Reconquista

Encounters with the Emberá occupying Bogotá's most famous park

Nighttime at Bogotá's National Park

PART 1: THE PARK

I was doing tourist things in the tourist part of Bogotá when I noticed a familiar smell. It was the smell of Madagascar, a country I visited in 2015 while working on Reunion Island, France. Here’s how ChatGPT describes it:: “The air in rural towns of Madagascar carries a distinctive scent that combines earthy smokiness with a sharp, acrid undertone.” The further I walked down the major avenue, the stronger the scent became.

And then there it was: the biggest shanty town I’d ever seen. The majestic, heavily wooded park that housed it seemed to be bursting at the seams. Smoke coming from the hundreds of plastic covered huts mixed with Bogota’s fog to create a thick smog. It seemed like a single, impenetrable living organism.

I worried that I’d walked into the wrong part of town. Every Colombian I’d met that week had warned me of the capital’s many dangers—before reassuring me that I’d probably be okay so long as I never let my guard down, trusted strangers, took out my phone in public, or strayed from the best neighborhoods.

The fear faded away as soon as I adjusted my eyes to examine the encampment’s composition. I didn’t see scary people. I saw non-threatening people going about morning chores, and lots and lots of kids.

Now it made sense. The women in short, colorful dresses and crocs who I’d seen begging in the streets and gathering berries from sidewalk bushes. The young, seemingly unsupervised children who drew looks of dismay from passers by. They were so out of place in America’s third biggest city, like they were from another world. This was where they lived.

Girls from the camp caught in a rainstorm a ways from the park.

A girl from the camp walking past a big mall in the neighborhood.

PART 2: DISPLACED PEOPLE

A google search turned up a number of articles about the camp. Over 850 Emberá indigenous people first occupied Bogota's most emblematic park between 2021-22 in protest of the government’s failure to provide them with basic services in their homelands in the country’s North West, a region long tormented by armed conflict. That first group of over 850 was eventually moved into a 300-person housing project. Conditions there are apparently very bad. Then, in October 2023, another group of over 500 (estimates vary and the camp continues to grow) Emberá arrived to occupy the park with a similar list of demands.

After a few failed attempts, I finally built up the nerve to approach a group of the baton wielding guards who patrol the camp’s perimeter. They smiled back at me as I approached and quickly agreed to take me to a leader. Unfortunately, the leader, a man in his 50’s I’d guess, was much less friendly than his guards. He told me to leave and come back with money and food if I wanted an interview.

I returned the next day, hoping the leader would be in a better mood. Luckily, the guard helping me took me to a different, more collaborative leader. Nelson, a 38-year-old father of two, hurried out of his tent when the guard called and invited me to sit with him.

Nelson talks with me under a tent while his wife moves water.

He reiterated most what I’d read in the articles but put special emphasis on the tribe’s right to mining. He told me his grandfather and father had both died in conflicts with armed groups some 20 years apart. He complained about conditions in the camp but seemed more eager to show me clips of traditional dances they’d put on, and a photo of people locked in stocks for having broken community rules—usually fighting and infidelity.

Nelson and many of the Emberá I talked to were very curious about the U.S.A. They asked if it was bigger than Colombia, how long it took to get there, and if there was a lot of work.

I talked to a number of people over the following days about the problems that had driven them to Bogotá. Between the language barrier (few people in the camp speak fluent Spanish), my own ignorance of Colombian history, and many seemingly conflicting facts, I couldn’t come to any meaningful conclusions.

Jairo gave by far the most comprehensive and coherent account of the problems at home. He explained in perfect Spanish that his section of the camp was finally driven from their land in 2009, after years of conflict. The government recognized their displacement and agreed to some sort of resettlement in 2012 but still haven't provided the necessary land titles. He told me other sections of the camp had land titles but had other misgivings.

Maria seemed happy to give me an interview initially, but became tense as the conversation turned to the armed group operating in her territory. When I asked which group it was, she looked around before whispering "el ELN"

One thing I do know is that life in Bogotá’s Parque Nacional is hard. Some charity groups take supplies now and then, but the Emberá are mostly left to their own devices. Many told me they couldn’t find work because of discrimination, or because places ask for work experience nobody could ever get living in the Chocó jungle. They sell crafts, beg, fish, and scavenge thrown-out produce. They bathe and wash their clothes in the same filthy river that is their toilet.

Often, kids stop playing when they see me walking by, their faces shifting from jubilation to distress as they run up to me, calling out "give give".

It took me five days to get the smell of smoke out of my hair after spending just five minutes in Nelson's tent while his wife was cooking.

Aleison (putting on the hoodie) shares a tent with 9 family members.

Aleison washing clothes in the men's bathing area some 15 minutes uphill from camp. It's supposedly cleaner than where the women bathe downstream, but it still smelled like feces.

Uriel, right, told me the water was freezing.

Nelson taking wood back to the camp to build new shelter. Men chop wood from the same wooded area they bathe in.

Camp residents and homeless people from the area go to the bathroom in and around the river that runs by the camp.

According to articles about the camp, respiratory and gastric diseases are rampant. A pediatrician I know told me she treats many children from the camp. She says the parents don't trust modern Western medicine and only take the kids in at behest of child services. The week I'm writing this, a three-month girl was found dead in a hammock. A couple days before, the city's Secretary of Health had reported two cases of female genital mutilation: a 23-day-old baby and a 13-year-old girl.

