Barack Obama, McGovern?

When I left for Colombia, Hillary Clinton was all but declared the Democratic nominee for president. Seven weeks later, the national media has all but declared Sen. Obama the nominee and favorite to be the next resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Some talking heads are suggesting Hillary should give up, others that she has shown signs of concession. More surprising is the enthusiasm in the 20 and 30 something sets, people who have never voted in a general election proudly declaring their support, and their first cast ballot, for Barack Obama.

The hype borders on the hysterical. People here speak of Obama as they might a personal savior. A friend witnessed a fight break out between an Obama supporter and a Clinton man at the dog park. The intensity of the connection some people claim to the man, the eruption of screams worthy of the Beatles makes one wonder what they are handing out at those rallies. And the slogan, Yes We Can—without irony? Far be it from me not to empathize with the upper middle class college kid who desperately wants to identify with a people’s movement—chanting ‘si se puede’ at a farm workers rally, ok—but invoking the ghost of Cesar Chavez for a man who out fundraised a Democrat named Clinton?

I just don't get the hype, and I don't particularly care to believe in a better tomorrow without first checking the itinerary. Sure it will be swell to see Mr. Bush go back to scrub farming, mismanaging baseball teams, bankrupting oil companies, or whatever it is he chooses to do back in Texas, but after the party on January 20, it’s back to the deficit, Iraq, the economy. There is going to be one hell of a collective hangover.

Obama is clearly the more exciting of the two candidates. Perhaps it’s an asset that his Washington resume is so short, that he can still boast incorruptibility and campaign as the agent of institutional change. He is a candidate with the charisma of a young Bill Clinton, and my generation has not been this hyped up for a candidate in my lifetime.

Yet come time for the general election, Obama seems like he is more on the path of a former Senator from South Dakota than that of the Arkansas Governor. In 1992, Bill Clinton encouraged the party to break from the failing formula of cobbling together left wing coalitions in favor of a centrist agenda and the successful and pragmatic tactics of triangulation. With a faltering economy and an opponent forced to renege on his most famous campaign promise, Clinton won, though with less than a majority of the vote.

George McGovern inspired a generation of young Democrats in the summer of 1972 the way Obama has energized a new generation of voters today. McGovern, like Obama, was the anti-war candidate, the man who would get us out of Vietnam in exchange for all our prisoners of war. But based on his platform and voting record in the Senate, he was tarred, post-convention, as the AAA candidate, "Amnesty, Abortion, and Acid," a reference to his support of forgiving the draft dodgers, his stance for pro-choice, and his call to legalize marijuana. He lost the electoral college 520-17.

It is hard to imagine that the Obama campaign could possibly stumble as badly as McGovern's. McGovern dropped his vice-presidential nominee Thomas Eagleton when it was revealed that he had undergone shock therapy for depression in the 60's, but only after going on record three days before saying that he backed Eagelton 1000 percent despite the revelation. Some members of the Democratic establishment, fuming that the McGovern insurgency had completed what they considered to be a coup at the convention, formed a Democrats for Nixon coalition.

Though the Obama candidacy started as a grassroots phenomenon, he is now embraced as the new face of the Democratic party, and he is gaining the support of all but the die hard Clintonistas. Hillary will be under enormous pressure to fold her tent if trailing in the delegate count after Pennsylvania, a highly probable outcome. Here Obama has McGovern to thank as he was a leader in reshaping what had been backroom coronations into a genuine democratic process after the debacle of Chicago 68. And there won’t be a 'Democrats for McCain' this time around, the party will happily coalesce around the charismatic candidate in their quest to wake up from the eight year nightmare of Cowboy in Chief starring the retarded son of George Herbert Walker. (Ed note: An American aristocrat who can parley his village idiot routine into a two-term presidency could not actually be retarded. He would be either a genius, the evil variety, or at least have the sense to hire one hell of a team of handlers.) If a patrician and out of touch John Kerry can come within a whisker of the White House, and the alternately wooden and pompous Al Gore can win a popular vote, then Obama should prove a formidable candidate come November.


The Republicans will soon start taking their shots in earnest, and already the Obamas have provided a couple of targets. Are the American people really going to choose a Democrat who by some accounts has the most liberal voting record in the Senate? The Scarlet L is a slander on par with accusations of pedophilia in the South, and the Republican machine is guaranteed to remind the voters of Obama’s leftist credentials. Michelle Obama did her husband no favors last week when she stated that she had never been proud of her country in her adult lifetime, that is, before the American people rallied behind her husband. An unpatriotic first lady will not go over well in the fly over states. Republican spin masters couldn’t have manufactured a better quote for her.



