‘Fruit of The Drunken Tree’ by Ingrid Rojas Contreras is a gripping account of growing up in Bogotá, Colombia during the years of Pablo Escobar’s drug empire. Chula, seven years old, and Cassandra Santiago, nine years old, are two sisters, whose Papá works at a faraway oil site and comes home every other weekend. Their Mamá rules what she and her two daughters think of as a ‘kingdom of women.’ Growing up in an invasión, a slum area where poor people take over the land and build houses out of whatever they can cobble together, Mrs. Santiago has married into a better life and now lives in a nice home with columns with her husband and two daughters.
Perhaps Mrs. Santiago's past is why she takes in a housemaid from the invasión on the outskirts of town. A thirteen year old girl, Petrona is hired to do washing, ironing, general household chores and help with the two girls; Chula and Cassandra are amazed by Petrona’s silence, counting her syllables. Over time, she begins to talk more, befriending Chula, who is close to the age of her own younger sister, Aurora.
I am drawn like a moth into the flame of this story, where the author, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, who also grew up in Bogotá, Colombia, builds a small fire. We will come and warm our hands as we watch TV with the Santiagos, seeing how bombs are going off and people are being assasinated; even though it’s within their city, the Santiago’s think they’ll be safe if they just don’t go out in public for awhile. Chula, only seven, develops trauma through the TV news, when she sees how an exploded bomb kills a young girl her age.
The police refuse to go into the poor side of town, into the invasións, where Petrona's family lives. If not for the encapotados (the hooded ones), helping the poor fight off violence, the poor would be at the mercy of criminals. As it is, the poor often don’t know who their true friends are. The guerrillas or paramilitary groups offer young boys, like Petrona's brothers, an opportunity to make money, which means they have food to eat, and can occasionally provide an item of luxury for their family, like a TV or a radio. They can wear leather jackets and brand name shoes. Frequently, those young boys end up casualties, their bodies strewn across the mountainsides and valleys of their homeland. Contreras makes this story personal; it’s about politics, yes, but it’s so much more about people at the mercy of a maelstrom they did nothing to create.
Contreras is stellar at showing the viewpoint of the child, Chula, aged seven to nine, during much of this story. It is truly heartbreaking to think of children growing up traumatized by so much violence all around them, the feeling of never truly being safe. It’s something, thankfully, that I cannot truly comprehend, except in books like this one. Such a debt, I feel, to Contreras who conveys so well what it is like to like to live in Chula's skin. Also, to create the complex character of Petrona, the housemaid, with whom I felt such sympathy; how impossible it is to escape the circumstances of her birth.
So, what does it mean? The fruit of the drunken tree? I think it’s Pablo Escobar and similar situations (of violence, of politics, oh yes!). Their beauty illuminates for a time; it will ensnare the innocent, the unsuspecting, we poor and unsophisticated. However, when there’s a poisonous outcome, then the tree is known by its fruit. Having said that, I love Datura, 'the drunken tree' which grows here where I live in North Carolina as a shrub called ‘Angel Trumpet.’ Just don’t eat it! Observe its beauty but beware it's lethality. But this book, absorb every word!