María Lucía Campo, center, says her 70-yr-old mother, Otilia, has been sick for 8 months. When I asked if she'd take her to the hospital, she said they were going to do homemade treatment involving vanilla.

María Lucía supports herself, her three daughters, several grandchildren, and sick mother with money she makes selling handmade jewelry.

This woman's necklace is supposed to ward off the effects of 'the evil eye'.

A group of adolescent girls and a young man (under the umbrella at the end) were put in the stocks for bad behavior at a party hosted by the group of Emberá living in the housing project across town. They were in much better spirits than I expected. They giggled as they told me they'd be locked up for four days. An old woman walking by flashed a sly smile as she muttered "cinco". I saw a few of the girls walking through a different part of the city the next day.

PART 3: LOCAL PERSPECTIVE

Most locals I've talked to have been surprisingly blasé about the situation. Some lament the way Colombia's treated its indigenous populations. Others criticize the Embera for what they see as child neglect. Either way, they don't seem nearly as impassioned as New Yorkers, for example, would be if a large group of displaced Ohioans turned Central Park into a refugee camp.

Nuinei told me the hard times she experienced in Venezuela and during her first couple years in Colombia made her sympathetic to the Emberá.

Arley says his food stand, which is right in the middle of the park, has lost 90% of its sales since the Emberá arrived. Still, he doesn't hold it against them: "At the end of the day everyone should be allowed to protest for their rights, and that's what they're doing here. C'mon, the government has jerked them around for a longtime"

PART 4: THE PARTY

Ever since I arrived at the camp, people would eagerly show me videos of traditional dances performed by women in matching blue dresses. They'd already put on a couple shows at the park, but they were about to have their first full blown party for Mother's Day. They encouraged me to attend and take photos, but warned me that I should leave before nightfall lest a bad drunk try to start a fight with me.

I arrived at 4pm as instructed, right when the dance was supposed to start. There was more movement and music than usual around the park (always an even mix of Colombian Vallenato and Mexican Regional). Women and girls sat in little circles putting makeup and body lotion on each other. Each of the camp's 5 divisions, which correspond to the members' place of origin and include two different ethnic subgroups of Emberá, had big new tents for the party. Not to my surprise, the tents were mostly empty—there was going to be a wait.

I sat down to wait for the party to start and kids immediately surrounded me.

A little after 6, the sound system finally came on and the band started to play. Little kids streamed in and started to dance with each other. Many of the bigger girls (like 5-6-yrs-old) tied infant siblings to their backs. Younger girls stood to the side as their mothers fastened babies on for them. Once set, they ran to join in on the fun.

Ricardito's Band

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Ricardito and the group finally start warming up.

Children periodically stop dancing and crowd around my legs and reach for the camera.

By about 7, women and older girls started to show up and sit on the ground. Age groups were partially color coded: Girls in baby blue and teens/women who were slotted to dance in dark blue. The band still wasn't ready. They'd play for a minute, stop, test the mic, and then do it all over again a few minutes later.

Face paint Emberá women put on for special occasions.

Women were passing around bottles of chicha, a fermented corn liquor.

Around 7:30, someone lit a big pile of sticks on fire. The fire singed a branch of a nearby tree.

After the fire fiasco, I returned to the party tent to find the kids lining up with gifts. The MC's took turns giving out instructions in non-native, somewhat docile Spanish. When things got rowdy or it seemed people weren't understanding, they'd spit out rapid, purposeful strings of Embera. Everyone listened.

Over the next hour and a half, every kid went up to the MC and bashfully told him who the present was for, before handing it off to a mother or grandmother who followed behind.

Teens get shy after I turn around to photograph them filming me.

Around like 9:30 or 10, the gift giving ended and the women in dark blue dresses took the stage. They didn't seem to command much respect, however. People streamed out of the tent and kids played freely between the dancers' columns.

About 10 minutes later, the dancers went back to sitting on the ground.

The band to continued to test the sound system with the same riffs they'd been playing for hours. Almost everyone was gone besides men associated with the party planning and the girls in baby blue dresses.

At 10:30, the band seemed to finally hit their groove. The dancers got up and abruptly started the show. It lasted all of 10 minutes I'd say, all while people continued to leave and get in the way.

These three arrived during the performance from the housing project across town. They only stayed a couple minutes. Nelson told me the two on the left were "Wenapa", which he translated to "marica" which is Spanish for 'fag'. He told me they lived as women and that there had always been Emberá like them.

PART 5: THE NEXT DAY

I arrived to camp the next day around 10 because Nelson had told me we'd be able to do some interviews. The park was a mess and when I got to the tent I realized the party hadn't yet ended.

This woman spoke to me calmly and intently in a language that I don't think was Emberá, and definitely wasn't Spanish.

Nelson motioned for me to get away from this guy. He later told me he was a trouble maker.

Nelson laughed as he showed me videos of a fight that had broken out at dawn. The brawlers seemed too drunk to do any real damage.

The two women in the middle were very sweet. They kept coming around and offering me swigs of their aguardiente and sugary rum.

I asked Nelson if it would be better to do the interviews on Sunday. He said Monday would work better, actually ... that this thing was going to last a while.

I think it's important to note that although the scene looked pretty debaucherous, the majority of camp residents were either at home sleeping or up doing chores by this point. Many people I met at the camp told me they didn't drink.