Obama is a smooth debater and a powerful orator, yet it remains to be seen if he can win the center from a man with solid bipartisan credentials. Already the Obama campaign has made what could prove a costly blunder on the electoral map. Obama strode into a minefield in Thursday’s debate when he told the nation he would sit down with Raul Castro without setting prior conditions on the communist regime in Cuba. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to consider the views of the Cubans in South Florida before making such a brash statement. Not a good idea to enrage a large voting bloc in the largest swing state.


I am a part of a rare demographic these days, a free trade social liberal. Trade is the issue that prevents me from becoming excited about the campaign for change. Obama trots out the same tired protectionist rhetoric that generally precludes the possibility of an intelligent approach to grappling with the realities of globalization.

Obama calls for a reorientation of foreign policy with greater emphasis on our own hemisphere, yet his protectionist posturing on trade policy would make progress difficult. Colombia, in just one example, a staunchly pro-American country on a continent with a strident anti-American bloc, is eager to see the ratification of an already negotiated trade accord with United States. Obama’s proposed moratorium on such deals would prove a slap in the face to a loyal ally. And just how would his administration deliver on its promise to strengthen ties with Mexico and work to improve its economy while at the same time preparing to roll back NAFTA? Protectionism can make for bad economics and bad foreign policy.

Don’t get me wrong, balanced against the calamity of the Bush-led Iraq War and the fiscal recklessness of the Republican Party, I think it’s time for a change of leadership, and if that means passing the reins to the Junior Senator from Illinois, then I’m for Obama. I just can’t yet drink the ecstasy laced Kool Aid.

I wasn't alive the last time there was this much excitement about an anti-war democratic candidate, but from everything I read, "McGovern in 72" was a wild ride. The Obama staffers are energized in a way that would be impossible in a more establishment oriented headquarters like that of the Clintons. A hardboiled Democratic organizer who signed on to the Obama camp told me that she has been amazed with the energy and positive spirit pervading the campaign. At times in New Hampshire she would go door to door with the rank and file volunteers, because that’s what she felt was most needed at the time.

“The spirit of everyone is amazing. It’s a ‘What can I do for you?’ campaign. We started out thinking he was running for Vice-President, now it is likely, it is actually likely, that he will be the next President of the United States. But one thing is for sure, never count out a Clinton.”

Our next door neighbors have been unusually quiet this past week. None of the Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday night parties, with people coming and going until 3am. I am enjoying the quiet at night.

Then I caught a revealing snippet of conversation through an open window yesterday afternoon.

“What happened to Felix?” a girl asked the crew on the front stoop.

“He’s off in Ohio, working for the Obama campaign,” one of the guys explained.

“He’s dealing to the Obama campaign?”

“No, he’s working for the campaign, getting out the vote.”

“Shit. Where are we going to get our pills from?”

Felix, the drug dealing Obama campaigner. I knew they were handing out something at those rallies. Click Here to Read More..

Barranquilla Part One: The FARC March and Missed Connections

The reason I make as few plans as possible while on the road is so that when a worthwhile opportunity arises I am able to pursue it. On the road north from Villa de Leyva in transit to the forgotten city of Mompos, I met Andrea, a beautiful and charming young woman from Barranquilla, Colombia's largest port city and home to South America's second largest Carnaval celebration. I hadn't realized Carnaval was so early this year, the first week of February, and that I'd be near the Caribbean coast by that time. Logistics are usually a nightmare for events as big as Carnaval, but with an invitation in hand, how could I say no to Colombia's most raucous four day throw down?

And Carnaval wasn't the only draw to Barranquilla. On Monday, February 4, millions of Colombians in 193 cities around the world were set to hit the streets to demonstrate against the FARC. In a way, Barranquilla was the epicenter of these demonstrations. Just one month before the planned demonstrations, Oscar Morales, a 33-year old engineer from Barranquilla, was watching along with the rest of the country the soap opera like story line of Emmanuel and the hostage releases as orchestrated by Hugo Chavez. The people of Colombia seemed united like never before in the belief that the time had come for an unconditional release of the hostages and to the FARC. Morales decided to start a on-line campaign against the FARC on the social networking site Facebook. Within weeks his application "A Million voices against the FARC" had over 250,000 supporters, and a handful of dedicated organizers who worked with Morales to coordinate an international demonstration. Morales and a half dozen students and young people organized the Colombian demonstrations on a shoestring budget, though he claims their cellphone bills went to the moon. It turns out the most critical corporate sponsorship for the movement was the rebates the cell phone companies gave back to Morales and his colleagues.

