Cocaina: A Book on Those Who Make It by Magnus Linton, John Eason Page B
Authors: Magnus Linton, John Eason
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1999, was that it was to implement herbicide spraying on a massive scale. A package, which would grow to five billion dollars, was given to the Colombian government — 70 per cent of it earmarked for the military — to cut the number of coca fields in the country by half within a five-year period by employing a systematic herbicide-spraying campaign. Like Nelcy and Edgar, an average farmer owns four hectares of land, lives in a hovel without running water, and is lucky to get a couple of hours of electricity a day from a fuel-driven generator. Farmers earn less than any other group working in the lucrative cocaine chain, and are not only oppressed by poverty but also terrorised by all parties involved in the Colombian conflict. In Putumayo the short coca boom may have created a state of consumer hysteria for a few years, but it did nothing for prosperity, or to change the fact that 85 per cent of the rural population lives in poverty.
It was these socially crippled farmers who, at the turn of the new millennium, found themselves the target of the US-led war on drugs, and plenty of environmental, human-rights, and indigenous community organisations were infuriated. Putumayo — the greenhouse for nearly half of all the cocaine consumed in the world — became the central warzone. When herbicide spraying began, the goal was to eradicate all the coca growing there within five years; after two years over 104,000 hectares in the region had been sprayed, almost twice the area that had ever been cultivated. Even the legal crops the farmers were growing were destroyed, and they protested, with the assistance of environmental organisations and international NGOs, while the government highlighted the results: by 2004, 66,000 hectares of coca fields in Putumayo had been reduced to 4400.
‘It was a terrible time,’ says Nelcy. ‘All the yucca and banana trees died. We had to go and beg from the people living in areas that had escaped the spraying. Then we planted again, but the planes returned. After the second time we didn’t plant any more — but they came back and sprayed anyway.’
By 2006 almost 900,000 hectares in Colombia had been sprayed, most of which were in Putumayo. It resulted in an actual reduction of 85,000 hectares of coca fields, meaning that more than ten hectares had to be sprayed to eliminate just one. Herbicide spraying seemed extremely ineffective as a method to eradicate coca crops, and the environmental repercussions were enormous; but what was worse, in the long run, was the social cost.
Nelcy wipes the milk from Luis’ mouth. ‘It’s as if they’re all against us: the police and the military. It’s like we are their enemies. It feels as if they don’t care about our situation. If we grow a little coca, we end up in prison. If someone here is murdered, nothing happens. You can’t help but wonder why it’s like that.’
For the people of Putumayo, the concept of ‘government’ does not exist — only la ley , the law. Edgar says that there are many laws here, but for him and his neighbours ‘the law’ does not mean a set of rules but whoever represents the prevailing rules at the time. He talks about the law like it’s a living being. The law is in the woods. The law moves. The law is alive. If you do this or that, he says, ‘the law gets mad’ and ‘the law is armed’. It’s a bit like he’s talking about a hibernating bear that can’t be woken under any circumstances, and this is because here ‘the law’ is just the term for whichever armed group is in charge. First the guerrillas were the law, and then Los Masetos, and then it was the guerrillas again — and then in December 2000 all the planes loaded with poisonous herbicides arrived, flanked by several Black Hawk helicopters, and no one had any idea who had sent them. Los Masetos? The military? The government? The United States? Somebody else? Regardless of where they came from, it was obvious that they were now the law.
It was these socially crippled farmers who, at the turn of the new millennium, found themselves the target of the US-led war on drugs, and plenty of environmental, human-rights, and indigenous community organisations were infuriated. Putumayo — the greenhouse for nearly half of all the cocaine consumed in the world — became the central warzone. When herbicide spraying began, the goal was to eradicate all the coca growing there within five years; after two years over 104,000 hectares in the region had been sprayed, almost twice the area that had ever been cultivated. Even the legal crops the farmers were growing were destroyed, and they protested, with the assistance of environmental organisations and international NGOs, while the government highlighted the results: by 2004, 66,000 hectares of coca fields in Putumayo had been reduced to 4400.
‘It was a terrible time,’ says Nelcy. ‘All the yucca and banana trees died. We had to go and beg from the people living in areas that had escaped the spraying. Then we planted again, but the planes returned. After the second time we didn’t plant any more — but they came back and sprayed anyway.’
By 2006 almost 900,000 hectares in Colombia had been sprayed, most of which were in Putumayo. It resulted in an actual reduction of 85,000 hectares of coca fields, meaning that more than ten hectares had to be sprayed to eliminate just one. Herbicide spraying seemed extremely ineffective as a method to eradicate coca crops, and the environmental repercussions were enormous; but what was worse, in the long run, was the social cost.
Nelcy wipes the milk from Luis’ mouth. ‘It’s as if they’re all against us: the police and the military. It’s like we are their enemies. It feels as if they don’t care about our situation. If we grow a little coca, we end up in prison. If someone here is murdered, nothing happens. You can’t help but wonder why it’s like that.’
For the people of Putumayo, the concept of ‘government’ does not exist — only la ley , the law. Edgar says that there are many laws here, but for him and his neighbours ‘the law’ does not mean a set of rules but whoever represents the prevailing rules at the time. He talks about the law like it’s a living being. The law is in the woods. The law moves. The law is alive. If you do this or that, he says, ‘the law gets mad’ and ‘the law is armed’. It’s a bit like he’s talking about a hibernating bear that can’t be woken under any circumstances, and this is because here ‘the law’ is just the term for whichever armed group is in charge. First the guerrillas were the law, and then Los Masetos, and then it was the guerrillas again — and then in December 2000 all the planes loaded with poisonous herbicides arrived, flanked by several Black Hawk helicopters, and no one had any idea who had sent them. Los Masetos? The military? The government? The United States? Somebody else? Regardless of where they came from, it was obvious that they were now the law.
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