“Put out that joint right now!”, yells the cop.
“Of course”, I reply, almost without thinking. I rub the joint against the grass and show it to him.
“Smoking weed in front of the police station! Unbelievable!”, he mutters begrudgingly, and goes back in.
I’m still processing what just happened. I had just arrived at the urban garden, and as a welcome gesture somebody had handed me that joint. Right beside the fence of the garden lies the police station. Two different worlds very close to each other.
It’s the first time I’m working on this garden. While uprooting grass near the spinach, I’m having a conversation with two women about feminism. One of them criticizes how indigenous men from her hometown make their wives carry all their heavy stuff, including their babies, while they themselves don’t carry a thing besides a machete.
In their culture, I tell her, the men need to protect the women from the many dangers of the jungle. She then tells me her mother is indigenous and she was bullied and shamed growing up because of it.
Later on, as we’re starting to light a fire, another cop arrives. He’s asking what we’re gonna cook. We’re just gonna make some aguapanela, we explain. “Only aguapanela?”, he asks. “Y’all should add some alcohol to it”. Which is a really weird thing for a cop to say.
He also gives advice on how to light a fire in such a way that’s suitable for cooking. He is very knowledgeable. He probably comes from the countryside. But he keeps giving us orders, which feels weird. Before he leaves I shake his hand, ask him his name (he gives me his surname), and promise to bring him some aguapanela later.
The water is boiling. We add panela to it, as well as lemongrass, mint, rhubarb and a few other herbs from the garden. A fellow gardener tells us she, as a victim, was feeling very uncomfortable with that cop. This is supposed to be a safe space, she says, free from guns and uniforms. She doesn’t say what she’s a victim of, but it was probably cops. Or soldiers.
Two cops arrive on a motorbike. “Put that fire out”, one of them shouts. We approach the fence to talk to them and explain we have a permit from the city’s Botanical Garden. “We’ll see about that”, he replies. These cops clearly don’t belong to the police station because they arrived from the other side of the park.
We realize we don’t have any cups, so I go to a nearby tienda to buy some. When I come back, a middle-aged woman and her son are talking to some gardeners. Apparently they’re upset that there is a community garden here.
“Where do you live?”, she asks me, defiantly, when I join the conversation. I tell her my address. As it turns out, I live nearby, as do most of the other gardeners. But I know she was assuming I lived in a faraway, poorer part of town, and she was getting ready to tell me to go back there and make a fire there. Now she’s feeling uneasy but still tells me to go make a fire in my home.
I still try to explain to her this is an initiative to create a more sustainable way of living in the city, and to strengthen community bonds in the neighborhood. But her son replies that this is not a good park to have a garden because it attracts junkies.
They seem unable to truly say why they dislike the garden, but I assume they’re frightened conservatives. When the mother leaves, however, the son changes his tone and seems eager to learn about the garden. Even though he doesn’t stay for the aguapanela, he still asks for our numbers.
We’re drinking the aguapanela and doing some planning. We want this year’s garden activities to follow the Muisca calendar. But we don’t get very far because all of a sudden twenty cops arrive.
They stand defiantly at the fence and tell us it is forbidden to light fires in Bogotá, unless we have a permit from the Mayor’s ffice. This is a tense moment. We tell the policemen about a decree from the Botanical Garden, but they don’t seem to buy it. We don’t have that decree handy. We need to look it up on our phones.
An authoritarian woman arrives. She’s a city official. She’s accompanied by other city officials and some cops. “Put that fire down immediately”, she screams. We don’t comply. Somebody scrambles to find the decree and shows it to her on a phone, but she wants none of it. She’s asking for a permit, not a decree. Some of the gardeners get angry. One of them is recording the scene with her phone.
The police chief, however, is trying to de-escalate. He takes the phone we’re handing them, reads the relevant paragraph, and explains the situation to us. Apparently some neighbor called them because they didn’t like the fire. “These are fake environmentalists. They say they wanna protect the Earth, yet they burn wood” is what the neighbor had said. To be fair, that’s not a bad argument.
We end up putting out the fire as an act of goodwill. After all, this is a community thing, and if a neighbor is bothered by the smoke, we respect that. But why do they have to call the cops on us? And why do cops behave like butlers of rich people?
We still end up bringing some aguapanela to the police station later on.
Learn more about our urban garden at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100080354461241