Estrecho Patia

I can get swept up in my own anxieties and not realize that I have been blessed with a simple life free from fear. When I awoke in Popayan on that dewy morning, and sipped my coffee in the restaurant of the old hotel that was once a monastery, the muscles of my stomach felt tight as I struggled with various concerns looming large in my own life but which no Colombian knew anything about. Our progress travelling through Colombia had been slow and my tourist visa was set to expire in a matter of days. The Ecuadoran border was close but we had already suffered so many automotive setbacks that the prospect of more threatened to derail our plans and keep us in Colombia beyond our expected departure date which would mean fines to settle. Between the purchase of the car and the many repairs, my bank balance was lower than it had been in years. The fees from withdrawing cash at ATMs to pay mechanics was adding up as they, like the tolls along our route, would not accept a credit card and it meant that with every step closer to the border I became more tight-fisted.

Across the world, the US and its NATO allies had imposed sanctions on Russia who, earlier that month, had invaded Ukraine. Meant to punish the oligarchs and ruling class of Russia who could apply pressure on the government and affect change, the sanctions hurt regular Russian citizens and Jenia’s bank cards could no longer withdraw money. Look on the bright side, I told her, you’re with me and I have enough money for the both of us. We don’t need to be equal travel partners. We were in the early days of our relationship and still learning the nuances of each other’s temperament. One of the first Russian words that Jenia taught me was подкаблучник, “podkabluchnik”. In those first days in Cartagena, she told me that she liked me because she could tell that I was not podkabluchnik – a trait that she despised in men who became henpecked, or “under heel” as she put it. Jenia was full of pride and self-belief and abhorred the idea of herself becoming a podkabluchnitsa. After working in sales at corporate offices in Moscow, she was transitioning her career into psychology, helping sufferers of early childhood trauma and emotional eating. In the last year, she had sunk much of her savings into hiring help to reach a wider audience and create the course material for her clients but these investments had brought only marginal gains. She often reminded me of how difficult it was to build a business from the ground up but that she could never return to corporate life. I admired her self-belief.

Pasto was 250 kilometres from Popayan and there was only one way to go. Google Maps gave an estimated travel time of 6 hours meaning that the way would be slow. Forty kilometres out of Popayan, winding up the side of a mountain road, we hit our first patch of roadwork by a small village that closed one side of the highway down. These nuisances usually only slow traffic for to 10 or 15 minutes, but we did not move an inch for over an hour.

I tore down the highway for fifty kilometres hoping to make up some time when we were forced to stop at the back of a line of cars again. There was not much in this area of Colombia but fields of grass and scattered trees among the small rolling hills populated by herds of happy cows. We endured another hour with the engine running but without moving forward even an inch. Traffic rolling in the opposite direction was the clearest sign of progress and you could feel confident that when the oncoming traffic siphoned to a trickle that the cars in front would start to move forward as workers changed the flow of traffic. But we waited an hour and the cars never came. Instead, every twenty minutes or so a car would come from the opposite direction or an entitled car in the wrong lane would blow past us and the line of waiting cars. Growing impatient, I exited the car and walked over to the window of the car waiting behind us and asked if this was normal or if there was any information about what was causing this congestion. We had travelled almost the whole of the country and knew that the going was always slow but this was now, working on hour number two without moving an inch,  beyond anything we had experienced. This is Colombia, the driver behind us remarked shrugging his shoulders, so you just never know.

Every time a car without our level of patience would pass us, Jenia’s frustration grew and she suggested that we do the same and bob and weave our way to the front of the line. The cars ahead of us stretched out up a hill and into a forest and there was no way to see exactly what was causing the traffic. We just assumed from experience that it was roadwork outside of a puebla, but with the wait pushing on this long it could just as likely have been an accident involving many vehicles. Google maps reported no slowdowns along our route but our estimated arrival time in Pasto was getting steadily pushed back as we were now well into the afternoon and only halfway to our destination.

