Several months had now passed since my trip to Colombia to do the FARC story. Through that time I had stayed in regular contact with Danny, both by phone and e-mail. Apart from the fact that I now considered him to be a friend, I was always on the lookout for new and interesting stories. And Colombia was a country so rich in pathos that there seemed to be such stories everywhere. The problem, of course, was to get sufficiently good access to be able to cover them.
Bearing in mind the fact that, in most people’s minds, Colombia is synonymous with cocaine, it was inevitable that I should be looking for a good cocaine story. One thing that had really surprised me on my release from prison was just how widely the drug culture had spread. In 1970 there was no such culture. A few people took pills of various types and others smoked grass, but it was very much a fringe group activity. Now drugs were everywhere.
Cocaine seemed to be especially upwardly mobile. Whereas previously the fringe drug culture had been largely a working class phenomenon, cocaine seemed to know no social boundaries. In fact, because it was so expensive vis a vis other drugs, it was very much the narcotic of choice for the middle and upper classes . Certainly in my meanderings around the media pubs, clubs, restaurants and bars in Soho, it seemed to be offered around with such regularity as to be almost the norm.
So a story set in Colombia about cocaine production would excite the interest of a wide audience. I had asked Danny several times about just such a story and each time he said that he would see what he could arrange. It was no problem for him, or for anyone else for that matter, to make a good drugs connection in Colombia. Colombia was the world’s foremost producer of cocaine and if it wasn’t exactly acknowledged as their national product then it certainly underpinned their economy. There was massive corruption at every level.
So if I had just wanted to buy cocaine, no matter in how big a quantity, that would have been no problem at all. Providing that my money was good and they thought me to be a trustworthy guy who would keep his mouth shut, then there would have been a queue of dealers lining up to serve me. As it was, the exact opposite was the case. Not only wasn’t I going to part with any money to buy so much as a gram of the stuff, I was also going to spread the tale all over the pages of a magazine. Quite clearly, there was very little that was attractive in this deal for the average Colombian narco-trafficker.
Just as I was beginning to think that I should forget about the cocaine story, I received a phone call from a very excited Danny. “I’ve done it, mate. I’ve cracked it”, he shouted down the phone. It took a few seconds to calm him down then he told me that he had managed to find a Colombian journalist called Edgar, who could take us to a farm where the cocaine was grown and processed.
Now if Danny had a fault, it was that he could be over-optimistic at times, especially when he had a vested interest in the outcome. I tried to tie him down to specifics. Who was the guy? Could he be trusted? Why didn’t he do the story himself? I bombarded Danny with questions.
Whatever he was, Dan was no fool. He knew how to pitch something with the best of them. “Look Norm, this aint Camden town, you know. You can’t get a written guarantee that someone will give you this story. This is Colombia, a seriously fucked up country. There’s always going to be an element of chance. But I think that he’s genuine.”
He had me. I had already seen something of the country and I knew that any venture whatsoever was always going to be something of a leap in the dark. I was going to have to put my reputation on the line with some magazine though. From a quick costing with Dan the story would cost over £3,000 in expenses. They wouldn’t thank me if I came back with nothing. However, Colombia was such a dramatic and visual country that I was sure that I could come back with something worthwhile.
Now I had to decide who to pitch the story to. I had a good working relationship with ‘Front’ now and, out of loyalty, I should really offer it to them first. Further, they would take my word for it that I could get the story and would give me a large degree of autonomy. With ‘Loaded’ I would have to ‘sell’ them the story and they would have insisted on sending their own photographer. I certainly didn’t want Trent again, or anyone like him. Also, in an attempt to keep cost down, I had asked Danny if he could find a suitable Colombian photographer. That would save £500 for an airfare and his rates would be much cheaper.
Danny said that he had just the man. Jorge was a professional photographer, who would also put me up in his flat in Bogota, so saving money for a hotel. Working out the costings, I had already figured that I would probably have to underwrite some of the expense myself, so I was trying hard to keep costs down.
Eoin was excited when I told him about the story, although he did blanche somewhat when I mentioned how much I thought it would cost. He asked me if I could guarantee the story and I had to be honest and say ‘ no’. I did assure him though that I wouldn’t be taking his money if I didn’t think that there was a very good chance of my coming back with the goods or dying in the attempt.
By now I had established a high degree of trust with him and he knew how fiercely committed I was when I went after a story. He laughed at my melodramatic remark and said, “We don’t want you getting killed for us, Norm, but if anyone can get this story I suppose it’s you.” With that compliment ringing in my ears, I started to make preparations for the trip.
Firstly, I had to make a ‘pitch’ of an entirely different kind. In view of what had happened before, the word ‘Colombia’ was like red rag to a bull as far as Marsha was concerned. Not only was she still very pissed off at my not arriving in time for her birthday, she hadn’t enjoyed the story when she had read it in the magazine either. There were the issues of Lucero, the beautiful FARC guerilla and Danny’s and Trent’s visit to the brothel. Several apologies were followed by several wicked oaths to stay away from all Colombian women and not to go within shouting distance of any houses of ill repute whatsoever. This was all quite straightforward for me as I had no interest in pursuing either. My full concentration would be on staying alive.
Discount the dangers as I may, this latest trip would be infinitely more dangerous that the trip to see FARC. Then I had been only in the hands of the one guerilla group, one with a finely attuned sense of public relations too. The chances of them killing me out of hand for merely covering what went on in their jungle capital had been quite remote.
The cocaine story was a different kettle of fish entirely. If what I had heard was true, then virtually all parties to the conflict dealt, in one way or another, in cocaine. The group which controlled the particular territory where the coca leaf was grown taxed the trade, whether this be FARC, ELN, the Paramilitaries or the Colombian Army. None of these would take kindly to the notion of an English journalist coming into their territory and publicising the existence of farms openly producing cocaine.
Then there were the Americans. They were currently in the process of giving Colombia over one billion dollars as part of ‘Plan Colombia’ ostensibly to eradicate coca production. Whilst they might welcome a piece exposing FARC’s or ELN’s involvement, they certainly wouldn’t be pleased with something that showed the involvement of their allies, the Colombian Army, and the latter’s allies, the Paramilitaries. I would have to be very careful indeed.....
to be continued.