Serendipity was leading me to a weekend of politics and partying Colombian style. Then serendipity is a most fickle goddess.

I had arranged to meet Andrea Sunday evening in Barranquilla. That evening we would attend La Gran Parada, the major parade on the second day of Carnaval where tens of thousands of locals don costumes and march along with the salsa, merengue, and various coastal musical groups that play on the floats drifting down the parade route. The next morning we'd join several hundred thousand Barranquillans and other Carnaval attendees on break from the festivities to exorcise their hangovers with political demonstration before getting back to the business side of bacchanal.

The minivan I took from Cartagena dumped me into the swirl of revelers, vendors and hundreds of competing musical acts on the sidewalks of the old town. I had nothing to do but wait, holding on to both front pockets where I had my passport and both wallets. A traveler in Cartagena had held court at the breakfast table earlier that morning with tales of his loss of all his valuables to the pickpockets and other thieves at last year's Carnaval in Salvador, Brazil. I hoped my system would stand the crowds. I find it convenient to travel with two wallets, one with large currency and credit cards that is hidden underneath a larger wallet with my day to day cash-- enough local currency to satisfy hurried mugger without a second thought to the loss. In the event of a thorough shakedown, a friend of mine who stumbled into a dark alley in Havana had his jeans ripped off of him, I keep a hundred dollar bill wrapped in a local banknote folded under the foot pad in each shoe.

A half hour passed and still no Andrea. I rechecked the address, a lively corner just a block from the parade route. I call a couple of times--straight to voicemail. It would have been difficult to find a hotel room in Barranquilla for this weekend if I had started looking three months ago, the night of, well, I could forget about it. Not that I needed a place to sleep so much as a place to keep my stuff. And any new friends made on a street corner, though everyone is friendly, are not to be trusted.

So three hours later, my face covered in flour, I headed back to the bus terminal and traveled north to Santa Marta, Colombia's oldest city and at the base of the Sierra Nevadas de Santa Marta. With a peak at over 5700 meters, the mountains that frame the town are the highest in the world as measured rising up from sea level. Since I figured I'd pass back through Barranquilla to catch the march the next morning, I headed directly from Santa Marta to the highly recommended tiny fishing village of Taganga a few kilometers and a dramatic ridgeline away from the city.

I was in time to watch the sun set into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, and only then did I realize that it was Super Bowl Sunday. The cable was not working on the hostel's television, and the only other American was passed out in a hammock-- turns out he had been to Carnaval last night, and lost his wallet and passport to a pickpocket.

I walked through village looking for a television and came across a kindly looking old lady on her front porch watching Mr. Bean with her stunning late-teens granddaughter. I introduced myself and explained my predicament, how the future of the free world hung in the balance of this American sporting event that may or may not be included in their cable package. It was, and Eva, the grandmother, invited me onto the porch, where I caught the second half of the game. Ada, the granddaughter, watched me watch the game, and I explained to her the rules-- that every time the team in blue, called the Patriots, scored points, a crate of puppies was thrown into Boston Harbor.

It was the perfect impromptu Super Bowl party. Eva reappeared with a plate delicious coconut fritters I crunched on while watching what may have been the greatest touchdown drive in Super Bowl history. The 1972 Dolphins finally popped their champagne while Ada changed into her costume. She invited me to join her at the village's Carnaval festivities, what may have been the smallest in Colombia. What they lacked in numbers they made up for in spirit. Everyone danced to the Caribbean rhythms under the stars as a cool breeze swept down from the mountains towering above.

Later, Ada and I lay on the beach and watched a red sliver of moon rise out of the Caribbean just ahead of the sun.

I had planned to get up early and head back to Barranquilla for the march, but I slept through my alarm. At a late breakfast I spoke with two French Canadians, Silvain and Steve, both traveling solo. Silvain had spent the first night of Carnaval in Barranquilla and miraculously produced a phone number of a guy who was taking guests in his home for the weekend. Steve and I were both interested, so we called and secured beds for the night, or at least a place for our luggage. By the time we reached the bus terminal in Santa Marta the demonstrations were in full swing. The television in the waiting room showed the millions of Colombians who had turned up in Barranquilla, Bogota, and around the world with their slogan "No more kidnapping, no more lies, no more deaths, no more FARC," visible on the giant banners in the pattern of the Colombian flag unfurled above the marchers. This is as close I got to the march, the tv at the bus station in Santa Marta. I thanked Serendipity all the same.

