Dispatches from Putumayo: Deep in Cocaine Country, the Hidden Costs of Peace
Her words pierced the din of the printer and the clanking of cups as our afternoon coffee - or tinto, as Bogotanos call it - was placed before us.
"I come from the place where water is born."
Never, in all my work trips, had I heard such an introduction... let alone inside a Government office. Heads snapped to attention, our thoughts yanked from whatever else we were contemplating during the routine round of introductions inside a tightly packed conference room in Colombia's National Land Agency.
Lisbet proceeded to introduce herself as the agency's Ethnic Issues Advisor. A hush had fallen over the room, and now only the jangle of her beaded earrings competed with her voice.
"That place that I am from," she continued, "is the Sibundoy Valley."
My colleague leaned over to me and whispered: "that's where we're going tomorrow."
One can be forgiven for never having heard of the Sibundoy Valley, or of Putumayo, the State in Southern Colombia where the valley is situated. Before I headed there, as part of a due diligence trip for a conservation organization my company was evaluating for funding, I had never heard of it either.
Putumayo has been largely inaccessible for the last 50 years. Until last year, its jungles served as the stronghold of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), and its clearings continue to produce much of Colombia's cocaine. The presence of the FARC and the presence of the drugs is no coincidence: half a century of guerrilla warfare has left this part of the country devastated, and coca cultivation is one of the only viable jobs left.
With no economy to speak of, too dangerous for the Government to set foot in, Putumayo languished with sparse electricity, little running water, and scant Western medical care.
But now, suddenly, things are changing.
In November of 2016 the FARC and the Government of Colombia signed a peace deal, bringing to an end a 50 year Civil War that claimed the lives of over 200,000 people and displaced 5 million. And so, after half a century of abandonment by everyone except narco traffickers and paramilitaries. the lush Amazonian forests of Putumayo, and the indigenous peoples who live there, are suddenly seeing activity.
On one hand, the change is promising: with the retreat of the FARC, the Government can finally extend much-needed services to this forgotten region. Craft shops are popping up, and remote villages are starting to get electricity. For the first time in years, families relax in public squares, unafraid.
On the other hand, the new peace threatens to disrupt a delicate balance. An unintended byproduct of Putumayo's impenetrability is that its virgin forests and powerful rivers - the lungs and lifeblood of Colombia - have remained unspoiled. Now, all that might change.
Which brings me back to the water. Lisbet's words flooded back as our car scaled a winding, desolate road into Putumayo's highlands. There, a unique Paramo (high altitude wetland) ecosystem acts as a giant sponge in the clouds, capturing condensation and using it to feed the Putumayo River, and eventually the Amazon River. This marshy bogland accounts for 1.5% of Colombia's surface, but provides 70% of its water.
For millennia, indigenous communities have protected this marsh. Now, they told us that newcomer farmers are threatening to chop it down. If they do, Colombia could lose much of its water supply, with potentially catastrophic health and environmental implications.
The Paramo dilemma is just one of a growing number of tensions over land, resources, and culture that indigenous people in this region are facing. Now that the conflict is over, the Sibundoy Valley and the cloud forests around it are under threat of land disputes and encroachment from farmers, loggers, miners, and returning internally displaced persons (IDPs). Oil and mining companies are starting to flood into Colombia's unexplored frontiers, including Putumayo. As the FARC recedes from the jungle, deforestation is on the rise.
But it's not just the natural resources of Putumayo's indigenous communities that are under threat. Aside from its ecological importance, Putomayo is also considered to be the birthplace of Ayahuaska, a medicinal vine used prominently in traditional healing throughout the Amazon.
Ayahuaska is a dark brown drink made from two plants: the ayahuasca vine, and a shrub called chacruna, which contains the hallucinogen dimethyltryptamine (DMT). The resulting cocktail is a powerful purgative and hallucinogen, and Shamans train for decades to administer it correctly.
Ayahuaska ceremonies are administered inside Malocas like the one above. These airy structures are built in sacred places within the community, and function as a sort of hybrid between a community center and a doctor's office, albeit with some seriously trippy wall art. Traditional medicine still features front and center in Amazonian culture, and while we were speaking with the Shaman, several families cycled in and out, asking about treatment options. One young couple - perhaps from the city - lay in the corner on sleeping bags, recovering after a session.
Shamans here said they are afraid that territorial incursions will destroy their medicinal gardens, and stifle their traditions. A loss of land would mean a loss of the ingredients necessary to brew this indigenous staple.
Then of course there's the topic of Ayahuaska tourism. As Sibundoy becomes safer, foreigners will invariably start to flock here, in search of healing. Putumayo may soon face the same dilemma as Iquitos, a fellow Ayahuaska hub in the Peruvian Amazon: should the community accommodate this new boom, and live with the accompanying cultural dilution and rising cost of Ayahuaska supply, or should it close itself off? This topic probably merits its own blog post, starting with my own revolting 'Ayahuaska ceremony' experience when I was 22 and backpacking through Iquitos, but I'll leave it alone for the time being.
So what happens now? As Putumayo opens, conservation groups like the one I was traveling with are cautiously optimistic. Perhaps peace will come not with deforestation and destruction, but with opportunities and options. Perhaps new investment will help lift marginalized populations like the indigenous communities living here. Or perhaps new thugs will flood into the void left by the FARC, and the cycle of violence will resume.
What I can say, having spent just a couple of days in this beautiful, mystifying place, is that its destruction would bring irreparable harm to the country's biodiversity, resources, and cultural riches. Lets see if it can remain unspoiled.
