Colombians are sensitive about the whole drug conversation. Colombia is the largest producer of cocaine in the world, and for some reason, very often we are at the center of drug jokes. And to be frank, we don’t like it. In general, there’s a big misconception around the world of what drugs mean in Colombia.
In the U.S. and Europe, where the consumers are, cocaine is associated with endless hysterical wild parties that end three days later when a 17th-century pianist dressed as a playboy bunny confused the door handle with the fire alarm.
For us Colombians, drugs fuel violence and foment all the social problems in our country. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that in Colombia everyone has been directly affected by the drug trade in some way or another. Our family reunions are full of stories about Jesus and saints and about the old drunk great grandparent that lost the family’s wealth in a hand of cards. Also, there is always a story related to the drug issue.
To the extent that Colombians play the parts of production, transportation and delivery in the drug story, you can just begin to imagine the level of tragedy, and also comedy, of some of these stories. I dare you to take your mind to places you never thought were related to drugs, from handmade submarines to talking your way out of deportation using your knowledge of Mexican soap operas.
Personally, I have found myself in many awkward and truly compromising situations thanks to all the Colombians that do run the cocaine trade. I have relatives who have struggled to clean their faulty legal records; others can’t sell their produce since agricultural prices are artificially kept down thanks to money laundering operations.
But to be honest, I’ve had a pretty tough week and don’t feel like lecturing much on the political correctness, or rather the lack thereof, in the drug jokes made about Colombians. Instead, I am going to share a very colorful little story from three years ago about another type of Colombian drug.
I have relatives who fled Colombia in the late ‘90s trying to make a better future in a progressive and advanced economy, the socialist nation of Canada. Today, I have the privilege to have a Canadian uncle, a Canadian aunt and two young Canadian cousins. As good citizens of a socialist country, my relatives did what other socialist Canadians do for holidays. They fled the winter lands and went on a holiday vacation to Cuba.
In Cuba, like in much of Latin America and the Caribbean, what they call “drinking water” ought to be called “DO NOT DRINK THIS WATER.” Long story short, the entire family gets infected with some widespread parasite and immediately experiences acute diarrhea. Of course, no doctor can be found in Cuba and the family has a very difficult time finding a pay phone or an internet cafe to contact their medical insurer.
Finally, they are able to access the internet and get in touch with my father, a family physician very well-versed in the diagnosis and treatment of third-world infections and diseases. My father tells them to buy a medicine that will help them temporarily with dehydration but urges them to visit the doctor as soon as they are back in Canada.
Back in Canada, oh Canada, the socialist country with public health care, my uncle, aunt and cousins are unable to receive any medical treatment, due to the red-tape involved in the delivery of any service that comes at the convenient price of zero. Despite multiple attempts at seeing a Canadian doctor, a Canadian nurse unfamiliar with this very common tropical infection rejected them every time and only prescribed test after test after test.
Five or six weeks passed and the family lost a lot of their weight in, well, poop. They still have not been able to see a doctor. When you are a 2-year-old or a 4-year-old, you can’t afford to lose much weight. So, things were getting complicated.
My father has been continuously Skyping with my uncle to monitor the evolution of the disease. “Enough is enough,” he says. We are going to save the Canadians from their own socialist system. But because we were dealing with Canada, we were going play by the book, not Colombian style.
Parasite drugs used to treat acute diarrhea can be bought over the counter in Colombia. Of course, in Canada you need a prescription. For a total cost of $25 dollars, my father buys the required doses to treat the entire family and writes a prescription in English, Spanish and French for the drugs. He puts the medicines together in a package with the receipts and sends it through priority international mail.
Because we sent the package from Colombia, we track it religiously. Just overnight, it reaches the U.S. Shortly after, it makes its way to Canada via Calgary. Then it is sent to Edmonton, the last large customs office before its final destination in the Northwest Territories. The package stays in Edmonton for six days. The family is hanging by the edge of the seat, losing weight to a simple diarrheal infection.
A week or more after the package is sent, my uncle receives a very important call from the customs official in Edmonton, the last thing you want to hear if you are a Colombian immigrant.
Is your name such and such? Are you Colombian of origin? Are you a Canadian citizen? Were you in Cuba recently? Are you aware we are holding a package of yours? Why are you getting drugs delivered to you from Colombia?
My uncle has nothing to hide and he explains the situation as it is.
The customs official found the answers unsatisfactory and incinerated the package.
That’s the story of how a legitimate package of Colombian goods didn’t make it to its destination. How drug dealers trashed the credibility of an entire country, how a socialist health system failed its citizens and how the socialist Cuban water sanitation system killed four Canadians. Just kidding, they’re fine.
