We set out an hour before noon with swimming trunks, cameras and water bottles in our bag. Taking leave of the muddy beach avenue by its northern end, we entered an uncharted suburb where general poverty is only one step short of misery. Ramshackle sheds on stilts hover precariously over sun baked stagnant cesspools left behind by rains and some unusually high tide. Flies, mosquitoes and other insects fill the air and the children are mostly naked, in this way perfectly camouflaged against the background of the black volcanic sand and the motorcycle tires they run with sticks over rickety plank constructions servings as bridges over the foetid water ways replacing streets. The beach itself, on the opposite side of this marshland, at ebb-tide consists of a wide parallel pattern of dark furrows of sand alternating with long shallow pools. The whole thing stretches half way towards the horizon, ending with a glistening edge licked by the ocean. This monotonous scenery is framed by high walls of impenetrable greenery.
The only signs of modest affluence here and there in this impoverished neighbourhood were the huge loud speakers and state of the art HI-FI chains adorning porches of otherwise more than humble homes, which once again highlights the overwhelming importance even the poorest of poor of Colombia attach to their music — they can go without food for some time but not without merengue, vallenato and reggaeton. We were just about to leave this rather sad picture behind when the haggard woman who had been showing us the way so far told us that we would hardly be able to get to the beach by our own since the right path, to someone who had never trodden it, was quite difficult both to find and to follow. At first I suspected she just wanted to make some money by hooking us up with a local guide. But when it turned out that the guide she had in mind was her own son of sixteen and that all she asked for on his behalf was little more than a symbolic sum, we understood this to be a different kind of arrangement than the ones proposed by the more officially established tour organisers.
Indeed it was. Before setting off, the youngster strangely asked us if we had some other shoes. Seeing that we would have to cross a couple of small brooks before reaching the trail I didn’t consider his question all too strange. I consequently removed my shoes hoping in this way to be able to eventually put them back on and keep them more or less dry all the way to the Playa Mecana. Having reached the northern end of the local Bahía beach we began to climb the hillside on a very narrow path where the chances of getting lost were actually quite real. At first we were quite grateful to have such an experienced guide — despite his young age — leading the way. Surprisingly soon we reached a water edge and it turned out that what Xavier had in mind was, from now on, for us to proceed by meandering along the coast. That too might have been good — in theory. In reality we were at maximum high tide. Most of the shoreline was under water and wherever there was still some room to move, the breaking of the waves, low-hanging branches and a wealth of irregular rocks and pebbles made progress slow and painstaking. By now I clearly realised that we would be wet all over and that our primary challenge was no longer to reach the legendary beach, but to survive. I voiced my concern to Xavier, telling him it would be better to turn back. I also asked him if there was a way to reach the Playa Mecana by continuing the mountain path. He said one could, but that the distance would be much greater and that by all means we were now closing on to our goal. So we continued, but not before I had urged Asíle to put on her shoes. I don’t think she had as yet realised what we were in for, since she was still struggling to negotiate slippery roots, rocks and branches barefoot — a very brave but above all incredibly risky undertaking.
Soon it became almost meaningless to turn back, although that is exactly what reason and prudence kept prompting us to do. But our progress was only definitely halted by a huge cliff blocking the way. Xavier finally managed to climb it with difficulty. I in turn managed to hand him the bag filled with electronics pertaining to civilisation, only to find myself left standing up to my chest in water facing the crazy challenge of walking around the cliff and reach safety some thirty metres farther down the coast, with the swell of the Pacific pounding at me. Losing my fourth pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer II — this one a 1980s vintage edition that I had acquired by outbidding others on E-bay — to the sea by the first wave that hit me was perhaps not as much of a calamity as just another blessing in disguise. Although I did indulge in a desperate search for this cherished item on the sandy ocean floor, the waves constantly sent me off course and threatened to pull me off the rock — so far the only thing to hold on to — and into the sea. After diving five, six times for it I gave up and was thrust back to the shore by yet another wave, just barely able to save myself from crashing into the rocks. Asíle too had been hurled back by the same wave and now sat on a stone praying, perhaps, for my safe return.
