³ÉÈËÂÛ̳

Following the coca leaf downriver

• Bruce Parry
• 18 Dec 07, 02:04 PM

Starting in the high Andes and weaving our way down to the Apurimac and Ene Valleys, the first phase of our trip (which will probably make the basis of programme one) has an interesting central theme to it: cocaine. And what a story it has turned out to be. Looking back at it all now I can say that I’m glad I’m still in South America and not in the edit room back in Cardiff trying to put it all together as there was a lot to take in.

The coca leaf entered our story early. In fact the crew started chewing it on our way up to the source as a prophylactic for altitude related sickness. Everyone agreed that it certainly seemed to improve their strength and stamina at the difficult working altitude after having had such little acclimatization (a sad fact is that the Spanish Conquistadores knew and used to great profit in their forced labour gold and silver mines that killed so many Andean peoples).

Our interpreter David ceremonially placed three leaves in the magnificent spring at Nevada Mismi, which marked the start of our river journey. In an ancient Incan blessing ritual we all said some words to Pacha Mama (akin to our Mother Earth) and watched our three leaves apiece flow off downstream. Feeding a tiny belt of vegetation either side of it, the trickle of water looked like a thin green ribbon in an otherwise dusty moonscape.

Ceremony at the source of the Amazon

I didn’t get to try the sacred leaf myself until I was with my alpaca farmer host Rodolfo. I found it to have a slight tingle and anesthetic, numbing quality (which was its primary medical use for so long in history until synthetic agents were formulated). I can’t say that it helped me with the altitude as I was feeling quite strong at the early stage of the trip anyway and I certainly didn’t like the taste, so I rarely had it in my mouth for long.

The wonderful Rodolfo and his family used the leaves extensively during their blessing ritual of our trip and he said that he always had some in the house in case he had visitors, but other than that he never used it. As it doesn’t grow at such altitudes it was interesting to learn about the vertical trade routes, which had been operating in the region for millennia. Potatoes, alpaca and llama products, coca, forest products and the like were traded up and down the mountains from their respective production altitudes making clearly defined paths still in use today.

Bruce with Rodolfo, Gladys and their alpacas

Our intended direction was downhill too, symbolically following our coca offering at the source, through some extraordinary scenery as our journey continued. I made the most of this first phase as I love to trek and I knew that once into the lowland forest I’d be mostly sat on a boat (and I was so bloody right).

Our tremendous escapades of canoeing and rafting were fun and showed us all a taste of the power of the river but the leaf didn’t come back to the story until we reached the hacienda of Louisiana where we stayed with the charismatic Don Pepe and his family. This area is known as the VREA (the valley of the river Ene and Apurimac), which is what the Amazon tributary that we have followed from the source is called in this area. It is infamous as the old stronghold of the Shining Path and for the illegal production of cocaine and as a result is somewhat difficult to travel through safely. Luckily Almu had found a succession of great fixers to sort such logistics out for us and so we felt safe at all times.

Living with the farmer Antonio and his family was interesting. In his youth he’d fled from the Shining Path and seen many a murder. He was very matter-of-fact and told me that he was willing to fight to save his crops if the Americans pushed for a policy of destroying the plants as they have done in other parts of Peru. He sold half of his coca to the illicit trade as they offered twice the price of the official buyers. This probably explained why many farms in the area were unadulterated coca producers for the cocaine buyers alone. Hardly a Drug Lord, the quarterly crop that I helped Antonio harvest would gain him about $100 profit.

The illicit buyers of the coca harvest that I met next would turn half a tonne of leaves into about a kilogram of paste (or base), which they did in a rustic field lab called a bossa. The process necessitated the use of chemicals such as hydrochloric acid, bleach and lots of kerosene which was unceremoniously poured away to make its way into the surrounding soils, streams and rivers, enabling many of the toxins to travel in ever concentrated amounts up the food chain. The base production would earn the two workers a share of about $300 profit for four days work at the risk of as many years in prison each.

Bruce observes workers in a bossa

On our return to the Apurimac Valley after the sad incident of Matt’s illness we saw a little of the other side of the story. The Colonel in charge of operations with the Peruvian Narcotics Police was a lovely guy. He was really upset that we couldn’t fly with his helicopters as the American Embassy had denied us permission (which was a shame as they had been so helpful in Matt’s evacuation).

Luckily however, it worked out okay as they found an illegal bossa nearby that we were all able to drive to instead. Hanging with the troops as they sped round town couldn’t have highlighted to me the difference between the two sides of this ‘war’ more clearly. The soldier/police saw the whole situation down the barrel of a rifle and rarely interacted with the locals. The local population in return seemed to regard the police with suspicion and both sides sadly acted towards each other accordingly.

