Columbia Cocaine wars

The air in Medellín carried a smell I'll never forget — a strange mixture of diesel fumes, fried arepas, and gunpowder that lingered long after the last bullet casing hit the cracked pavement. I arrived just before dawn, when the sky was bruised purple and gray above the mountains, a colour that mirrored the city's soul. A taxi driver with sharp eyes and a trembling hand offered me a ride from José María Córdova Airport. He didn't bother asking why a foreign reporter would want to be here, in a city where questions could get you killed. Colombia had called to me for years, whispering through headlines, documentaries, and half-told stories of men who built empires out of white powder and blood. Now, standing in their shadow, the whispers had turned into gunfire echoes bouncing down narrow alleyways. The Medellín of the late 1980s was a paradox — beautiful and terrifying, vibrant with music and laughter even as every wall was pocked with bullet scars. I came not to write another sanitised chronicle of cartel violence, but to walk among the people buried beneath its weight. The farmers who grew coca because hunger gave them no other choice. The hitmen who still prayed to the Virgin before pulling the trigger. The mothers who mourned sons lost to bullets and addiction. And the officials — both foreign and local — whose hands were too deeply in the money to ever come clean. Every story I pursued seemed to lead to another shadow — another phone number scrawled on a napkin, another rendezvous in a bar where the music played too loud to overhear your own fear. Cocaine wasn't merely a drug here. It was oxygen. It was currency. It was the invisible current that electrified a whole nation and pulled it apart cell by cell. From the jungles of Putumayo — where coca leaves glisten beneath the morning mist — to the neon clubs of Miami, where the product found its closing price, this was an empire built on addiction and arrogance. And yet, hidden inside that empire were ordinary people trying simply to live — to plant, to sell, to feed, to survive. Each day in Colombia felt like a walk through a mirror maze: politicians smiling for cameras while death squads cleaned the streets at night; priests blessing convoys that carried both holy water and cocaine bricks; U.S. agents parachuting ideals into a country they barely understood. Truth was fluid here, slipping between sinner and saint, victim and executioner. I quickly learned that to survive; I couldn't just report — I had to listen. In the barrios, you didn't find the truth by flashing credentials. You found it by buying coffee for a man whose arm was tattooed with cartel insignia, or by standing silent during a funeral when two rival factions occupied opposite sides of the same church. This book isn't about the cocaine war — it's about what happens when an entire country becomes a battlefield for other people's desires. It's about power disguised as justice, and greed disguised as survival. It's about the weight of empire on a single human breath. As I write these words, I can still hear that first explosion in the valley — distant thunder rolling over Medellín, signalling the start of yet another invisible war. It was then I realised that Colombia wasn't just a story to report. It was a wound to be entered, a ghost-shadow I would have to follow until it revealed its truth — or consumed me trying.