I lowered the windows and silenced the engine. Every so often, another car would pass us and Jenia and I would disagree about what to do. Each time, she urged us to push our luck and press on in the opposite lane to pass the line of waiting cars and I implored her that we should either remain patient or explore alternatives. These discussions were unceasing and made every minute drag on. After two hours of waiting, with no signs of any cars coming from the other direction, and much to Jenia’s relief, even I had had enough. I fired up the engine and maneuvered into oncoming traffic and sped past the cars in front of us ducking into spaces when the way ahead of us was uncertain. After creeping two kilometres slowly up through the forest we came upon a stack of cars and trucks plugging up both sides of the highway and pulled over into a space on the side of the road. There was a small town only a few hundred metres away so I got out of the car and told Jenia that I would walk to find out what was going on.

At the edge of the town, a crowd had gathered under a small tent where they had laid a barricade of thick tree branches. There was a short line of open road at the far end of their barricade that they would lift for taxis transporting local children and for emergency vehicles, but they had drawn to a halt all cars and trucks travelling in either direction. Hundreds of vehicles clogged the highway for as far as my eyes could see.

Who is in charge? I asked the members of the blockade. I had my own problems and was still trying to piece together what this protest was all about. My chief concern was getting Jenia and me to Pasto and I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to make sure that that happened. I’m just a tourist, I explained in my broken Spanish but they were indifferent. When I asked if they would lift the barricade for me if I paid them, my suggestion was met with scowls of derision confirming in their minds that that was how we gringos dealt with everything.

According to travel information to Colombia, water from the taps was potable throughout the country. Citizens of this small town, that most would pass by on the highway without a second thought, were up in arms demanding that their needs be met and that clean water be a privilege extended to them as well. Agua Negra, “black water” was what they referred to the liquid draining through their taps and I was told that several people from the village had become sick in the last year. Local police were milling about keen not to interfere but ensuring that the situation stayed controlled. A local government representative travelled back and forth from an office to the site of the blockade where they would discuss the situation with the leaders of the protest. I asked several people how long this situation would stay this way and got varying reports from one to two hours, to indefinitely. Speaking with the leaders of the blockade, they reassured me that they would lift the barricade at 4 o’clock.

I returned to the car and explained the situation to Jenia. By now, we had developed a remarkable ability to respond with calm when the other was anxious and she could sense my nervousness now more than ever. I was keen to avoid driving through a strange country during the night and with more than 3 hours of estimated travel time from where we were would be pushing it. I offered to Jenia an alternative where we would turn back and return tomorrow. Barely looking up from her phone she said it was fine and that we could be patient until 4 o’clock and then drive on to Pasto. There was no plan that we could devise that would assuage my anxieties, but knowing that she could remain strong meant that I needed to remain strong.

With three hours to wait we walked into town to empty our bladders and seek some relief from the heat of the day. A small shop was playing football on their television so we sat and had a drink and watched the match. Meanwhile, busloads of people were stranded waiting for the barricade to be lifted. Few commuters left their vehicles instead deciding to leave the village empty and wait out the inconvenience in their cars with the engines and the air conditioning running.

Rarely does time seem to pass more slowly than in those moments where there is nothing to do but wait. Every minute seems to drag on like in the waiting room of a clinic or during the nervous moments as the rollercoaster slowly clickity-clacks its way to the top before finally sending you on your way. The village of Estrecho Patia was nothing more than a few tiendas and roast chicken shops along the highway intersected by some dirt roads leading to a few ramshackle homes. The whole village could not have been more than a few hundred people – but they had every right to clean water. I hated every moment of that wait, but I knew that someday my patience would be rewarded and I would reach Pasto. I could not reliably confirm whether the resolve of the residents of Estrecho Patia would be similarly rewarded.

We walked up and down the main road through the town to pass the time hoping those minutes might pass more quickly. The sun was beating down on this tiny village and the sweat was seeping through our clothing. I was clinging to the last of my pesos hoping that I would have enough to pay the tolls between here and Ecuador, but these were extenuating circumstances and Jenia and I needed hydration. Handing over that cash was a double-edged sword. I needed water just to seek relief from the heat of the day and ease my anxiety over our situation, but doing so only made me more nervous.

