BOGOTÁ, Colombia — Along the winding road from Cali, Colombia's third largest city, to the port of Buenaventura on the Pacific coast, a new section of road is suspended over a steep mountain flank. Nearby, work crews blast tunnels through the mountains, where soon a two-lane highway will run. Last May, Colombia inaugurated a free trade agreement with the United States: These new arteries will bring the country's abundant natural resources -- including gold, timber, and oil -- to foreign markets.
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There is another valuable Colombian commodity that stands to gain from increased trade: cocaine. While large quantities of the drug leave the country in go-fast boats and submarines, a significant amount is secreted in shipping containers. Increased flows of legal goods makes it harder for customs agents to inspect all the containers coming into the United States -- a weakness traffickers exploit to move more contraband through official channels.
"Whoever controls access to this port, in criminal terms, is able to hide drug consignments in the tens of thousands of containers that leave those facilities every week and go all over the world," says Jeremy McDermott, the co-director of Insight Crime, an independent research institution that monitors organized crime in the Americas. "This is a jewel in the crown in criminal terms."
Despite being Colombia's biggest port, Buenaventura is a poor city with little to show for the riches that move through it. On the walls of the grimy bus station, handmade signs -- displaying the faces of young, disappeared men -- peel in the tropical heat. They bear witness to the conflict that has engulfed the city and displaced thousands of residents: The Urabenos, arguably Colombia's most powerful drug trafficking organization, are seeking to wrest control of the port from their main rivals, the Rastrojos.
In the spare headquarters of the Port Workers' Union, near the towering yellow container cranes that line the port, Jhon Jairo Castro Balanta describes how drug trafficking organizations have carved up his city. Balanta, the union president, notes that the port itself is no longer safe: Killers used to dispose of dead bodies, but they are increasingly leaving them in the street as a message to their enemies. "There are imaginary borders, and if anyone crosses that border who isn't from that area, they will kill you. It's that simple," he says.
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It wasn't supposed to be this way. Colombia has long been the United States' leading ally in the war on drugs: Since 1996, Bogotá has received over $7 billion dollars in U.S. aid to cut off the flow of cocaine at the source. As drug-related violence engulfs parts of Mexico and Central America, Washington has touted Colombia as a rare drug war success story. "Colombia has served as a model of success for the entire hemisphere," says Rafael Lemaitre, communication director for the U.S. drug czar's office.
But up close, Colombia's drug war successes appear far more meager -- and the country's top politicians are beginning to realize it. At the end of 2011, President Juan Manuel Santos became one of the first sitting heads of state to come out against the war on drugs. "A new approach should try and take away the violent profit that comes with drug trafficking," Santos told the Observer newspaper. "If that means legalizing, and the world thinks that's the solution, I will welcome it. I'm not against it."
Santos's words have yet to translate into policy changes at home. But they have both reflected and fuelled a growing challenge among Latin American leaders to the cornerstone of U.S. security policy in the Western Hemisphere. By saying what a half-dozen recent Mexican, Colombian, Brazilian, and Chilean presidents waited for retirement to say, Santos broke a taboo -- and other politicians soon followed him out of the closet.
In February 2012, Guatemalan President Otto Perez Molina echoed Santos's statements, then sent his vice president on a tour of Central American capitals to gather support for a thorough debate of drug policy. In the fall of last year, Mexican President Felipe Calderon, who famously triggered a bloody drug war by cracking down on the cartels, joined Santos and Molina in questioning the last 30 years of international drug policy.
In a joint statement by Colombia, Guatemala, and Mexico delivered at the U.N. General Assembly, the three presidents highlighted the failure of counter-narcotic efforts to stem the flow of profits to criminal organizations. Noting that drug trafficking organizations had used this wealth to undermine the rule of law in their countries, they called for an urgent review of policies and an analysis of "all available options, including regulatory or market measures, in order to establish a new paradigm that prevents the flow of resources to organized crime organizations."
It's worth noting that none of these three heads of state is part of the leftward trend in Latin American politics. Rather, they are U.S. allies whose politics range from centrist to conservative.
The U.S. government doesn't talk about the dark side of Colombia's war on drugs. If you listen to Washington, Plan Colombia -- the United States' multi-year, multi-billion dollar counter-narcotics aid package -- is a success. But the reality is more complicated. Assessing Plan Colombia depends on what you measure.
"If you evaluate Plan Colombia as a security strategy, I think [it] was very successful," says Professor Daniel Mejía, who heads the Research Center on Drugs and Security at the Universidad de los Andes in Bogotá. The homicide rate has been cut in half and kidnapping is down. The Colombian army has turned the tide against the 50-year guerrilla insurgency. The largest rebel army, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), has been weakened and last year resumed peace talks, though armed conflict has not ceased.
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