By now a local fisherman and his family in a nearby vessel had become alarmed by our vain efforts to circumvent the rock and came to our rescue. We all managed to get into the boat and were transported the remaining distance to a sandy stretch of the shore, from which again a path led uphill. From here it was just a short walk down to the other and hitherto hidden coast. There it was: Playa Mecana. Initially I was in no mood to appreciate its beauty, and to be honest, even in retrospect I don’t consider it any of the more impressive beaches I have seen. Nor is it very long. The high tide had narrowed it down to practically a single sandy bank full of debris and its one and only true asset in these circumstances was its location. The view encompassed a good stretch of pristine Pacific coastline set against the high hills of the selva. The rest was just sun, sky and ocean, inter-punctuated by frigate birds and pelicans.
We took refuge from the scorching sun under a shelter visibly forming part of a few houses on the beach and soon were visited by its curious inhabitants. A soft spoken middle-aged man of fair complexion presented himself as the father of the accompanying two young girls (of darker skin). Though originally from Medellín, he had been living in this remote place for the last seven years, and before that for just as long in the Bahía. Judging by the apparent age of the girls they would have been little more than toddlers as their father reduced their circle of possible friendships to those offered by the jungle itself. We saw some adult women in the background but they did not come forth to introduce themselves. The youngest girl, Isabela by name, was a bit timid and hid her face under her father’s arm as we tried to engage her in conversation. The elder one, Dulce Maria, was a different story. She unabashedly stared back at me with eyes full of a dark passion that seemed oddly out of tune with the mentality of a ten year old. It was like staring a fully grown, sensuously and sexually awakened exotic woman in her eyes. Even though she had not reached physical maturity, her eyes seemed to scrutinize mine for concessions, like a panther trying to figure out whether or not she will be fast enough to successfully take her victim by surprise. But it was still just a reflection of a speechless will and desire. A fixed regard suspended way beyond the limits of her age, in a future yet to happen, and by this token even more fascinating to a mature man who has had his fair share of encounters with ferocious female beasts, and in this very moment was standing about as close to his death as she to her birth. Thus a chasm of time also separated us from one another. Apart from that, there was no question as to what nature in her really wanted... I saw it in her eyes, and I know that look, regardless of how awkward it might be to extend this observation beyond the limits set by the protective mores of civilised society. This girl seemed to me to be untouched by such prejudice, a sort of female counterpart to Kaspar Hauser, the sister of Romulus and Remus, a wild woman in the true sense of the word. Though it has indeed happened once or twice before in my life that a young girl has given me that kind of look, this one was possibly the most pitiless and uncompromising of them all.
The denouement of our entanglement was comparatively undramatic. I had anticipated that we would be forced to return to the Bahía by way of the mountain path, which neither Asíle nor I was particularly
looking forward to. But after having taken a swim in the river mouthing into the sea at the northern end of the beach, we succeeded in hailing down a passing lancia manned by Indians and were taken by boat right back to the soldier check point at the and of the beach avenue where our adventure had begun. The circle was closed. We paid off Xavier rather handsomely — and in spite of that his sound judgement in regard to tourists hadn’t proved to be on par with his audacity — and returned to the hotel just as the afternoon reached its half time hiatus. Little more than three hours had been the objective timespan of our excursion, but a lifetime’s worth of experience had been compressed into those hours, making them stand out as mile posts on an unpaved road to infinity.