As 4 o’clock approached, we returned to the car and prepared to be on our way as the citizens by the barricade had promised us. At 4:01, every vehicle in that lineup began honking their horns when the barricade did not go up. The deafening drone of hundreds of vehicles, with their tired and frustrated drivers leaning on the klaxons of their cars, grew so loud that Jenia and I, sitting right next to each other, could not hear each other speak. The crescendo of car horns swelled and filled the air for several minutes before fizzling out and leaving only echoes behind along with the occasional short staccatos of a few of the more persistent in the bottleneck. My greatest fear had been realized. They had lied to us. Pasto now seemed further away than ever. When it became clear that we were not moving I exited the car to see what was going on.

It was at about this time that I realized that, until now, my Spanish had not come far enough along, nor had my understanding of Colombia and its people, to fully grasp the situation. Several drivers of vehicles at the front of the line facing the barricade had stepped out of their vehicles to confront the protestors and the crowd had grown in size to several hundred people. On one side were the people of Estrecho Patia and on the other were the drivers, local Colombians with places to go, who were furious that they had been made to wait and could not be on their way. 

You made us wait and we waited! You said 4 pm and then we could go! The drivers yelled. 

You don’t understand, the leader of villagers screamed, you DON’T live here! You don’t know what they have put us through. We know you’re angry, we know you’re frustrated – but it’s not for much longer. But we need you to feel that frustration so that you can know what it’s like to live here. You will all drive away and have clean water, but this is our home and we have to stay. For us, the frustration will not end until the government recognizes that we are people too.

I returned to the car immune to the problems of these locals. I was still focused on getting to Pasto and now felt certain that we would not arrive before sunset.

They will not open the road? Jenia asked.

It seems we will have to continue to wait, I replied.

By now, the lines of cars who had tried to push through had built up behind us that the option to turn around was gone and the only way was forward and to wait it out.

The village’s mobile shops – folks on foot selling drinks and snacks – came parading through the traffic and Jenia rolled down her window to negotiate the sale of some watermelon. With my thoughts firmly fixed on getting to Pasto, as the sole breadwinner in the car, and as I had no similar desire for watermelon, I forbade it. Initially, she dismissed me and continued her negotiation but I insisted that now was not the time to buy watermelon. Jenia was struggling with different problems than me and could not understand why I was balking at the purchase of a few slices of watermelon. It took me a moment to catch on, but then I began to wonder why was I behaving so stubbornly. Pasto had become a fixation from which I had been unable to pull away from for the entire day. I had been pressed with needing to leave Colombia in a matter of days and had become inflexible about how to reach that end. I came back to myself and understood that it was only watermelon. I told Jenia that I would buy some for her if that is what she wanted, but by the then the damage had been done. She refused. She slunk back in her seat covering her face with her hat and would not speak to me.

At 5 pm the barricade went up and chaos erupted as every car wanted to be the first through. The local police came out to direct traffic and the locals directed cars and trucks through the muddy side streets to get them through the village and back on the highway. Our decision to skip the line paid dividends and we were one of the first dozen cars heading south that were permitted to pass through. Initially it was slow going along the rough side streets of the village but once we had successfully reached the highway there was open road ahead of us. Along the side of the highway on the lane heading north toward Popayan, the line of cars and trucks stretched on for 10 kilometres or more all the way to the bridge near El Pilon, the next village. Many of those waiting beyond the first kilometre would probably have had no idea why they were made to wait and hundreds of commuters would have to wait several hours more before they would be able to continue their journeys. As I passed them on the highway I thought about all of those people and where they might be have been headed and why. This was unlikely what they had planned for their day. I imagined husbands returning home to wives and trying to explain where they had been all day. I imagined couples with kids screaming in the backseat and their incessant screaming, Are we there yet? Any of these small grievances, allowed to fester, could spiral out of control and damage intimate relationships. It had already done its dirty work on Jenia and I. How many others would suffer? The whole day I had been focused on getting us to Pasto. When there was no end in sight to the barricade, that was all I thought about, but now that we were moving again I could spare a moment to think about the residents of Estrecho Patia who still did not have clean water. I could also spare a moment for Jenia and, in the rhythmic hypnotic hum of the tires spinning upon the asphalt, I understood that I had let my fears get the better of me. She did not succumb to those same fears because she had her own to contend with – what were the problems of the people of Estrecho Patia, a village that was no more than a dot on a map, to her?

