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The Gem Hunter Chronicles by Ron LeBlanc
2012
As we circled down into the bowl of Bogota the ghosts swirled around in a dusty and malevolent wind of memories.
My friend, a native elder, used to say that a country was subconsciously ruled by its totem animals and symbols: America has their eagle, beautiful and predatory; the Russian bear awakes from hibernation hungry and mean. And the French…well, they have the Rooster.
Colombia has emeralds. With a green so pure it is said to heal the eyes. Being more expensive than the diamond, a handful could buy a city or start a war…and it has. Emeralds are the legacy of czars, pharaohs and queens and in Colombia, they are a treasure to be fought over, to the death.
An emerald is relatively fragile for a gemstone and often stakes its authenticity on its flaws. These fractures, like no other gemstone, are curiously dignified. The industry refers to these fractures as ‘jardin’ meaning garden in French. Essentially, it is the flaw that makes the beauty real and conversely, if it does not have a flaw, it is likely inauthentic.
It would be difficult to imagine a country more gifted with resources than Colombia. To name but a few, the country has beaches on two oceans, coffee, fruit, roses, gold and cattle throughout the terraced equatorial plateaus. And to this birthright of plenty and at the buffet of bounty, the gaping maw of greed gorges, without satiation, and the nation suffers.
But in an extraordinary act of redemption, Colombia has raised its head from nearly sixty years of asymmetrical civil war and now there is a tsunami of progress sweeping the land. This emerald nation has come back to the garden, casting their fracturious past in the kinder and forgiving light of memory and experience.
1971
Young, brave and stupid I entered a bar in the Candelaria region of Bogota. At the time Bogota was considered the most dangerous city in the world and many areas were off limits to tourists at night. My friend had a Colombian girlfriend and he convinced me to join him on a trip.
He knew the owner of the bar and suggested we check out the local music scene. Andre, the manager, found us a table tucked in the corner. We ordered a bottle of Aguardiente and an assorted meat and vegetable dish called fritanga o picada. There was an acoustic guitar weeping out a tune and everyone sang along. Once the folk singer moved off stage, salsa music exploded out of the sound system. Everyone moved to the dance floor. I had never seen such a syncopated choreography of erotica; making love would have been a step down in terms of expression. Colours and skirts were flying and twirling, hips were gyrating as every couple was sculpted into a single unit.
A friend and I decided to fortify ourselves with a cold beer and we made our way to the bar. The usual bartender seemed to have melted away only to give rise to a preppy looking guy in a camel sports coat who was pulling at the cash register in frustration. I looked over my shoulder and ten feet away I saw a guy leaning against a pillar with a pistol in his hand and held flat against his thigh. He reached up with his left hand and pulled a bandana over his face. Flummoxed with anxiety, I turned to my pal to gain some understanding when all hell broke loose. The guy fired three shots into the wall, the music stopped and someone shouted and everyone dropped to the floor, like their spines had been wrenched out. I froze. I didn’t speak Spanish and I was thinking that this might be a kidnapping. I knew tourists were the big prize for the militia organizations that were kidnapping three to five people a day in Bogota. I just might have to try and leap out the door.
But only a moment passed before I was dragged to the floor by my friend.
They took our passports, our money, the bar’s money, booze and regrettably my favorite coat. Only one person was wounded in the robbery and the police did not even show up, as it was simply not serious enough of a crime.
My new passport carried the regrettable stamp “passport replaced, presumed stolen in Bogota Colombia.”
From 1971 to 2013, during my gem hunting trips to Colombia I was in two bar fights, robbed three times and had the indignity of being chased out of town.
2012
The Colombian emerald business had been in disarray for decades due to uncertainty of treatments, unstable supplies, a lack of organized marketing efforts and increasing competition out of Brazil and Zambia. Efforts were now in place to remedy the issues and their reputation was being re-polished for public consumption.
When they heard a film crew from Travel Channel, out of the U.S., was coming, the proverbial carpets were laid out. All the stakeholders seemed to make ambassadorial efforts to portray the positive reconstitution of the Emerald industry. Simply put, they wanted and needed good press.
Cameras trailing, our team went to the infamous gem tower on Jimenez. I had a long standing colleague there and it was critical to get an overview and the local intelligence on prices and supply. It was also important to know the level of synthetics circling the market, and any local scams or active gangs of thieves.
I had a private client who had $150,000 to spend. She wanted a large pair of top quality emeralds, a great single stone and a few cabochons. Pairs are quite tricky to find and expensive. Emerald is subject to a wide array of shapes, qualities and colours and to find a matched pair is very difficult indeed.
Nourished but not sated with intel we decided to head to the emerald street market. We will need both muscle and expertise to plunge into this chaotic circus. Bernie, the geologist in our gem hunt team, is thrilled with the prospect of seeing mineral specimens. Diane is a bit apprehensive going into the lion’s den with the ramped up machismo of the Colombian male psyche. However she is a capable lioness and is familiar with the hallow roar of the male posture.
People rush to encircle us. Consumed by the spirit of the game, I choose among the offerings and point to my local friend to get his reading on the material. I take a chance in this rough context and buy a pretty parcel of one-carat stones for $250 a carat. Meanwhile on the periphery Diane tussles with Bernie over a box of specimens, most of which have the hexagonal protrusion of emerald crystal rising out of a matrix. Our flurry of quick and impetuous buys emboldens the mob and consequently all manner of synthetics and hustlers begin to appear. My spider sense says it’s time to go.
