From Ciudad Bolivar, With Love

Minuto de Maria, Ciudad Bolivar, Bogota, Colombia

A series of incredibly poor transport decisions left me stranded at 9PM, April 8th at the only local connection in South Bogota. The station is a ramshackle lean-to of metal and cement, and it screams bad neighborhood. It is definitely the kind of place I am willing to shell out a large amount of cash to a taxi driver to wisk me away from.

As I walked out towards the half-dirt road looking to grab the first taxi, a man grabbed me from behind and pulled me violently towards a cement wall in the shadows. Automatically in survival mode, I swung around to free myself from the grip. Before I even recognized the young man behind me as a military police officer, the urgent look in his face registered in my mind. He tells me to come with him, dont worry, just get back inside.

I follow him and after about 20 steps he turns around and begins to ask me what I am doing here. I tell him I am just pássing through, I am on my way to La Candelaria in Central Bogota. He shakes his head and informs me that no transport comes anywhere near here within an hour of sunset. I ask him why. He replies with shoulders shrugged, ¨cuz this is Ciudad Bolivar.¨

I had heard some things about this area. Generally South Bogota is not a good spot, and Ciudad Bolivar is apparently the worst of all therein. Beyond that I had made it into Minuto de Maria which, I now know, is famous in Colombia as contributing a hefty portion of the countrys murders. Quite simply put I had wandered listlessly into what the police told me is the second-worst neighborhood in Latin America, right behind some of the famous favelas of Rio. This is a place where FARC still lives, where paramilitaries have held control until recently, and where an injured white boy with a bag full of money and goodies is not just a target...but a lock.

I discuss my options with the concerned military police officer. Taxi? No driver will consider it at night. Can I go with the Police to a place with taxis? The police get shot at when they move at night. He commands me simply to stay back in a shadow as he goes and talks to his friend. Within minutes a portly man with car grease all over him extends hishand to me and smiles. He introduces himself as Miguel and orders me to follow him into his really sketchy shop.

Inside he tells me I will be staying the night at his place, a small hole above his repair shop 50 meters from the buses. He leaves the shop and says he will be back shortly. The look on my face at this moment must have betrayed all of the things I should have been feeling.

When Alejandro comes back he is smiling. He asks me very pointedly, what the fuck am I doing here? This is not a good call. I try to assure him I didnt plan it this way. He just shakes his head at all of my answers and replies ¨No¨. I stand there with my hands upturned like a little kid.

Alejandro breaks down what has happened in just the last month in Minuto de Maria. The fast-paced Spanish he speaks is difficult to understand, but words like narcotrafficante, se mata, FARC, armas, ejercito, etc.. register quickly.

We sit that night watching news in the shop and eating a rice dish that definitely tastes like is has been prepared in a war zone. He sets me up on the couch with a blanket and we shut off the lights. He tells me he will get me on a bus in the morning to central Bogota. I thank him and tell him I know it is dangerous but how bad can it be, I mean, if he lives there? At the moment I finish this question, a roaring truck engine passes outside and the blast of 5 gunshots rings out.

Following the truck sound is the sound of more trucks, or what could be military jeeps. We hear gunshots down the road, 10 maybe.

In the morning we find out 2 men had been killed. A police officer was wounded and the wall of the building across the street from Alejandro had two obvious bulletholes.