April 2, 2003

The sand and clay shore of the River Jiguamiando (Hee-gwa-mee-and-oh) change on a daily basis.  Yet, the crashing in of the riverbanks and the change of the flow of this narrow jungle river normally goes unperceived to any but a solitary heron, a few cackling parrots or a silent iguana.  Today’s isolation is broken however by those of us who witness several dozen crudely fashioned rafts that are being slowly pushed, pulled or swum downstream with the last remainders of the community of Puerto Lleras.  Juan[ii] is using a long pole to guide downstream the few boards he long ago chain sawed out of the tropical hardwood here.  Balanced on his raft is what is left of his life’s possessions; a bed, a couple of chickens, a few sheets of corrugated tin roofing and the little of what are left of his crops.  Close behind is Ana, his 13-year-old niece, lying on her stomach, straddling the eight or so boards lashed into a packet as she alternately floats with the current or swims a few strokes.  This bedraggled retinue of survivors’ plan is to arrive before dark, still another five hours downstream toward what they hope will be a refuge from the enforced poverty and war here.  As the five of us who are to endure the trek by land turn down the path for the long hike through jungle paths, the river’s imagery remains engraved in my mind.

Accompaniment in a time of need

Accompanying the remnants of the Puerto Lleras community to recover their few belongings is one of the activities that draw me away from my daily practice of curative and preventive health work.  People had awaited our arrival downstream for days, hoping that the presence of a few faith-based people, including myself as a U.S. citizen might provide enough security to allow them to return for the night to the site of their last village.  Their hope is that a visible national and international presence will provide some semblance of security when confronted by the army and it’s paramilitary, or the guerrillas.  Although armed men were seen en route to the village only this morning, the need to recover a few belongings overweighs the worries for personal security.  Yet, they are only willing to undertake this trip if accompanied by our group.  We set out immediately, to accompany the two dozen people who wished to make this worrisome trek. 

People here certainly have good reason to fear this effort to recover what was left of Puerto Lleras.  As we arrive in the remnants of the village people showed me where the bullet holes easily pierced through banana plants into their homes.  I was shown where a 12-year-old boy was shot and killed as he ran in fear from the paramilitary soldiers who told him to stop.  Over there, another points, is where the father of the boy was shot in the leg as he ran to recover his son.  The school has graffiti from the paramilitary written on the chalkboard, stating “Death to frogs,” as the paramilitary derogatorily refers to the guerrillas hidden deeper in the jungle.  Both guerrillas and paramilitary have been in this village in the last month.

Almost immediately upon arrival everyone sets to the task of dismantling the school and their homes.  As the boards are dissembled they are formed into rafts to be set afloat tomorrow morning.  During the last attempt to do this same project a patrol of 40 paramilitary came through the village and the villagers all fled back in fear, taking almost nothing of their belongings with them.  After dark, when it isn’t safe to continue working, candles are lit and we talk quietly about how important people here feel accompaniment is and the options of which way to flee should armed soldiers start shooting.  We all sleep next to one another on the floorboards of what is left of the school.  Around 2 am several dogs that came along on this journey began to set up a howl.  While nothing else is heard of nor seen, I find myself instilled with the same sense of internal stress and tension as those lying awake next to me. 

Originally, Puerto Lleras was a small jungle village with a few dozen Afro-Colombian families struggling to eek out a living on the banks of the Jiguamiando River.  In 1996 the new community of Puerto Lleras was constructed on the other side of the river.  Great attention was given to the layout of the dirt streets, the size of plots for homes and cultivable land, all leading to the most developed community in this river basin.  Collective leadership of over 100 families was formed and a bright spot of development was seen in this region.  Yet, within one year this new village was abandoned, a number of its members having been killed, and fear dominating the hope that had given birth here.  After two years drifting from region to region several dozen families decided to return to the region and re-form Puerto Lleras across the river from the 1996 site.  This lasted until January of this year when the paramilitary attacked again, causing people to flee this third construction of Puerto Lleras.

By early sunlight everyone is up and working.  Rafts are now lining the riverbank, made from boards that only hours ago were walls and floors of homes.  Everything feasible to lash with is used, ranging from men’s belts to string, or vines from the trees.  Recaptured pigs that had wandered off and chickens who had taken to roosting in the trees were all gathered.  But early afternoon the material and human vestiges of Puerto Lleras began the long, slow journey by river.  A few make the trek by land and I am to accompany them back.