Against the mounting frenzy we push our way through and retreat to back to the gem tower. My colleague knows the emerald czar Victor Carranza, and he is trying to get us passage and protection to the Muzo Mine. The Muzo Mine is ground zero for emeralds.
Though at present seriously ill, it is proclaimed that Victor is steward over 40% of the world’s emeralds. He has an empire of land stretching two million acres and is said to own over 100 houses. But, the jackals are circling and his grasp is loosening on his historically malevolent monopoly. It is said that he has survived 30 assassination attempts.
Permission comes from the emerald czar and we are promised access to the town of Muzo and the mine. A security detail would escort us along the 80-milestretch north of Bogota and we are invited to stay at the hotel owned by Victor’s nephew.
The next morning we leave in a parade of 4×4’s from our hotel in the Zona Rosa at 5:30am.
Fifteen years ago it would have been impossible to take this winding road to the emerald zone. All due to threats from the FARC (leftist guerillas), the AUC (paramilitary right), narco traffickers, bandits, corrupt cops and predatory army.
The sun swallowed the darkness in gulps and it soon revealed a black river shadowing our route to the approaching town. As the road bent down towards the river, I noticed a woman in an incongruous red blouse and black muddy boots standing on guard, on her little patch of icy river as her fellow guaqueros panned for stones around her. In my cloudy presumptions, I wanted to take her by the hand and break the spell. However, I knew I could no more understand her motivations or dreams then my own. I was once more wrenched into the cold awareness of the absurdity of it all.
We rested that evening at the hotel and were acutely aware that 6,000 people had died in the ‘green wars’ when various factions grappled for dominion. Among other predators, Gacha, under instruction from Pablo Escobar leader of the Medellin Cartel, and Victor, with his newly formed paramilitaries slugged it out. Victor won…trading red blood for green stone.
For our arrival, the town of Muzo, under strict instruction from Victor, was sedated and seemed a little like a surreal Disney world; army and police smiling and waving respectfully and the hawkers and hustlers were nowhere in sight.
In the morning we went down into the mine. A kilometer down, in an open sided cage and then we walked half a kilometer slushing through water. It was hot and humid and air ducts snaked through with pump-in oxygen. Lights were strung in tandem and there was black soot with every breath. At the end of one tunnel there were a few men with picks and buckets to roll out debris. Ever thus, it inevitably comes down to a man and a pick.
There is a legend that Victor had a premonition, while following a tunnel that was barren. He stopped, turned to face the wall and dug. Within six inches in he found a monster emerald and that very emerald was the progenitor of all that followed. And the rest, as they say, is history.
We bought a few stones at the mine but they did not have the size and quality of stones needed for my client.
Back to Bogota…
I needed to meet another large player in the emerald game… a player with massive inventory. And that player was Don Alberto, owner of the Emerald Museum in Bogota and a partner in the Coscuez mine.
We went to his penthouse office, and were ushered in between several bodyguards. He proudly showed us his collection in bulletproof cases. I was accompanied by Bernie, Diane and fellow gem hunter Paloma Sanchez, who knew the Don personally.
The negotiations began as Don Alberto poured us a healthy shot of scotch from a Chrystal decanter. We haggled over the price for a matched pair of 9 carat emerald drops. They were rare with a nasty price of $40,000. I phoned my client and avowed that our hands were tied to a $30,000 budget…we settled close and cut the deal.
Don Alberto poured us another drink. He was showing off a bit and I was feigning a certain humility to coax a generous spirit from this hard man. We began the negotiations on a classic 7 carat emerald with near perfect colour. It was a stone from Muzo, with no oil, no treatments and just a slight ‘jardin’ below the crown facet.
I asked Don Alberto if it was as good as it seemed and he closed off my inquiry with a stern, mildly terrifying look. Bernie checked the merchandize and being suitably impressed subtly nodded; Diane was a bit concerned at the $60,000 ask. I distracted myself with a two very sweet cabochons. I kept them on the table as a sweetener to the deal. They were $10,000 for the pair. He poured us another drink. I was feeling the effects of the scotch and knew I needed to close the deal on the 7 carat soon. Diane and Paloma leaned in making their presence apparent and Paloma encouraged him with the plea that this was the start of new business. We skidded to a stop at $45,000. He looked at me and the mask dropped.
‘Enough’ he said, his face changed, it was completely shod of any animation and only power and cold calculation remained. Any sane man would have stopped but I needed a further $500 dollars off of the price…and I needed the small victory.
He was not a man to be pushed into a corner but I hoped to ignite a spark of noblesse oblige and I knew, in the right context, generosity is a true measure of power. He was a proud man and the women were watching.
He phoned his business partner and a moment later shook his head no. He put down the phone and said, “But, I will pay the $500 out of my own pocket.” We toasted the resolution… of course.
It was a good game all around; but a Colombian game, where weeping and laughing dance together on the head of a pin.
The emerald is the only stone that ennobles its flaws… and perhaps it is loved not despite the flaw, but because of it. We should all be so generously absolved of our shortcomings, and like the emeralds, find authenticity, glory and grace from the cracks.