We arrived at Carlos' place late for the march but in time for the chaos at the third day of Carnaval. Carlos was a gaunt, bug-eyed man in his mid thirties with a hint of flamboyance in his expression and an enthusiasm that I attributed to his role of dedicated host (rather than say, a massive drug binge). Carlos spoke English. He claimed to have lived in Miami for 17 years, though I found his heavily accent and lisp English equally difficult to comprehend as his rapid fire Spanish. He had his one room apartment set up like a business with a desk near the front door and on it an official looking passport, though the revelers passed out on the mattresses lining the back walls would later fill us in on the rest of Carlos’ enterprises.

"Oh, yes, you gimme your passports, your credit cards, and any money you don't need for tonight and I put them in the safe. You must be very careful with your cameras, there are robbers in the streets. You can't trust nobody here. You know they get 15 thousand U S for American passports?" I handed over my passport and credit card wallet and then saw that what Carlos meant by safe was actually a cashbox that he pulled out of a cloth purse hung on the back of his chair. Still, it had to be better than carrying my valuables into the crowds, and from Silvain's account there were too many other guests to leave anything worth stealing in my bag.

Maybe his first experiences as an immigrant in the states had given Carlos an idea for the set up. He had converted his apartment and the one above it into a temporary flophouse. The floors were wall to wall with mattresses and the strips of space between them were lined with beer cans, rum bottles, and mate cups. In all he was housing 20 guests, four in his office and 16 in a three room apartment above. At 13 bucks a night per person, he cleared enough during Carnaval week to pay his rent for the year. Steve and I were just happy to have a place to put our backpacks for the night, so we didn’t really mind the muddy puddles in the bathroom or the dirty sheets on the beds.

We went to watch the parades, the endless processions of barely clothed dancers in between groups of musicians. Disappointingly, a barrage of advertisements from the corporate sponsors, plastered the parade route, the floats, even the banners of the various dance troops were selling beer and ice cream.

On our way back to meet up to go out with others to the concerts that evening, we ran into Carlos on the street with his cloth bag slung over his shoulder with what was clearly the outline of the cashbox inside.

Surely, those aren’t our passports and credit cards he’s carrying around in the streets? Click Here to Read More..

Postcards from Tino

From Bogota I headed northeast to Villa de Leyva, a meticulously preserved colonial town in the Andean highlands. Declared a national heritage landmark in 1954, Villa de Leyva is the Colombian equivalent of Williamsburg, where all modern architecture is forbidden. The Plaza Mayor is the country's largest public square, 120 by 120 meters, and the only structure on the cobbled expanse is a small fountain at its center that once provided drinking water for the town. The irregular cobble rambles for blocks in any direction from the square.

Villa de Leyva is a popular weekend retreat for the Bogota elite. Several portals off or near the main square open up into a series of immaculate courtyards and nooks housing a half dozen gourmet restaurants, bars and cafes. Many artists have been attracted to the town and the surrounding Andean highlands and a number of them have opened galleries about the town.

As peaceful as the town center is, I had heard many excellent reviews of a guesthouse a mile uphill from the square. The cobble gives to asphalt for a few blocks and the last half mile runs up a dirt road past the army barracks and then right up to the base of the surrounding mountains. The dorm room was only three beds in a cabana above the guesthouse. As I was the only guest upon arrival, I had the cabana to myself with its view of the valley beyond the floor to ceiling windows.

On my third evening at the Renacer Guesthouse, a backpack appeared on the bunk next to mine. There are many brilliant and entertaining backpackers on the road, and hearing their experiences is one of the many pleasures of travel. There are also some real morons out there. By the way the new arrival had settled in, the floor already was strewn with dirty clothes, trash, and other junk, I was fearing my roommate for the night was in the latter group.

I was watching the sunset from a hammock on the porch when my roommate appeared in the doorway. His name was Tino, a young German with blond hair curling down past his shoulders. His face seemed pinched horizontally around his eyes We spoke Spanish for a moment, but he was having difficulty expressing himself and quickly switched to English.
Tino looked younger than his 19 years, too young to be travelling the world. He had been in Bogota for a couple months, working for the YMCA with street children in the barrios. He was headed to a national park along the Atlantic coast where he would get room and board for helping the park rangers.