Walking here is a form of transportation, measured in leguas.  One legua is equal to one hour of fast hiking.  As we hike a rapid pace up and down the trail, the sweat on my forehead changes from a light sheen to drops of sweat.  En route we pass by the overgrown remains of the Pueblo Nuevo community on the far bank of the river.  Due to the presence of paramilitary units few have crossed the other side of the river for the past several years.  One man who dared to continue to tend his fields there was killed in January.  His wife and five children are now among the displaced Pueblo Nuevo community on the “safe” side of the river.  Fears of landmines among the banana trees are another reason people fear to tread on their old lands.  Throughout this country, landmines continue to curse those who hoe the land by hand.  An hour after starting out, the sweat no longer has the sting of salt in my eyes.  We continue the seemingly interminable ups and downs of the hills and help one another with the loads on our backs as we carry plants and animals recovered from the Puerto Lleras of past days.  Another half hour later I am aware that my clothes are again completely soaked in sweat and my mouth is dry and cottony from dehydration.  Humidity and heat are overwhelming even in this “dry” season.  Eventually we enter the site the community is rebuilding upon, arriving way before those who traveled by water due to the winding nature of the river and the slow progress of the rafts.  People who are anxiously awaiting the sight of the first rafts welcome us with water and food, anxious for news of any confrontation with armed soldiers.  They are relieved to hear there have been no incidents.  Over the next hours, one-by-one, the rafts straggle in with exhausted individuals and squealing pigs.  The last arrive safely just before nightfall.

Hope and Health Care

In spite of the obstacles placed at almost every turn, amazingly people here continue to maintain hope.  Perhaps this is the most stunning part of what people do have, in spite of the almost complete lack of material belongings.  There is great hope and sense of community.  There is probably a direct correlation within this contradiction of things and people, as people recognize the importance of interdependence rather than isolate themselves in fierce individualism that defies community values.  My experience in areas such as this is, the less people have, the more they share.  Here, community life is full of people talking, laughing, meeting, and sharing daily life.  I recently head over the short wave radio that the latest of US crazed TV shows; “Survivor” is to be played out in the Brazilian jungle.  What an irony for people here to imagine that the goal of this program is to deceive, to defeat, and to divide community and to imagine that anyone here would really survive for long in that fashion. 

Construction of the new Puerto Lleras is the opposite of this type of anti-community ideology.  People help load and unload their burdensome baskets of plantains, dig up extra yucca for a widow, share fish from the days catch in the river and help to thatch the roof of a neighbor’s home.  The 20 foot reeds on the opposite shore of the river are cut back so as to better see any soldiers approaching the community.  Only a month before the rainy season begins its daily downpour, these rustic huts are just beginning to be carved from the surrounding jungle.  How long, I wonder, will this fourth manifestation of Puerto Lleras be allowed to stay at this site?  Regardless, I know that the survivors will work to build and rebuild in the hope of a new dawn without war.

Daily life is hard enough even during a time of peace in this region, largely abandoned by all but the military arm of the Government of Colombia.  There is no electricity, no running water, no store, no car, and no road for a car to travel on.  Illnesses abound.  During this week, we had a difficult case of falciparum malaria with Mateo, a 17 year old who suffered through five days of 105° fevers, sweating and muscle pains until we could obtain the appropriate medication for him.  A 13-year-old boy was brought in semi-conscious and delirious, with extreme right-lower quadrant abdominal pain, vomiting and constipation.  My worst fear is always some type of acute abdomen like appendicitis where we have to make the 12-hour trip out of here (six hours pushing the dugout through a swampy stream.)  Two people died during this exact trip in the past month, both probably from complications of malaria.  Fortunately, the mother of this young man recounts that he had expulsed five worms in his feces the day before.  After being given anti-spasmodics, anti-emetics (to stop the vomiting) and pain relievers he was given a medicine to rid him of intestinal parasites.  He expelled 52 earthworm size Ascaris parasites in his feces by morning.  The pain, delirium and danger to his life from an intestinal obstruction were over.  As the people of Puerto Lleras begin to rebuild their rustic homes and lives in the jungle I feel the weight of what it means to once again construct a water system, dig 12-foot pits for each latrine, re-cut boards using only a chain saw, axes and hand saws, and re-lash every pole with vines from the jungle, especially as the daily torrential rains of the rainy season close in.  Without the elemental infrastructure to prevent illnesses the need to cure these “endemic” (inherent to the local conditions) illnesses will be an overwhelming task, especially in light of the lack of medicines available to people here.  Most of the illnesses can be treated with basic medications provided to the village “Health Promoters” who use basic manuals like Where There Is No Doctor.[1]  The health promoters demonstrate an encouragingly good knowledge of basic illnesses, and all thirst for the short courses I offer on a variety of themes affecting their clinical and preventive practice.  We often work late into the night using flashlights and candles to illuminate our work.

