jorge told me that the National Army of Liberation (ELN) is active in the area, fighting the Colombian Army and police stations in the villages. The ELN sabotages the electric lines and the recently paved road, being constructed by the government. Perhaps the central government is making its presence known to win the hearts and minds of the local population.
Then it dawned me that this was the first time that I was in the middle of a war zone - an area where the Colombian army engages the ELN in counter-insurgency warfare. A bit anxious, I wondered how the ELN would respond if they knew that a “gringo,” was in their midst. Would they take kindly to me if they found out? I represented the country engaged in the over 40 years “containing communism,” often supporting regimes, with little regard to human rights, engaging a “scorched earth policy” with high “collateral damage.
In my second trip to Uraba, I would realize how true this was, but that belongs in another story.
The next day we walked through the magnificent, primordial bush. There were several layers of in canopies forest, verdant, untouched and pristine. I wonder what remains after 34 years.
I heard a loud squawking and chattering. Looking across a clearing to the trees, I an amazing and rare sight. A pair of replendissant macaws flying side by side, along edge of the jungle. Their red, blue, green, and yellow feathers stood out against the green background of the forest. Their tails streamed behind them as streamers at a carnival. I am certain that Iwill never see macaws in the wild again – a cherished memory seared in my brain
We arrived at a clearing where a humble a homestead stood. We were welcomed by a young woman who looked to be in her 40’s. A couple of children were present- one playing on dirt floor. A sleeping infant laid in a small hammock she rocked while cooking on an open, wood stove- smoke searching for an exit through the palm frond roof. The mother was one of Jose’s literacy students, encouraging her with her lessons. There are more illiterate women than men in the marginal areas of Colombia.
That evening back at Jose’s house, he told me that the next day, we were going on a two day walk about in the region, visiting more settlements and homesteads, visiting his students.
The next morning, we set out walking and arrived at a settlement. There were two saddled horses waiting. Jose said, “the next stop is a bit longer, so the farmer has leant his horses.” I saw mine, and my first thought was that there was no way this scrawny nag would carry me. I’m 6’1” weighing 180 pounds. Settled in the saddle, my feet nearly touched the ground. What a site. Jorge was lean and much shorter than me. He laughed watching me on this small horse. But off we went, walking slowly – surrounded by this wild forest interrupted by cleared fields.
After we left another homestead, I noticed the thunder clouds gathering. The rain as a monsoon. The area was clear cut illegally by poachers selling the irreplaceable, rare hardwood at high prices for export. The rain kept coming down in buckets, soaking me, Jorge and the soft loam under me. We came to a small hill. I urged the horse up, but its small hooves sank into the mud. It pitched back as I slid off his back., as he kept coming over me. Next thing I knew, I was beside it, unscathed. The soil had no anchor to stop the erosion. I could see large patches of top soil slide down the hill as water streamed underneath. I witnessed what the environmentalists have been warning for years, when hills are clear cut.
We walked the rest of the way in pitched darkness, with the brilliant stars above until we arrived at our destination. n We hardly could see our feet in front of us. The darkness was almost total with the brilliant star filling skies, guiding us on our way and a couple of small oil lamps to see by. The accommodations were adequate. The frame of the bed that Jorge slept on had a rope mesh to hold a mattress filled with straw. I slept in a hammock, like a baby. There is a special way to sleep in a hammock. Bend one leg to open it. Touch a fixed object nearby, like a wall or a table, and move the hammock slowly. You will be dreaming in five minutes.
We returned to San Pedro at the end of the second day. Apparently, we missed all the excitement, because while we were away, there was a gun battle between the ELN attacked the San Pedro police station, casualties unknown – a typical day in the neighborhood.
The following evening Jorge and I attended a worship service at the Presbyterian chapel. As I entered, I recognized the young man I greeted while travelling on the SUV three days earlier. When he saw me, he started to laugh. As we talked, he told me that he represents World Vision International doing relief work in the area. Then he told me what happened after I left the SUV at the refreshment stand to go to the bathroom in the bushes.
The passengers began to ask each other, “Who is this gringo? What is he doing here? They found my bag where I left it on the seat and searched it. Not finding anything suspicious, they left the bag where it was. When I returned, no one said anything.
The World Vision guy then said, “You’d better be careful as a North American traveling alone around here. There are two kinds of North Americans here. Either they are missionaries or they are the the drug cartel. Some of them don’t get to go home,” He said.
Young literacy and community organizers like Jorge, are on the front lines all over Latin America, risk their lives to bring transformation and liberation with the peace of Jesus Christ.
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