The sun began to set behind the mountains and when darkness overtook the highway I concentrated on the lights of the car in front of me. Without those twinkling red lights there was nothing to see but black on black except for the occasional and sudden wall of blinding lights of oncoming trucks passing in the opposite direction. After hours twisting and turning along the curving roads of the mountain forest we finally came upon a valley with the shimmering lights of Pasto down below. I found a hotel with a garage where I could park Tranquilo and, in grim silence, Jenia and I toted our luggage up to our room.

Throwing my rucksack to the floor I, as was the ritual, opened up my laptop and connected to the WiFi to check the log of emails that had come in over the course of the day. Jenia threw herself on the bed and covered her face with her hat. In the distance, I could hear the intermittent beeping of a smoke alarm on low battery just outside our door. The adrenaline was still coursing through me and the sound itched at the open sores from this endless day. By now, I had lost my ability to communicate in Spanish and needed to drag an attendant from reception with me so they could attend to the problem. The attendant looked at me like I was crazy as we waited standing motionless underneath the smoke alarm. The attendant had not suffered through the roadblock at Estrecho Patia and could not comprehend the pea beneath the stack of mattresses and how there was no exhausting my patience when it came to achieving the peace that I required to process the events of this day. I waited while they fetched a maintenance man with a ladder who removed the failing battery. Silence.

I entered our room and Jenia had not moved. I walked over to where she was sitting upright on the bed and removed her hat. Her cheeks were swollen red and wet from tears.

I’m sorry, I said. I’m sorry about the watermelon. It was stupid. I’m sorry for this day – all of it.

I just feel like such a loser, Jenia replied. I can’t even to buy watermelon. The way she put all of her verbs into infinitives always made me smile. Why do they hate us?

Two months into the war in Ukraine and Jenia had become completely dependent on me. When she arrived in Cartagena, one of the first things she did was treat me to supper at a restaurant and now she could not even so much as buy slices of watermelon, or a bar of chocolate, for herself. Even for the smallest comfort she had to ask my permission. If things turned sour between us, without access to money, where could she go? Being blocked from society meant that she was trapped and I was the warden of her life. For the imprisoned, not only does the jailed suffer the forfeiture of their freedom but, staring out between the bars of their enclosure, they suffer humiliation. Jenia had committed no crime but to be born a proud Russian. Since the war began, she had shared many stories from her social media channels with me. Russians abroad told stories of being refused service at restaurants or shared photos of their businesses being vandalized. We are the next generation of Jews, Jenia would say.

My world was between polar views of West and East. I was exposed to both propaganda campaigns. All the news is true which means, if you are watching it, you are being lied to. If you accept the illusion, then you live in Oz. The wizard behind the curtain is the collusion of the leaders responsible for the lie and demanding that you choose your side and declare it publicly – they are the ones immune to suffering because they command the armies and the peaceful do not have the power to bring them to account for the crime of deceiving us.

It was clear that neither of us was upset with the other and so we held each other close. Her tears had little to do with me. I was a loving warden but prison is still a prison and handcuffs are a humiliation from which neither of us had the power to free her. The sanctions levied upon her were the Agua Negra designed to rob her of her dignity. Refusal of the right to anything as basic as clean water is a refusal of human justice. Estrecho Patia is not alone in its struggle for dignity and justice. Across the globe, tiny hamlets beg for the basic rights of society while billionaire bombs destroy the birthright of every human to be born into a world free from fear. Every armed rocket is a crime that cannot be solved by retribution, but by surrender and forgiveness. The path to justice is through giving to those in need what they need. The people of Estrecho Patia need water because everyone needs water. Jenia needed her right to freedom restored because we all have a right to live free.