War, East and West, North and South

Since my arrival in this region the other news from short wave is, of course, the invasion of Iraq.  From deep in the jungles of Colombia, where I witness the displacement of thousands of people from this lesser known war being waged by U.S.,[2] I can barely imagine the suffering of people in Iraq.  What I do know is that the suffering borne from almost all wars since WWII has been by the civilian population.  The U.S. led effort to impose “sanctions” preventing chlorinated water and basic medications has been well documented as being a causal factor in the majority of deaths in that region, and I can certainly attest to the same type of results of U.S. in this region.  Though the specifics of the methods of waging war may differ, the effects are the same.  I am certainly not surprised by the new of Colombia’s hard-line President Uribe’s stance in support of the U.S. invasion of Iraq.  He does not even believe in negotiations with the opposition in his own country.  Fortunately, I am also heartened by the news about massive demonstrations in the U.S. and abroad, about public anti-war statements at the Oscar’s, and about humane and compassionate responses by our people of the U.S. to our people of Iraq. 

Colombia is only one of another of the U.S. government’s military fronts, beset by a 39-year war wherein the army of the country is in a pitted battle against an experienced guerrilla army, all sides committed to using violence to achieve their political, economic and social goals.  The war would have ended decades ago with profound changes in this military dominated society, but for one overbearing factor, the U.S. government interests here.  Over the years, U.S. policy has had several ideologies.  What was once “anti-communism”, converted to “anti-cuban” rhetoric, which led to “anti-drug-cartel” policies and then to “anti-narco-traffic” lingo.  Over the past two years the justification for spending a billion dollar a years to prop up this regime is “anti-terrorism.”  The results of this effort are well documented in legitimate, independent human rights reports; demonstrating that the very government and paramilitary units we arm and train inflict the vast majority of terror.  This week, the United Nations denounced the abuse of human rights by the Colombian Government, sharing this same perspective with Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International.  On the other hand, last week the U.S. State Department accredited the Colombian government with acceptable human rights standards allowing its continued status as a “Favored Nation” for trade and permitting the sending of hundreds of millions of dollars more in weaponry and military training.  The training occurs in Colombia as well as in the U.S. at the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security and Cooperation (previously the School of the Americas.) 

It seems ironic to me that the majority of maps in the U.S. do not even include the department (equivalent to a state) of Chocó I am located in, much less the river Jiguamiando, even less so the village of Puerto Lleras.  Yet, almost every rifle I see is a U.S. M-16 or 50-caliber machine gun, and all of the gunboats are from the U.S. government.  There is no visible humanitarian aid in this region from the U.S. government, and it would now be highly suspect if any did arrive.  I am reminded of the Dr. Seuss classic, Horton Hears a Who as the collective voices of those suffering in this remote jungle spot rise to shout, “We are here, we are here, WE ARE HERE.”  I find myself frequently giving thanks for all of the sisters and brothers here and in the U.S. who jointly hope, pray and act so that these voices are heard in the corridors of Washington, D.C.  Those in power who continue to vote in favor of billions of dollars destined toward military aggressiveness, displacement, and death in Colombia must be changed toward life affirming options. 

It is 6:00 am the next morning as we load our twenty-five foot dugout canoe in preparation for leaving the newly resurrecting Puerto Lleras in the equatorial heat of this lowland jungle of northwest Colombia.  The health promoters are among those gathered on the banks, making last requests for medications, a clinical log-book to chart their patients, a reminder for batteries for a simple otoscope.  The young girl whose fractured forearm we set this week in a bamboo splint has come out to wave goodbye with her good arm.  We push off into the river with well wishes and desires to return soon. 

As the waves of our boat wear the banks of sand and clay I am as aware as ever of the importance of witnessing the ebbs and flows of these river communities and of the importance of accompanying those who suffer from our U.S. policies.  The motor on our boat sputters for the first time in a week as we head off to our next community… Nueva Esperanza… New Hope…