The begining: 06.04.04
At last my journey begins. or at least the documentation of its next chapter. Its a mixture of emotions finally getting away. Takeoff is always a release, setting it all in motion and leaving deliberations grounded in the departure lounge. Normally when travelling i expect nothing and go with the express intention to make no plans which (although a plan of sorts in itself) leaves all unknown, an adventure free of expectations. This time it is different. My point of departure on this trip is not travel but work and as my first of such experiences there is excitement loaded with uncertainty and apprehension, great expectations loaded with the inevitable streak of doubts that accompany new things. Indeed, never before have I done a job that I feel strongly about or for a reason other than the money.
I am on my way to Cali in South Western Colombia to work with the combative municipal workers union of the city (SINTRAEMCALI), a bastion of organised resistance, and positive action amid a nation savaged by violence and oppression for the protection of private interests. Colombia could be viewed the front-line in the fight between a savage brand of capitalism, neoliberalism, in one of its most extreme forms and the interests of civil society. It is also a front line in an terrifyingly Orwellian battle between truth and deception. A country as wealthy in newspeak pretexts as it is natural resources. A ‘democracy’ fighting a ‘war on drugs’ ‘aided’ by trading ‘partners’ and protected from national ‘’terrorists’’ by the “self defence forces’’ (AUC) of Colombia.
But in a democracy where voting can be an act of suicide if against your oppressor, where a terrorist can be a school teacher, community activist or student, where a war is fought to displace people to make way for the extraction of natural resources by multinational companies while trade in drugs continues destabilising the country and funding those who claim to protect its people some change is necessary.
That's not to say im going to be able to do anything about it. I may well just become disillusioned, have nothing to offer, after all I haven't even finished my degree yet, im just a middle class student who’ll probably be unable to take the pressure of a real struggle coming from a comparatively sheltered life in a rich nation, or ill simply hate it. all these are unknown but more importantly unknowable until tried and it would be crazy for them to hold me back. I have long been impassioned by politics, incensed by injustice and frustrated by apathy including my my own. Bullshit particularly from those in authority has always got under my skin like an itchy rash, inflamed when I see others believe it. I know that I cannot make a visible effect personally but feel a duty to myself in light of what i see do something. or at least to go and see if there is hope, if this is really something i want to devote my life to as i have dreamed. as such it becomes apparent why this trip is more than a job, or an adventure and why I chose to come here of all places. This will be an account of how it goes, a mixture of diary and commentary, of what I see is happening and my thoughts and feelings.
At the newsagent in no mans land interim departure lounge miami as i waited for my delayed flight I got talking to the Nicaraguan and Dominican checkout boys. To my dismay they were both virulent supporters of the brutal Colombian president Alvaro Uribe Velez and as for their stance on Castro and Chavez - “Nuke the bastards!”. Naturally some heated debate ensued but these boys were not for turning. I suddenly felt like an idealistic middle class student (which of course I am) sadly misguided into a hopeless fight for ‘the people’ who were not interested. One of the lads was collecting foreign coins with the intention of covering the interior of his car with them. I reminded myself that Miami is a special case.
My flight arrived two hours late in Bogota and I stepped out into the sea of expectant faces awaiting relatives on their return from babylon. Near the end of the crowd were a tired looking couple in their 40s holding a hand-written sign with my name written in capitals with a red biro. I introduced myself to Ricardo, Christina and we got into a taxi. Almost as soon as we were moving Ricardo was talking about the armed conflict with a sincerity and solemn compassion that was humbling and in my tired state left me almost speechless. We arrived at their home and they paid the taxi fare. The downstairs comprised of two almost bare rooms with clinical tile floors like that of an old hospital. in one room there stood two desks and an embattled computer with a phone and a sick typewriter on the floor. in the other room was a small dinning table, some garden chairs and a beaten up coffee machine like that of the waiting room of a dentist surgery on the outskirts of town. The walls wore the posters of political prisoners, the disappeared and past demonstrations. They welcomed me to the headquarters of the Union of University Workers in Bogota, SINTRAUNICOL. I was shown to my room, a bare box housing two bunkbeds with a lino floor and makeshift curtain covering the barred windows. There was no hot water.
I am on my way to Cali in South Western Colombia to work with the combative municipal workers union of the city (SINTRAEMCALI), a bastion of organised resistance, and positive action amid a nation savaged by violence and oppression for the protection of private interests. Colombia could be viewed the front-line in the fight between a savage brand of capitalism, neoliberalism, in one of its most extreme forms and the interests of civil society. It is also a front line in an terrifyingly Orwellian battle between truth and deception. A country as wealthy in newspeak pretexts as it is natural resources. A ‘democracy’ fighting a ‘war on drugs’ ‘aided’ by trading ‘partners’ and protected from national ‘’terrorists’’ by the “self defence forces’’ (AUC) of Colombia.
But in a democracy where voting can be an act of suicide if against your oppressor, where a terrorist can be a school teacher, community activist or student, where a war is fought to displace people to make way for the extraction of natural resources by multinational companies while trade in drugs continues destabilising the country and funding those who claim to protect its people some change is necessary.
That's not to say im going to be able to do anything about it. I may well just become disillusioned, have nothing to offer, after all I haven't even finished my degree yet, im just a middle class student who’ll probably be unable to take the pressure of a real struggle coming from a comparatively sheltered life in a rich nation, or ill simply hate it. all these are unknown but more importantly unknowable until tried and it would be crazy for them to hold me back. I have long been impassioned by politics, incensed by injustice and frustrated by apathy including my my own. Bullshit particularly from those in authority has always got under my skin like an itchy rash, inflamed when I see others believe it. I know that I cannot make a visible effect personally but feel a duty to myself in light of what i see do something. or at least to go and see if there is hope, if this is really something i want to devote my life to as i have dreamed. as such it becomes apparent why this trip is more than a job, or an adventure and why I chose to come here of all places. This will be an account of how it goes, a mixture of diary and commentary, of what I see is happening and my thoughts and feelings.
At the newsagent in no mans land interim departure lounge miami as i waited for my delayed flight I got talking to the Nicaraguan and Dominican checkout boys. To my dismay they were both virulent supporters of the brutal Colombian president Alvaro Uribe Velez and as for their stance on Castro and Chavez - “Nuke the bastards!”. Naturally some heated debate ensued but these boys were not for turning. I suddenly felt like an idealistic middle class student (which of course I am) sadly misguided into a hopeless fight for ‘the people’ who were not interested. One of the lads was collecting foreign coins with the intention of covering the interior of his car with them. I reminded myself that Miami is a special case.
My flight arrived two hours late in Bogota and I stepped out into the sea of expectant faces awaiting relatives on their return from babylon. Near the end of the crowd were a tired looking couple in their 40s holding a hand-written sign with my name written in capitals with a red biro. I introduced myself to Ricardo, Christina and we got into a taxi. Almost as soon as we were moving Ricardo was talking about the armed conflict with a sincerity and solemn compassion that was humbling and in my tired state left me almost speechless. We arrived at their home and they paid the taxi fare. The downstairs comprised of two almost bare rooms with clinical tile floors like that of an old hospital. in one room there stood two desks and an embattled computer with a phone and a sick typewriter on the floor. in the other room was a small dinning table, some garden chairs and a beaten up coffee machine like that of the waiting room of a dentist surgery on the outskirts of town. The walls wore the posters of political prisoners, the disappeared and past demonstrations. They welcomed me to the headquarters of the Union of University Workers in Bogota, SINTRAUNICOL. I was shown to my room, a bare box housing two bunkbeds with a lino floor and makeshift curtain covering the barred windows. There was no hot water.