When I said I was from the States, Tino did not hesitate with his opinions of America and her citizens abroad. He does not like American travelers. He finds Americans to be arrogant, rude, reticent to discuss politics, and worst of all, he finds them everywhere. He likes the American government even less. At least here we had some common ground, though Bush bashing is a tedious conversation piece given all the ideas and places that could be discussed with a fellow traveler. I steered the conversation away from politics for a moment, but Tino either did not get the hint or did not care, and in the next breath was criticising a political system represented only by two parties, "You only have Democrits and Republics, you don't have a Green party... America always is talking about Democracy, but the elections aren't real, it's all for the television."

I went to bat for our congressional system. At the cost of representation for minor parties, there is greater stability in our goverment than in a Parliamentary system. But mostly I wanted to get away from this kid for the evening. I told him I was going back into town for dinner. With the look of a bare bones backpacker I assumed he'd be cooking for himself. To my disappointment he said he would join me.

We aren't a dozen yards from the guesthouse when Tino pulls a cigarette carton from his bag and from it a joint the size of his middle finger.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, away from the hostel?"

"Don't be paranoid," Tino replied.

He takes a half dozen hard drags and soon is talking about Alice in Wonderland and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the cartoon and the movie, respectively. There didn't seem much point in riffing off his thoughts, as it was evident he was unable to follow conversation, his own included.
He insisted I take a hit. I declined, and suggested he be careful as we were walking along the low stone wall and past the sand bag pill boxes of the army barracks.
"Don't be paranoid, no one is watching."

I missed the next turn in Tino's monologue. Something about The Doors. He was asking me if I had heard of Idpusus. I hadn't.

"You know, man, the Trojan Horse."

"You mean The Iliad?"

"Yes, he sleeps with his sister and then, he, ah..."

"Killed his father," I finished, "Oedipus."

"Yah, the song about Oedipus."

The dirt road kicked out into the pavement and Tino continued smoking as we passed a group of kids playing soccer in the street. He extends the joint to my chest.

"You must try some. It's not that strong. And I've got plenty more," he said, patting the cloth purse slung over his shoulder.

He is probably right about the weed. The stuff our parents smoked in the 60's had about 15-20% of the THC levels, the psychoactive compound in cannabis, as the weed grown in the States today. In a place like Colombia, where pot grows everywhere with minimal cultivation, the stuff is likely to have the 3% THC--versus 15-18% in hydroponic strains grown today in North America and Europe--level found in naturally occuring cannabis. If a puff of today's hybridized strains is enough to send one flying (it is), then Tino should be doing fine by the several dozen hits from a fat joint

At the point we hit the cobble of the town center a jeep a few blocks down started moving in our direction, jiggering along behind low beams.

"It's the police." Tino said, contemplating a last hit, the joint pinched between his thumb and index finger.

The jeep bumped towards us, and once the headlights were at an angle we could see a middle aged driver out on the town, his shirt unbuttoned to display a gold chain and cross in a nest of chest hair.

Tino was proud of himself that he hadn't panicked and thrown his roach into the gutter.

"Way to stick to your guns, Tino," I said..

"What?"

"I said, way to stick to your guns. It's an expression."

"That's another thing I don't like about Americans, they are crazy about guns. And the death penalty."

"Have you ever fired a gun?" I asked.

"No."

"You should try it sometime, it's fun."

A couple of gringos were walking up the street opposite us. Tino clearly liked the look of them. He quickened to a jog while shouting out to them, in English.

"Hey, where are you from?"

Canada and Sweden, they replied.
"Great," Tino said, "I'm tired of meeting so many Americans here. They are everywhere."

And who exactly did he expect to meet working for the YMCA?

"Yeah, man, we were on a vision quest with some Californians," The Canadian replied.

I hadn't noticed Tino's clothes in full before this moment, his back now turned to me as he spoke with the non-Americans. With his hooded cardigan and its green, yellow and red stripes, baggy pastel pants and brightly colored cloth sack, Tino had the stoner look down cold. He was a blond haired version of myself twelve years ago.

Next yet to his companions, Tino was a DARE poster boy. The Canadian had a decomposing beehive of dreadlocks piled on top of his head. His eyes were in free float, and his jaw kept working a few seconds beyond his last syllable. The deep tan suggested months, perhaps years, on the road. He was what Tino wanted to be--the White Rasta. Yet after all these years--he claimed to be 27--he could not escape his accent. Beneath the stoner falsetto he had a (now scrambling) precision in his diction that suggested upper-crust Connecticut boarding school. Tino should really hate this guy, the "I'm Canadian" American.

"What kind of vision quest?" Tino asked.