*
Bahía Soláno is a small seaside community nestled in the humid tropical forests covering a huge area of Colombia’s Pacific coast in the region of Chocó. Even though its location inside a protected bay facing due north is somewhat privileged, it’s not exactly a tourist hotspot. In fact it’s just a hot spot. Its wide black beach remains uninviting regardless of tidal conditions and the village itself consists of a quadratic grid of unpaved streets and houses. These streets happen to be situated within the second-most-rainy region in the world — supposedly there is only in some obscure part of equatorial Africa that rain is more prevalent. Consequently, streets, roads and footpaths are muddy and slippery most of the time, and the sky predominantly shifting colour from grey to less of grey. Add to this that there are no roads whatsoever connecting the Bahía to for example Medellín or Quibdó, two of the more ‘nearby’ urban centres. The only two ways to get in or out of there is either by boat — and please keep in mind that the cargo ship transporting groceries and beverages from Buenaventura in the south needs up to 24 hours to reach its destination — or by plane.
The airport is in complete harmony with its surroundings and has a landing strip that wouldn’t meet even the most lax local safety requirements in for example Europe or the United States. To give you an idea: although it’s in fact paved with some kind of coarse, asphalted gravel, it’s not fenced except by the same barbed wire that keeps the flaccid cattle out of harms’ way at landing and take-off. To say that landing on the runway inevitably is bumpy is a mild understatement.11
Strangely, considering the rustic aspect of the airport facility, there is a strong military presence in town. Next to the airport is a whole military complex housing the 23d Battalion of the Colombian Marines. There is also police and a harbour Capitania, regulating maritime traffic and goods transported by sea. All these factors taken together combine to paradoxically make Bahía Soláno one of the safest places in all of Colombia. Anyone planning for example on stealing something — let’s say a tourist purse — would have to contend with that he can only leave by boat or by plane and that military and police are alerted to suspicious activity by the slightest hints. Trying to escape the vengeance of the authorities by taking refuge in the immense jungle would probably just amount to suicide, and I doubt that any burglar in his right mind would ever contemplate such desperate action.
There is of course also the so-called pesca blanca. Asked the natural question what the inhabitants of Bahía Soláno actually live from — the tourist trade could only possibly keep a tiny minority busy — our taxi driver taking us along the only existing regular road from Bahía to the the twin community of El Valle, south of Bahía along the coast, candidly responded that they were all fishermen. Hmm... During our three days in town, with a perfect overview of all activities in the bay from our third story, almost waterfront hotel room, the amount of boats visibly transporting fish or even fishing gear had been minimal. There is no way the entire population could have this as its livelihood. Only if the lucrative business of the above mentioned ‘pesca blanca’ could be taken into account, things would start to fall into place. Pesca blanca, being a synonym for the cultivation, harvesting and perhaps even in situ refinement of the coca-plant, is in fact a just as secretive as well established trade in the hinterland of the Bahía, enjoying the tacit support and protection of army and police. The only way to explain that such on-paper illegal activity can still be carried out with the silent consent of the authorities of the state, is that all parties financially benefit from it.
The golden days of Paolo Escobar may be gone and slowly fading in memory as well, but his legacy is still alive. As is his hotel, incidentally the one we stayed in. That it had belonged to Escobar we never knew while still there. But soon upon arrival we noticed that the spacious, walled in building with its garden, though planned and executed in colonial style, could hardly be more than 30–40 years old. Certain traits, both in the interior decoration and the outline of various facilities, also suggested that there must once have been some unusually deep pockets around.
Nowadays the large pool area is a desolate, all but abandoned, place not offering the simplest of recliners for the benefit of the guests — there is not even a regular plastic chair to sit in around the pool, although its water seemed clean enough for me to take a swim in it. But there is no doubt that it was once meant to be a place allowing a lot of cute bikinis to swing back and forth between potted palm trees and piña coladas served by a staff dressed in black and white.12
Significantly, it was to one of his recreational parties — replete with snowdrifts of cocaine, putas and putos — that Escobar once invited the legendary Father Rafael Garcia Herreros. How the deal was struck nobody knows for sure, but the result was that Father Herreros managed to convince Escobar that he needed to share some of his riches with a saintly person such as himself. He consequently offered to administer forgiveness of all of Paolo Escobar’s sins and bestow upon him divine absolution in return for a stately ranch with a whole gamut of ganado (cows, bulls, buffalos and horses). Father Garcia promised that through him, and the sacraments of the church, Escobar would thus be spared the annoyance of forever burning in Hell.
