Each year "three boys from each class" succumb to the "fascination" of drug trafficking

Barbate / Chiclana de la Frontera (Cadiz)The violent waves crash against the jetty. It is pitch black. A rainy and cold winter night. At Chechu's Bar, at the entrance to the port of Barbate, young and old alike defy the storm, smoking and finishing their beer. Most no longer live off the sea, but the sea calls to them. A Civil Guard car drives slowly past the bar. Looks of distrust from one and the other. A few hours later, at dawn, the police will return to the port area. A narcolancha has taken refuge there for a while to avoid the furious thrashing of the water. The traffickers' gomones seek refuge in the ports of the area while they wait for their moment.

Jesús is one of the few among the clientele of Chechu's Bar who owns a boat, a small sports vessel for catching squid. It's going better for him than for his conversation partner, Tomás, a fisherman about to retire who has personally experienced the decline of the local fishing sector. Both have lived their entire lives alongside the drug traffickers who smuggle hashish from Morocco through the beaches of Cádiz. Barbate is, along with the coast of Huelva and with Sanlúcar de Barrameda and Chipiona – both also in Cádiz – the epicenter of drug trafficking activity in southern Spain. Jesús recalls the day a narcolancha approached him on the high seas. "I thought they were going to shoot me," he assures, laughing. In reality, they asked him for a mobile phone charger. Too many hours of waiting. "The gomones can spend weeks on the high seas waiting," they explain.

The semi-rigid boats of drug traffickers are part of the landscape that Maria has known since 2020, when she arrived in Spain from Brazil. When the sea gets angry, the boats seek shelter near the port, with their bows facing the horizon in case the police come after them. "They can be there for three or four days," she points out while walking her dog Pietro along the promenade. It is not a new phenomenon. Antonio has been retired for six years after a lifetime fighting organized crime as a local police officer in Barbate. On the same beach where he now wanders unhurriedly, taking advantage of the truce offered by the storm, he spent many hours watching the movements of drug traffickers, even chasing a hashish shipment right on the promenade. A decade ago, it was not uncommon for drug traffickers to unload bales onto the sand full of bathers. They felt impunity.

On the same beach from which the narcolancha was observed a few hours earlier, a group of teenagers are playing with a rugby ball. They are students from IES Torre del Tajo and are having physical education on the immense playground that is Barbate beach. Iván is their teacher, he has been dedicated to education for 26 years and speaks frankly about drug trafficking in front of his students. Every year, "two or three from each class" succumb to the "fascination" of drug trafficking. When he confronts them, some deny it, ashamed. Others, on the other hand, accept it resignedly. "What do you want me to do?", they confess to the teacher. For some, it is what they have always seen. For others, it is the only possible way out.

"The classmate has an iPhone, rides a motorcycle and has a gold chain, and the girls are after him. When you make easy money and live on the edge, you end up hooked", explains Paco Mena, the most visible voice in the fight against drug trafficking in the Campo de Gibraltar from the Alternativas association. Carmen and Alicia have acquaintances their age –24 years old– who are in the business: "They are the ones who have motorcycles, have bought land and houses when they were very young. They are the most boastful and some explain it without complexes", they say. Both agree with Iván's statistics. In each graduating class, "three or four" boys fall for it and drop out of their studies. "We call them "door knockers", because sooner or later the police knock on their door", relate the two friends.

They all end up in prison because once you "get into the drug world, you already have a life sentence," states Tomás Pacheco, one of the few shipowners in Barbate who are holding on. Fran has known many. He has a fish company and supplies to Puerto III prison, where he often spends time talking with those who were his neighbors and have ended up behind bars. "They are poor kids, and most of them regret it; the problem is that this youth has no opportunities," he denounces indignantly, very annoyed with the role administrations play.

In fact, it's been thirty years. In the 90s, Barbate was a rich municipality that lived off fishing. Back then, there were over 200 boats plowing the sea, while now there are only about twenty. Many people were left jobless, and the mafias – who were already using some fishing boats to bring hashish from Morocco – took advantage of it by offering "easy money" to the sailors, because they knew very well the difficulties of those families, as many were their neighbors. "People didn't have education, what was easier for them? Drug trafficking," argues Pacheco, for whom Barbate has become an "abandoned" municipality.

The structural unemployment of the late 90s and the lack of resources of the public administration to combat drug trafficking laid the groundwork for the mafias to strengthen themselves. "The neglect meant that the police were not even equipped, they weren't even paid their salaries," denounces the mayor, Miguel Molina. Pacheco goes further. There is no political will for what this business represents for many families: "It is not eradicated because the authorities do not want it to be, it is a very important submerged economy." And it is that many people live directly or indirectly from drugs. "The organizations are from here, it is their comfort zone. In many towns or neighborhoods they have the support of the people, because they are the benefactors of the neighborhood," argues Mena. One of the historic examples was Antón Vázquez, the great drug trafficker from Barbate during the 90s, about whom legend tells that he used to walk around the municipality accompanied by a lion cub. "Thanks to me, people don't go hungry," said Vázquez, who disappeared years ago and whom the police place in Morocco.