"We went up into the mountains for 7 days without food or water. It's so cleansing. On the third day I started to see these spirits! They were buzzing around my skin," the White Rasta acts out this routine, pinching up and down his arms while looking around everywhere at once. "I said, 'Hello sprits! Would you please give me some knowledge?' They wouldn't. They're tricksters, those spirits."

"You went for a week without water?" I asked.

His routine finished, it took the White Rasta a long moment to respond.
"That's nothing, man. There are these yogis. In India. These yogis can live for 500 years. They touch their pulse," the Rasta demonstrates, "and stop, their hearts. Just like that. I saw this yogi, man, who bent a spoon. With his mind."

"Here come the Police," Tino said.

A dirt bike approached from the square.

"The police are just in your head," the Swede said.

He was right. Even from a block away, it was clear the helmeted rider was not a policeman.

The young man from Sweden was not as ostentatious as his fellow traveller. His thin and wispy beard made his baby face look even younger than was possible, though he had to be least 18. Of the three, he was the most clearly zonked. The deep red in the whites of his eyes blended into his sunburnt skin. I enjoyed for a moment the irony of running into personified examples, according to Roman, of the two characters most likely to stick out on a Colombian sidewalk. Villa de Leyva is as laid back and secure as Colombia gets. Still, four ridilculous looking gringos speaking loud English in the street at night were bound to be asking for trouble.

"Hey, we'll trade emails. Then we can meet up. On the coast." Tino suggested to the Rasta, mimicking his companions glacial cadence.

I figured this was my out so I turned to make my exit.

"He's a writer, he should have a pen." Tino said.

I turned back around and dug in my bag for a pen.

"Hey, here come the police," Tino said.

"You've got to get the police out of your mind, man," the White Rasta replied.

I fished out my pen. Looking up from my bag I saw four men with reflective vests approaching from the square. The police were now in my mind too.

Tino grabbed the pen from my hand asking in the same breath if I had some paper too. Something was telling me to walk away. But now he had my writing pen.

I looked back toward the square. The police were a block away. The Swede had produced a card from his wallet and the three were exchanging their information. Slowly. I snatched back the pen as Tino lifted it from the m in '.com' and pivoted towards the square. But the police were now upon us. The lead officer announced that they wanted to search our bags.

I am probably the only one who understood, and terrified about what they might find on the three clowns behind me, I immediately held out my bag for the search. This was more than the weapons check I was accustomed to on the road. The officer who performed the search, no older than Tino, unzipped every last pocket on my bag. He even thumbed through my papers and looked in between my un-mailed postcards. This one was definitely looking for drugs.

I was cleared. As casually as possible, I began walking in the direction of the square. I made it ten feet when Tino screamed in broken Spanish.

"Travel together!"

I look over my shoulder to see Tino's outstretched arm and finger frozen in a bird-dog point in my direction. For the first time I saw his face unpinched, his eyes were wide open, full of terror and hatred. One of the officers, also young, was holding Tino's rasta satchel in one hand and a smaller bag, what must have been his dope, in the other. A third officer, at least my age and likely in command, held up his hand as he approached me.

I took a breath, and in the cleanest accent I could muster, began, "Disculpe me...(Excuse me officer, but this boy and I are not travelling together. He arrived tonight at the guest house Renacer where I have been staying for several days. We walked into town for dinner, but I do not know him)."

The officer did not reply. He had stopped a few feet from me and did not move closer.

"May I?" I asked, motioning towards the square.

He nodded.

I wasn't ten more more feet when Tino yelled, this time in English.

"I need to borrow your pen!"

I was tempted to reply, "I don't think they have postcards in prison, Tino."

I thought it wiser to minimize my connection to the boy.

Tino did not return to the hostel that night, nor the following morning. He either didn't have the means or the guile to bribe his way out of custody. I hadn't stuck around long enough to find out what happened to the White Rasta and his friend, though I can only guess they found something on them.

If I were a stoner in Colombia, I don't think I would advertise the fact decked out in the international symbols of pot smoking. I would also make sure to speak near fluent Spanish, in the event I had to talk and bribe my way out of trouble. Tino's pidgin wasn't even good enough to bring someone else down with him.

In Israel, they don't recommend that immigrants spend money on Hebrew classes--the army will teach them the language. I wonder if the same holds for a Colombian prison. Maybe his new rasta friend will teach him. To bend the bars. With his mind.

Please write, Tino. I am sure you will have some interesting stories to tell. Click Here to Read More..