Whether Escobar did in reality escape this fate, I feel incompetent to say, but it’s indubitable that Father García, at least as far as Escobar was concerned, got his share of the deal. However, as the general public, informed by the press, got wind of the transaction, critics were keen to point out that Father García, by even offering to pardon Escobar in the name of the Catholic Church, had proved himself to be an even more wicked criminal than said Escobar himself. Over time the affair assumed such dimensions that Father García’s earthly fate had to be decided by no less an authority than the Vatican Curia.
Hence, one dark night secret agents of Opus Dei showed up on the doorstep of Father García’s ranch and only gave him the time to get dressed, whereafter he was discreetly taken away, flown across the country in a helicopter and dumped at a local parish far away from the scene of the crime. There he apparently still serves as a priest, unable to voice any claim whatsoever to the property once bequeathed to him by the man who used to say about himself: ‘Sometimes I believe I am God, because if I say that a man must die, he dies that same day.’
But that the story of Padre Garcia is not quite over yet, is proved by the fact that from his present parish disturbing reports still come of his habit to force the female members of his congregation to hand over to him personally the jewellery they’re wearing before entering the church for Mass. Father Garcia motivates his actions by saying that it is a sin before God to wear such decorations. Be that as it may. The real problem, apparently, is that he never returns the gold, silver and precious stones he’s collected from the women of his congregation in this manner. These items simply disappear.
Today (as Escobar himself has long since been forced to answer for himself in front of his maker) the plaster façade facing the pool of his once private residence (presently Hotel Plaza Balboa) is peeling off in the salty humidity and the wooden railings of the guest rooms are rotting. There is a large empty bar in the reception hall close to the pool area but visibly no drinks to be served, though glasses still hang upside down
from the overhead racks. Likewise, the roof terrace of the building, along with its adjacent rooms, are in a state of advanced disrepair and only used by the staff for hanging clothes. Peeping inside its former kitchen we noticed that it was still equipped with professional stoves and other appliances, at present collecting mould and dust. On other levels of the hotel there had inversely been more upkeeping, making our air-conditioned corner room with its private balcony quite pleasant.
There are other anomalies to Bahía Soláno, but decidedly of a more benevolent kind. Whereas in other parts of the world children usually play in daylight while adults tend to do so at night, in Bahía Soláno the children take to the streets by dusk and stay there playing late into the evening. As a matter of fact, the later it gets the younger the kids — I even heard that by midnight toddlers from all over town gather in the state sponsored playground to trade dairy products with one another. This testifies to the level of safety the inhabitants enjoy and their corresponding sense of security as far as their young are concerned — and there is simply no end to these. From our balcony alone I constantly noticed new kids in the street and they had great fun playing with one another in the darkness — one very cherished game being to throw pebbles at one another.
Our time in the Bahía was up. We set off in a taxi headed for the only other community in this otherwise untouched part of Colombia — El Valle. At first the road was pretty bad. Surprisingly, it got better as we began to leave the town behind. Notwithstanding, the project of constructing a cement road between the villages ‘for some strange reason’ had ground to a halt just as the bridge, destined to straddle the water, had stopped short of its goal just one metre from either bank of the river. The bridge was almost entirely there, but the money to complete it was gone — and that was it. Still, people needed to be able to move back and forth between the two municipalities so, while waiting for new money to fall from heaven and reanimate the building project, a makeshift wooden bridge had been constructed some 30 metres downstream. Our taxi driver didn’t consider it safe enough though for his car loaded with four people and had us walking across it while he waited on the other side. How on Earth it nonetheless supported truckloads of timber and gravel, I don’t know, but the sight of the official bridge stopping right before the concrete bridgeheads on both sides was perfectly absurd.13
Incidents of Travel in Latin America Page 22