Back then, drugs were a Spanish affair. Local organizations went to Morocco to get hashish and transported it to the Peninsula. Until the producers understood that it was more profitable for them to complete the circuit themselves. In this way, Moroccan organizations established on both sides of the Strait of Gibraltar charge per kilogram passed and keep the "added value" that carrying drugs to the coast of Cadiz entails. It's a lot more money. Hundreds of thousands of euros.

The stigma

Police pressure in the Campo de Gibraltar caused drug trafficking to shift its activity towards the west coast of Cadiz and Huelva. On February 9, 2024, the focus was on Barbate after a drug-trafficking boat rammed a Civil Guard vessel and killed two officers. This increased the stigma the municipality has carried for years. The stories don't end. Children who, at 14 years old, collected hashish bundles with quads on the beach, or fishermen who collected packages floating at sea, thinking no one would notice, and the drug traffickers ended up knocking on their doors. The port watchman who alerted about the presence of the drug-trafficking boat at dawn confesses: 'I wouldn't bring my children to live in Barbate because they wouldn't know what to do and could end up in this world.' The inhabitants of Barbate, who hope tourism will revive the town in the future, live with this imprint: the shadow of drugs always looms over the municipality. Nevertheless, they claim their land with pride and also their people. Iván refuses to give in. 'We also have engineers here, people even working at NASA,' boasts the teacher.

the focus was on Barbate after a drug-trafficking boat rammed a Civil Guard vessel and killed two officers. This increased the stigma the municipality has carried for years. The stories don't end. Children who, at 14 years old, collected hashish bundles with quads on the beach, or fishermen who collected packages floating at sea, thinking no one would notice, and the drug traffickers ended up knocking on their doors. The port watchman who alerted about the presence of the drug-trafficking boat at dawn confesses: 'I wouldn't bring my children to live in Barbate because they wouldn't know what to do and could end up in this world.' The inhabitants of Barbate, who hope tourism will revive the town in the future, live with this imprint: the shadow of drugs always looms over the municipality. Nevertheless, they claim their land with pride and also their people. Iván refuses to give in. 'We also have engineers here, people even working at NASA,' boasts the teacher.

In early 2007, the police carried out a major operation against drug trafficking operating in Barbate. About fifty people were arrested, and the case was taken over by the mixed court of Barbate, the only one there, which handles both criminal and civil matters. Sixteen years later, the case was dismissed due to prescription. The judicial machinery had collapsed, unable to respond to the magnitude of the case. The lawyers of the drug traffickers, in an organized manner, bombard the courts with appeals and documents to bury the judges in paperwork and slow down the process. This has made Barbate an unpleasant destination for magistrates. No one wants to work there.

Furthermore, as Mena explains, criminals have managed to get the lowest links in the structure to assume the penalties when they are caught. "When they are caught with 5,000 kg, they say 'it's mine'. They know that if they do, the organization will protect them: both the family, who will have everything they need, and themselves, who will have the best defenses. And when they leave prison with third degree, they will have a job offer," says Mena, who raises another important element in the fight against organized crime: the low sentences set by Spanish legislation. "Not a single boat with drugs enters Gibraltar, because the penalties are extremely high. In Spain they are lax. If a person earns 35,000 euros working and a drug trafficker tells them 'I make 180,000 euros in one night, and if they lock me up in prison, this money will still be mine', the man may wonder if it's worth trying it," argues the president of Alternativas.

A common scene

What happens in Barbate and its 25 kilometers of coast is repeated in many parts of southern Spain. In the village of Sancti Petri, in Chiclana, Andrés and Francisco observe a drug-trafficking boat stranded on the beach. It is abandoned. Like so many others that end up being dragged by the furious waves to the coast. It has been stranded on the sand for weeks. "When things get complicated, they abandon the drug-trafficking boat," both of them relate, immune to the strong gusts of wind that punish the area. They live by the sea and drug trafficking is present in their daily lives. When they go out to sea to fish, they cross paths with the semi-rigid boats that patiently wait for the moment to approach the coast to unload the merchandise. Packages of hashish have also been found on the beach. "Better not to go near it," warns Andrés. "Those over there are petaqueros", they say discreetly while pointing to a group of young people. The petaqueros are the ones who supply gasoline to the drug-trafficking boats. The drug has destroyed many of their friends. Some are in prison, others have died. "A friend made a lot of money dealing drugs, but he spent it all on drugs and prostitutes, and he died," they relate naturally. Life in Chiclana and Barbate, in Sanlúcar and Chipiona, is not understood without the background murmur of drug-trafficking boats and the tempting money of drug trafficking.