Merely pawns in what one officer described as a foreign problem fought on their soil, morale was low with the troops. As a very friendly ‘ex’ US Special Forces adviser explained, the post was unaccompanied and relatively dangerous and the guys never left their base unless on an operation. There seemed to be a glazed sense of routine about it all, but the boys put on a good display of tactical mobility for us and I like them. The crew and I drove to the bossa in the police pickup trucks through shanty towns and areas of extreme poverty while all the time the American-loaned helicopters (burning drum after drum of highly expensive aviation fuel) hovered overhead keeping a watchful eye out for potential dangers ahead of us.

The ritual destroying of the bossa was fun to watch. Sensing the desire for the camera to see something spectacular (I think Steve innocently asking whether they would ‘blow it up’ probably added to this), the ever-willing-to-please Colonel sent one of his minions off to the local petrol station to buy some kerosene which they subsequently threw over the smouldering plastic fire to induce massive fireballs which nearly took everyone out and produced toxic black smoke visible for miles. Later, on our way home, we waited patiently at the station while the troops had a whip round to pay for the fuel. Still the helicopters circled overhead.

Bruce and the burning bossa

Guillermo, Don Pepe’s son, was trying to restore the old family hacienda to its former glory. He most certainly had a hard job on his hands as it had been razed to the ground by the Shining Path 30 years before and his mother had barely escaped capture and certain death. No doubt it would take a special type of tourist to venture into the area with the reputation that the VREA had, but the very proactive Guillermo was going to give it a try and we all enjoyed staying at his lovely hacienda as a base for filming in the area. He’d lived all over the world, spoke perfect English and was good friends with the local police chief Pachakutek.

Guillermo told me that sadly, and for many reasons, including its turbulent history, the whole area has missed out on any worthwhile development programs by successive governments. As a result, disregard for the official law by the local population is widespread. During my time with Antonio, he had suggested something similar. He said that much of the coca growing and lawlessness might change if the area had an injection of crop subsidies or some decent infrastructure. He stressed that many of the people he knew would happily grow coffee or other crops instead of coca if the price was fixed and favorable.

I was surprised to hear that he makes as much money from his coffee crop anyway, it was just that he liked being paid quarterly which the coca harvest allowed and it was a more secure market. A few years ago, after a collapse in the coffee prices he simply pulled all his coffee plants out and replaced them with coca. He hardly gave a moment’s thought to the external social consequences of this, he told me, he was just concerned with feeding his family and being able to send his kids to school.

After leaving the Hacienda we headed down river to where the Apurimac became the Ene, into an area known as the ‘Red Zone’ where even the narco-police don’t go. But visiting the Ashaninka did little to simplify the story. They have been fighting a territorial and marginalisation war for as long as anyone can remember. Four decades ago it was the likes of Don Pepe and so many other national immigrants who were enticed into the area by a government that acted as if the whole Amazon was empty of people and free for anyone to exploit. The fact that the lovely Don Pepe didn’t even know the name of the tribal group in the area, instead referring to them as the Kampo (a derogatory term from the perspective of the Ashaninka) highlights this sad fact. Then, two decades ago was the period of the Shining Path when the Ashaninka were especially persecuted. And finally, this decade has been the period for the coca growers who are feeding the seemingly ever-expanding demand for cocaine. The squeeze on Colombia has meant a need for increased productivity elsewhere in what’s termed the balloon effect and the Peruvian ‘Red Zone’ of lawlessness has proved to be the perfect location for entrepreneurs and local farmers.

As another group of people who feel that they’ve been neglected by their nation-state, the Ashaninka have taken to protecting their own lands and culture by themselves. Their famous ronderos patrol their lands to keep others at bay. But as we were to discover, the assault on their land and culture is unabated and present from every conceivable angle.

The first village we visited seemed like it had already lost the battle to save itself. The mestizo loggers and cocaleros had infiltrated deep into the heart of the community and were doing a good job of splitting public opinion about future change. Bribes, whispers and outside modern ‘gifts’ were in evidence everywhere and land was already being divvied up by the community to individual tenants, which would almost inevitably lead to its eventual sale or loan to outsiders for a pittance. This was in stark contrast to the next Ashaninka village that we visited. Here the threat was imminent, but as yet still only a threat and the community was more solid in its desire to defend as a unit. But they knew that the battle would be on their doorstep soon as the nutrient-greedy coca crop was leaving wastelands behind it as it swept down the valley.

This blog was written in January as Bruce looked back on the making of film one, which ended in November. We have published it in December as a summary of the crew’s experiences.

• Bookmark with:
• |
• |
• |
• |
-
• What's this?