I was travelling as a promoter for Alfalit Latino Americano to San Pedro de Urabá, close to the Panamanian border on the Caribbean side of Colombia. I arrived at Monteía which is the starting point for travelers entering the Darién Gap, a region in the jungles in northern Colombia. Thousands of desperate immigrants were trying to get through Panamá to the US border. Darién is a dangerous place filled with violent criminals and animals. Rushing streams have been swept down rivers.
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 from the sun.Three wide benches were set one in front of each other behind the driver. The sides were open. The air was sticky with humidity. There was no breeze. Standing still my shirt was soaked with sweat.
I sat 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 on 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.
The average speed on the muddy rutted path (it wasn’t a road) was about 20 MPH. No need to fret when we would arrive to San Pedro. My José Navaja, Alalit promoter, knew that and would find out I had arrived when he heard the roar of the big, diesel engine.
During the middle of the journey, I 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 breeze passed through my face. It had rained and the air was 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 Navajaia is a lay pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Columbia. He 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 farmers with a few scattered villages. Most of the people eke out living from subsistence farming is the primary economy. They live on the margins without the bare necessities: few clinics, food insecurity, lack of schools, has 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 attacking police stations in the villages. The ELN sabotages the electric lines and the recently a 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 on 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 was a “gringo,” in there in their midst. Would they take kindly of me if they found out? I represented the country engaged in the over 40 years “containing communism,” often supporting violent 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 chapter 2.
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 replendesant macaws, male and female, 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. I am certain that I will never see macaws in the wild again – a cherished memory seared in m.y 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, but looked like she was in her 60's. A couple of children were played on the dirt floor. A sleeping infant lay on a small hammock, as its mother rocked the child, while cooking on an open, wood stove, as smoke exited through on palm frond roof. The mother was one of Jose’s literacy students.. There are more illiterate women than men in the marginal areas of Colombia, and the of Latin America.
The next morning, we set out walking and arrived at a settlement. There were two saddled horses waiting. José said, “the next stop is a bit longer, so the farmer has leant us his horses.” I saw mine, and my first thought was that there was no way this scrawny nag would carry me through the jungle. 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, slowly – surrounded by this wild forest interrupted by clear cut areas..
After we left another homestead, I noticed the thunder clouds gathering. The rain, more like a monsoon. The area was clear cut ill by poachers selling the irreplaceable, rare hardwood at high prices for export. 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 the horse 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 streaming underneath. I witnessed what the environmentalists have been warning for years, when hills are clear cut- rapid erosion.
We walked the rest of the way in pitched darkness, with the brilliant stars above until we arrived at our destination. 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.
The accommodations were primitive but 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 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. We missed all the excitement, because while we were away, there was a gun battle between the ELN when they 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 is World Vision International, a community development community, 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 part of the the drug cartel. Some of them don’t get to go home,” He said.
Young literacy and Alfalit community organizers like others are on the front lines all over Latin America. They risk their lives to bring transformation and liberation with the peace of Jesus Christ.
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