The Road to Cartagena

Denise and I once danced by Río Cauca, the river into which Pablo Escobar, kingpin for the Medellin drug cartel, disposed of bodies. We were on our way to Cartagena, or at least thought we were, and would not have been there at all if I had larger eye sockets.

To understand that last statement we must travel back to 1996. Somebody has just cloned a sheep named Dolly. Mad Cow Disease is killing people in England. A new website called Ebay is being launched and you have decided not to invest in it. You will regret that later.

Also in 1996, I am told that a new form of surgery, called ALK, will correct extreme myopia with lasers. I am excited because I have worn thick glasses since grade school, and laser surgery sounds a lot like Jedi magic. I submit to a laser wielding Jedi ophthalmologist.

My Jedi ophthalmologist, Dr. Britt Buckley, gives me a pill. The pill contains Halcion. Doctors will tell you that Halcion is a type of benzodiazepine, a drug that causes sedation and reduces anxiety. This is good because sedated patients fidget less when their eyes are being cut by lasers.

Even sedated, Dr. Buckley does not trust me not to blink during surgery. He tries to fit me with a device which will keep my eyes open. The device reminds me of a scene from A Clockwork Orange.

The fitting is not going well. Buckley is making sounds one expects from a salesman determined to fit a size 10 shoe on a fat man’s size 12 foot. If this goes on much longer I will need more Halcion, and probably Novocain. I am about to address my Jedi physician with a bad word when, suddenly, he quits struggling. He tells me to press my face against something resembling a submarine’s periscope.

I no longer am annoyed with my Jedi doctor. I again enjoy Halcion’s dreamy euphoria. I look into the periscope and shout, “Fire 1!”

I hear Dr. Buckley quietly ask the nurse if she is sure that I got only one pill. I pull my eyes away from the periscope. “Was I supposed to get a pill?” This fools nobody.

Weeks later, Dr. Buckley concludes that “we have a problem.” He says that I have experienced an “idiosyncratic healing pattern.” By this he means that I have scarring on my eye (the operation was on my right eye only), and it is not his fault. After several attempts to resolve the problem Dr. Buckley says this: “ALK was developed by a doctor in Colombia. If I were you, I would go see Dr. Arbelaez in Cali. She worked with that physician and has more experience with this procedure than anyone else in the world.” Dr. Buckley agreed to pay Dr. Arbelaez’s fee.

Denise suggests we call the United States Department of State to get more information about traveling to Colombia. We do, and are referred to a recorded message. The gist of that message is, “You can go to Colombia if you want, but it is very dangerous, populated by thieves and kidnappers and killers, and you are a damn fool if you go.”

We pack our bags.

I am in Dr. Arbelaez´s office the day before my procedure. She is about my age, 40 years old, petit, and quite affable. I am her last patient and she offers to drive Denise and me back to our hotel.

On the way to the hotel we tell Dr. Arbelaez that we want to rent a car and drive to Cartagena. Of Cartagena we know only that it is where Michael Douglas makes love to Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. Dr. Arbelaez says, “That is not a good idea.” She is referring to a Cartagena road trip, not making love to Kathleen Turner. She says the road to Cartagena goes through countryside populated by bad people.

At the hotel Denise suggests we reconsider going to Cartagena. I explain that she has nothing to worry about. “Whenever I travel,” I tell her, “I pack a can of WhupAss.”

The next day I am laying on a gurney in Dr. Arbelaez’s office. Next to me is a young man, just graduated from medical school, named Alejandro Diaz. Alejandro also is laying on a gurney. We each are waiting for a turn under Dr. Arbelaez’s laser. We both are nervous and, therefore, chatty. I am enjoying the conversation very much.

Soon my gurney is wheeled into the operating room, which is more like an office than what you might imagine when you hear the phrase “operating room.” Dr. Arbelaez, like Dr. Buckley, has trouble fitting me with the Clockwork Orange spectacles. She says, “You have very small orbits. Probably your doctor could not get a proper fit and that is why you experienced a bad outcome.”

My first reaction is defensive. “Maybe my orbits are small, but my hands and feet are HUGE.” I then realize that Arbelaez has, probably unintentionally, told me that Dr. Buckley committed malpractice. He should have cancelled the procedure if he could not properly fit the Clockwork Orange spectacles.

That evening, as Denise and I are resting in our hotel, we receive a phone call. It is Alejandro. He asks how I am doing. I am flattered that this fellow I just met has taken an interest in my well being. I am even more flattered when he invites Denise and I to have dinner at his parent’s home in Cali.

Alejandro’s parents are smart and highly educated and have exquisite manners. The father is a college professor. The mother sells fine furniture. How fine, you ask? You need an appointment to examine her wares.

We enjoy convivial conversation while devouring a delicious meal in an elegant home. During that conversation I again mention our planned trip to Cartagena.

“I strongly urge you not to do that,” says the patriarch. “It would be very dangerous.”

I decide that Señor Diaz might think less of me if he knew that I travel with a can of WhupAss. I nod my head, offering the appearance of one who heeds good advice.

At the end of the meal the parents invite us to their farm on Sunday. This is the day, each week, that the extended family has a cookout and celebrates being alive and smart and good looking. It is a big family with a lot to celebrate.

Alejandro and his girlfriend drive us to the farm. It is simple but indescribably beautiful. Possibly I am biased, however, because I was raised in Iowa before moving to Colorado. The view from the Diaz farm combines the best of both those worlds. One sees an expanse of lush corn fields, bordered by mountains. I am stunned by the perfection.

The Diaz family could not be more gracious. They all seem anxious to speak with the two Americans Alejandro has brought with him. When they are not happily chatting with us and with each other, they are dancing. They play a Brazilian song called Tic Tic Tac that has its own little dance, like the Macarena. I offer a YouTube link to the song and dance.

Someone suggests loading a school bus and driving to the river, which is about a quarter mile away. Standing by the river, Rio Caucau, I am speaking with a lawyer and his wife. The lawyer actually is a judge on the Colombia Supreme Court. This judge sits on that court’s homicide division. He usually does not travel without a bodyguard, but today is an exception.

The judge explains that the river flows south from the Medellin area. There, Pablo Escobar’s gang disposes of rivals and snitches and farmers who will not grow the crops he needs. He throws the unfortunate bodies in Rio Caucau. An undercurrent carries the bodies south to Cali, where they float to the surface. People make a living retrieving the bodies.

I mention to the judge that we will be driving to Cartagena. He shakes his head.

“Let me tell you what will happen if you do that. You will encounter on the road an obstacle. Maybe a felled tree. Maybe parked cars. You will be forced to stop. Men armed with automatic rifles will demand that you get out of the car. They will take you prisoner. Maybe they will rape your wife.” He pauses to look at Denise and continues. “They will rape your wife. They will demand a ransom. You will not be released until you and your family and your wife’s family have been impoverished.”

Denise turns to me. She says, “Maybe you should have brought a second can of WhupAss.”

Denise and I agree that I have not brought enough WhupAss. We will not see Cartagena during this trip. We would, however, visit that great walled city twenty years later. Six years after that we would find ourselves in the city for which it was named, Cartagena, Spain.

In the near future I will write about our trips to the two Cartagenas. I think I will call it “A Tale of Two Cities.” A story with a title like that could really catch on. Meanwhile, however, I offer this historical analysis relating to the U.S. postal system: