99% Invisible - 312- Post-Narco Urbanism

Episode Date: June 20, 2018

In the 1980s, Pablo Escobar, the notorious drug lord, had effectively declared war on the Colombian state. At one point, his cartel was supplying 80% of the world's cocaine and the violence surrounding the drug trade had become extreme. The bloodshed was focused in the city of Medellin. As the years went on, Medellin became the most dangerous city in the world. But today, Medellin is very different. In just thirty years, it’s transformed from being the bloody cocaine capital of the world into a place that’s often described as a “model city.” It’s now safer than many cities in the U.S, and, to the surprise of many, one of the things that helped to pull the city out of the violence was a whole new approach to urban planning, including a major overhaul of the city’s public transportation system. Post-Narco Urbanism This is a collaboration with Latino USA Check out the new Radiotopia show ZigZag. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts.

This is 99% invisible. I'm Roman Mars. Back in the late 1980s, when Luis Gio was a little kid growing up in Colombia, he and his brother didn't have babysitters. They had bodyguards. His parents would send them to school in an SUV that was accompanied by another identical SUV, which was a decoy. Because that meant if one of the vehicles was attacked, there would be a chance it would not be in it. That's Luis. Our life was strange in many ways back then.

My brother and I had our own bedrooms, but every night our whole family would sleep in the same room. It had a door to the back patio and a ladder ready to use in case we needed to flee. My parents made it seem like we were just having a slumber party. But the real reason that Luis's family took these precautions is that Luis's dad was a captain in the anti-narcotics unit for Columbia's National Police. In Pablo Escobar, the notorious drug lord

had declared war on the police, on the whole Colombian state, really. It's become a typical day in Colombia, three more judges have quit their jobs after being threatened. By the murderous drug cartels, the government has imposed a curfew in nine cities in the heart of cocaine country, including the cartels capital Medaín. But the late 80s and early 90s, Escobar was supplying 80% of the world's cocaine. And the violence and rounding the drug trade had gotten really bad. The epicenter of the world's cocaine. And the violence surrounding the drug trade had gotten really bad. The epicenter of the violence was Medellin.

Escobar's cartel was based there, and they controlled much of the city. 13 bombs have gone off the median since the weekend, all aimed at government-owned banks or state liquor stores. Medellin became the most dangerous city in the world. In 1991 alone, around 6,000 people were killed. The murder rate was almost 400 people per 100,000 residents, which to put things in perspective, that's three or four times more than the most violent cities in the world today. But today, my de genie is very different.

In just 30 years, it's changed from being the bloody cooking capital of the world into a place that's often described as a model city. It's now safer than many cities in the US, and amazingly, one of the things that helped to pull the city out of the violence was a whole new approach to urban planning, including a major overhaul of the city's public transportation system. Luis' family experienced Colombia as many changes. Luis is now a journalist, and he's gonna help us tell the story of what happened, along with Maria Inahosa, the host of NPR's Latino USA.

She covered the violence in Medellin back in the 1980s, and she went back again last year to explore the city with Luis. All right, so. So we are here in downtown Medellin. You were here 30 years ago. What was it like when you came? Yeah, no, I remember that when we came to this particular part, but I just remember walking here and feeling very afraid

feeling very afraid because Everybody knew that at any moment anywhere a bomb could go off Our story today is a collaboration with Latino USA Everybody knew that at any moment, anywhere a bomb could go off. Our story today is a collaboration with Latino USA. Medellin sits in a valley surrounded by steep, green mountains. In the city's early days, the mountains were undeveloped. But during the first half of the 20th century, the city rapidly industrialized. More and more people came to Medellin for manufacturing and textile jobs, and they began building homes and communities of the sides of those mountains.

These informal settlements became known as Camunas. The Camunas were really thought of as separate from the rest of the city below, both because of their geographical distance from downtown and also because they were neglected by city government. They didn't receive the same services as other neighborhoods. Public transit didn't reach them. It would take more than an hour to get from the farthest camuna to the city center. People in the camuna used to say,

I need to go to Medean to run an errand, even though they were technically living in Medean. But as the manufacturing economy boomed and as city officials looked the other way, the communists kept growing until the hills above the city were crowded with houses, stacked on top of each other like colorful boxes. But by the 1980s, many of Colombia's manufacturing jobs were moving overseas and as manufacturing was tanking, the drug trade was skyrocketing. The Medean cartel began recruiting young people, mostly young men from the Camunas. These were young people who felt disconnected from the wider city, and they didn't have a lot of other options for jobs.

This is Manuel Espinazo. He says that back in 1989, he lived two blocks from where Pablo Esclar Gaviri was born. making fast money, dealing drugs, or were you going to kind of, you know, become something else? What did that look like? Manuel says he started seeing friends with motorcycles in nice clothes. They talked about working for the narcos for a few months to get fast cash. They had money to party on the weekend and became the neighborhood's playboy. The guy who was going to the bar. By this point, Pablo Escobar had been running the Medellin Cartel for more than a decade. Forbes magazine had recently featured him in its billionaires issue

with the provocative headline, Presidente Don Pablo. And that wasn't a huge stretch. Through his network of informants, Escobar controlled much of Manellín and other parts of the country. He cultivated a Robin Hood-type image. Building housing and soccer fields in the communes, he was a hero to some of Manuel's friends. Manuel says he played soccer on a dirt field field and the games would end at sundown.

But one day, a rich man came to celebrate the construction of a new lighting system that would allow them to play at night. And guess who the man was? Geneseñor. Parescoar. Manuel says that Escobar was very different from other rich men, because he was generous. He was a benefactor. He was also becoming, in many ways, more powerful than the Colombian state.

To try to solve this problem, Colombian law enforcement began relying on militarized policing tactics. Increasingly violent clashes started happening between the cartel and the police. Law enforcement would go into the Camuna's to try to control the drug trafficking, and sometimes they'd end up killing young men from those neighborhoods. Then, after years of conflict between Escobar and Colombian authorities, the U.S. started its war on drugs and passed an extradition agreement with the Colombian government. That meant that if or when Escobar was captured,

he could potentially spend the rest of his life in a U.S. prison. The violence he made in China got a lot worse. It may have been a bomb that blew up a plane in Colombia today, the Boeing 727 of Avianca Airlines in the year 1989. In November of 1989, the Medellin Cartel bombed an Avianca aircraft, mid-flight, killing all 107 people on board. The cartel was trying to kill a Colombian presidential candidate. The bombing of flight 203 was the deadliest single attack in decades of violence in Colombia.

Two Americans were among the dead, prompting then-President George H. W. Bush to offer support to the Colombian forces in their search for Escobar. With additional American resources, the operatives trained to capture Escobar mounted dozens of raids. But he had so many informants in the government that he kept on getting away. And he retaliated. The Medellin cartel went on a killing spree that shook Colombia, and specially Medellin to its foundation.

This was when the city became the murderer capital of the world. Sandra Arenas, Tessie, was total chaos. She's a sociologist in Medellin, who studied the armed conflict and how it affected the city. Savia Cicario, Savia, Grupos, Bandas del Inquencial, espelhando entre ellos, Savia. She says there were regular assassinations and fights among rival gangs. There were car bombs going off all the time. But especially that sensation of the dangerous street. She says that a sense of fear took over the streets. There was a feeling that anyone could die at any time.

Not only cartel members or police officers, anyone. Public spaces that had once been lively started emptying out to maintain control the cartel imposed a curfew. Escobar's men would throw leaflets from helicopters or bring people to stay inside past 8 p.m. The violence felt indiscriminate. Adena described the era as feeling like a long black night. Arenas described the era as feeling like a long black night. Of Escobar's top lieutenants, only four are left alive today, and three of them are still in prison abroad. The only one who is alive and in Colombia today is John Hydero Velasquez,

also known as Bobbeye, or Popeye in English. In 1989, that was the most important and the hurricane that was the war. That's Popeye, Pablo Escobar's right-hand man in Topassassin. He served 23 years in prison, but he can still vividly recall the most intense year of the conflict. We're fighting in the streets, we're fighting in the streets, we're killing police officers and having shootouts in the streets, blocked by block, car bombs are going off in Medellin.

Popeye would eventually admit to killing over 250 people. And for this, he had help. He used to operate in the communas, getting to know the young men who lived in those impoverished and ignored neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. Then he'd recruit them and train them as secarios, or hitmen. Escobar and his top leaders, like Popeye, had figured out how to exploit the geographic fragmentation of Managing.

They knew that kids in the Camunas didn't have a lot of opportunities, and so that's where they focused their efforts. Even now he can't resist recruiting in a way, talking up how exciting it was to work for us Cabaar. Mira, Pablo Escobar Gavira para nosotros no era un padre, no era un amigo, no era un patron, no era un jefe, era un Dios. Pablo Escobar, for us, was not a boss or a friend. He was a god. Pablo Escobar Gavira never disrespected us. We would eat at the table with him.

We were in his orgies. We would die for Paolo and would go to prison for him. The Medellín Cartel was a big family. When Maria Inahosa, Luis's reporting partner, was a younger reporter, she came to Medellín to cover the conflict for Rolling Stone and other news outlets. And she remembers getting threats from the cartel. And Papa tells her that, yeah, she was being watched. Look, the messages were correct.

The boss always notified the journalist so they would leave. You should thank God we didn't kill you. You were at great risk of us killing you because in a war, you have to shoot everyone. Let's be honest, we were at war, Maria. I'm worried that my father also fought as a captain for Columbia's National Police.

Because of his father's role, Luis and his brother had to learn things that most little kids don't have to learn about. Like when Luis was five or six years old, there was an explosion at a mall next door. It was strange because it was so close to her house, and I remember asking my mother if he was safe to return to the mall. Now long after that, my father left the Antenarcotx unit and joined the National Oil Company. He was the head of security and logistics for an oil pipeline being built through dangerous territory.

It went through both narca control land and FARC territories. The FARC, short for the revolutionary armed forces of Colombia, were a leftist guerrilla group who took up arms against the government in 1964. By the late 80s, they were the largest rebel group in Latin America. And at the same time as the Medine cartel, they started drug trafficking and kidnapping to fund their war against the state. One weekend, while my mother and my brother and I were out of town visiting my grandmother, we turned on the TV and saw the breaking news that the FARC rebels had attacked a pipeline

where my father was working. The news anchor said, rebels had taken hostages, and one of those hostages was my father. In the past, when he was with the National Police, my father had fought the same farkin surgeons and they knew who he was, their enemy. Plus, my father was easy to recognize. Standing tall at about 6'3", slim with an arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant arrogant So when my mother saw this on TV, she said she knew my father would die.

The FARC rebels eventually freed the other hostages, but they kept my father. They held a war tribunal, and then executed him. Right before his death, my father was able to leave a message that would later get passed on to my mother. He told her that she knew how to be strong. They had prepared for this moment. He was not her duty to race us and get us a heading life. And that he was sorry.

He was sorry that their time had run out so suddenly. How old were you? I was almost six. I was almost six years old. The funeral was paid for by the military, the national police, the whole ceremony. It was surreal. And I remember at the funeral home and I kept on asking, when is it going to wake up? So when is this over?

When is it going to wake up and play? Just like my family, there were many other families in Medellin that were mourning. The same year my father's death, in 1991, the city's murder rate peaked. The cartel created fear through the idea that violence can strike anyone at any time. Around this same time, Escobar made a deal with the Colombian state.

The extradition of Colombian citizens to the US had been prohibited by a newly approved Columbian Constitution, so that possibility was now off the table. Escobar agreed to surrender to authorities and to stop all criminal activity, in exchange for a reduced sentence and preferential treatment, including no extradition to the United States. And he got very preferential treatment. Escobar was locked up in his own luxurious private prison, but built specially for him.

He was called a la catedral, and he featured a soccer field, a bar, a giant dollhouse, a jacuzzi, and a waterfall. Then it became clear that Escobar was continuing to orchestrate criminal activities from within the prison. Authorities made plans to move them to a new location, but Escobar escaped before they could. There was a man hunt, and in December 1993, Escobar died in a shootout. But even before Escobar died, the city had undertaken an ambitious new project to try to figure out how to pull Medine out of the drug-fueled violence that had affected the city for so long. This is Sandra Arenas again.

She says that he was doing the worst of the violence, that Medellín began to figure out the formula for its own transformation. What happened was the national government sent policy makers out into the neighborhoods of Medín, especially the Camunas, to hold public forums and to meet with people from all across the city. And who were the leaders, the leaders, the leaders, the leaders, the educators, the church? Arenas says these meetings were attended by community leaders, teachers, religious figures, and public servants.

Academics, artists, and everyday citizens came to. Arena says that in the forums, they figured out that the city needed to reclaim public spaces, places where people could meet up and talk. Many of these spaces, like parks and plazas, had been abandoned because people were afraid to be outside with all the violence. People also said the city needed to invest in community groups. There were already lots of artists' collectives and community organizations doing important work in the Camunas.

They just needed more support. And finally, the city could no longer neglect and ignore the Camunas on the steep hills above the city center. Those neighborhoods needed to be integrated with the rest of Medellin. The city needed a modern metro system. Transporte público, Medellin, and all the systems that I've understood more as a process of inclusion. That's Natalia Castanio, and she says that the public transportation system became a way to create a sense of inclusion throughout the city. Castanio is an architect, and she

helped to implement some of the ideas that came out of those throughout the city. Castanos and architects, and she helped to implement some of the ideas that came out of those early community meetings. In 1995, the many metro opened, linking parts of the previously fragmented city. The richest southern district was now easily connected with the poor Camunas to the north. In the 90s, I was seeing a very critical moment

for all the acting violent that was being given. Natalia says, I was living in a very critical moment for all the violent acts that were being given. Natalia says they were living in a time when violent attacks, car bombs and assassinations were common. And obviously, the metro's infrastructure could be targeted. The drug cartel hitmen were part of a conservative managing culture and many of them were Catholic. So the city came up with the idea of placing a statue of the Virgin Mary in each one of the metro stations. They thought it would be a reminder to keep things calm and peaceful in the trains.

To complement the metro, the city built something else, an innovative system of cable cars that went right up the steep mountain sides to length the camunas to the rest of the city. And this made a huge difference. It had once taken people in the camunas over an hour to get to the city. And this made a huge difference. It had once taken people in the Camuna's over an hour to get to the city center. Now it took more like 15 or 20 minutes. Before, people in the Camuna used to say, I need to go to Medellin to run an errand.

Now, they felt like they were part of Medellin, like they belonged. There was other investment in the Camuna's too. The city built big public libraries, parks, soccer fields, job training centers, and health clinics, and they poured money into already existing artists' collectives and community organizations. Natalia says it's because the city had come to realize that they owed the Camus. Those neighborhoods had been neglected and underserved in the past. In a way Medin's big innovation was to tackle crime and violence not through more policing, but through urban planning, infrastructure, and social programs. They invested in neighborhoods

that had been the most isolated and where the cartels had previously had the most success recruiting members. And the city started to change. Commute times dropped, soccer fields stayed lit up into the night. The city also built inviting new outdoor spaces, and the streets became busy again. And along with all these changes, the murder rate plummeted by 90% from its peak in 1991 to today. The approach to urban planning that developed in Medine has now become known as social urbanism. It was a grassroots approach, not a top-down one, and people all over the world now look to Medine as an example for how to do this well.

Of course, there were other reasons the violence declined in Medine. The Medine cartel was dismantled. The economy was getting stronger, and a series of progressive mayors kept building on each other's work. But the urban planning and public transportation did play a big role. Mariennai wanted to see this change for ourselves, so we met our way to Camuna 13, historically one of the most violent and stigmatized neighborhoods in the city. Camuna 13 is a dense neighborhood built on a steep hillside and now running right up to the middle of it. Are these massive outdoor escalators?

What is an escalator doing in the middle of an outdoor community? And there's another escalator, whoa, just the notion that you're writing escalators up a hill, literally, and it's taking you to the top of the city on escalators that are outdoors. But what you're also seeing is everywhere you turn, there's art, there's huge mural arts at every turn. I found the top of the escalator. We see huge paintings and kids breakdancing in beatboxing. 30 years ago, this neighborhood was a dangerous place. Police would have been afraid to come here, and now it's flourishing with art and color

and tourists from all over the world. Foreign tourism has gone up by 250% in Colombia in the last decade, and many of those tourists are coming actually because of the city's drug trafficking legacy. It's something the locals call Narco Tourism. Even Popeye is cashing in on the interest in this type of tourism, which has only been amplified by the hit Netflix show Narcos. He leads drug-related tours of Medellin, taking people to sites around the city like Pablo Escobar's grave. And it's good that Medine is safe enough for tourists now.

But there's also something uncomfortable about knowing that Popeye is now profiting off a glorified version of the city's violent past. The city has a complicated relationship with this kind of narco tourism. One of the main narco tourism sites is a place called Edificio Monaco. It's the building compound where Pablo Escobar is to live with his family and tourists love to visit it. But Manine's current mayor, Federico Gatieres, says that they're actually planning to tear down Edificio Monaco. He says that in displays, they're going to build a park in remembrance of the victims,

not to hide that history, but to transform it, because part of healing is not forgetting. He says that the terrible things that took place in the city can't be forgotten, because that's what made the city hit rock bottom. And hitting rock bottom is what eventually made people come together again as a society. It is undeniable that Medine today is a different city. There's still massive inequality and drug trafficking. There are still criminal gangs that control parts of the city and sometimes extort people and businesses.

But it's way more democratic, inclusive, and peaceful than it was 30 years ago. And today you can take a trip across town that would have been impossible a few decades ago. In the morning you can get on the Metro downtown, in a station decorated with Virgin Mary statues. You can ride up into the Camunas on an outdoor escalator that carries you past murals and beat boxers. And then, as evening descends, not worrying about any curfew, you can hop on a cable car and float back down the mountainside. The slopes of the Camuna's softening behind you in the twilight. The lights of the city center becoming clearer as you draw closer and closer.

It streets and shops and buses bustling with life, with people from all over Medin, from all over the world. A city finally connected. We'll talk more with reporter Luis Gayo about the complexities of narco-tourism and his decision to return to Colombia after years of living in the United States. Plus, an extended preview of a brand new radio-topia show called Zigzac. Right after this. We're back with Louise Gio who reported our story this week. In the late 90s, about five years after his father's death, Louise and his family left Columbia and moved to Seattle. But Louise decided to move back to Columbia a few years ago, and we wanted to hear more

from him about what it's been like to return. We were especially curious about his reactions to the Narco-Tourism as someone who has a very personal connection to that history. So we called him up, he was traveling in Spain when we talked to him. I mean, I want people to come to Columbia, I want people to visit the country so they could understand the plays, they can get a sense of what it's really like as opposed to what they see on television. So I think it's a positive thing, more people are coming to Colombia.

However, the people coming only to see that part of Colombia kind of perpetuates the stigma and perpetuates. Kind of that stereotype that many of us are trying to move on from. And it's problematic because like many people who are coming into Colombia, into managing and visiting those spaces, they find this narrative of Pablo Escobar, of the violence, of you know, the drug of the drug bosses, a little bit seductive and entertaining, while at the same time, that same narrative, the same history was our reality at the time.

It was our reality, it was our daily lives, and all that suffering was real, so he wasn't just like TV show, suffering was real. So like, it wasn't just like, you know, a TV show, it was real terror. And is it hard for you to see the ways that people like Pablo Escobar and Popeye have been turned into these sort of glamorized figures? So it says, I see why this narrative is seductive and this narrative is entertaining for many people

because it's kind of like this man created an empire out of nothing more or less, but at the same time, yeah, like we can't forget that they are responsible, public abide and papa, they're responsible for the suffering of and the deaths and the killing and the terror. Yeah, I can't overlook that. You might be entertaining for a TV show or a movie, but in real life, these guys are psychopaths. So given all the suffering that you've seen and experienced with the conflict between the cartels and the government and the FARC, there's the leftist guerrillas who murdered your father. Why did you decide to move back to Columbia after so many years away? I decided to go back to Columbia because it was around the same time that the FARC and the government were finishing up signing their peace agreements.

So there was a peace accord that they were finalizing. And I went both as a journalist, but I also went as a Colombian victim of the violence, victim of the conflict. And yeah, I just wanted to maybe come back and heal both collectively and, you know, and personally. And I wanted to be part of that crucial time in our history where, you know, 50 years of, you know, over 50 years of conflict were, you know, we're coming to an end. You know, the longest running conflict in the world was coming to an end. There was a concert that you went to that was a celebration of the signing of the Peace Accord

and it sounds like it was a really significant moment for you. Can you tell us that story? So I say that this moment, you know, crystallized for me last year when I went to a concert celebrating the signing of the Peace of court in Boatta. And so they had a concert in the main square of Boatta. And at the concert, most of everyone was wearing white and wavy and white flags,

and they had white balloons celebrating the piece of court. However, I saw other people wearing red shirts and waving red flags, and the friend I was with who works with the president. She told me she confirmed that the people wearing the red shirts were in fact, FARC, Urban Militia members. So there were members of the FARC, but they were like the Bull of Tach after. And then in the middle of the folk, but in the Bogota chapter. And then in the middle of the concert, the lead singer from this Colombian rock band, Artesia Pelaos, told everyone to hug a stranger in the name of peace. Like to hug somebody you did not come with. And then right next to me was this young man, college aged, and he was wearing a red shirt, and he approached me, and he was drinking So, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, my wife, when I realized, wow, this person is or was part of the FARC,

the same group that killed my father. But the moment was very emotional. There were people in tears, there were people very moved from what was happening. And I realized at that moment, this is the new, peaceful Columbia. That was reporter Luis Gio, recording himself on his iPhone in Spain. This story was produced by Luis Gio,

edited by Fernanda Hachavary and Marlon Bishop, research assistants on this episode by Tom Colligan, production help from Sarah Coveto. Our program today was a collaboration with Latino USA. If you don't know them, they're a great podcast and radio show with an inside look at Latino life, culture, history, and politics. It's in English and it's not just for Latinos. There is something for everyone. Check it out. We have a brand new show in radio atopia. It's called the Zigzag. Check it out. When they were raising money for their company, they looked into investments and grants and found those traditional paths unreliable and required them to give up too much control. So they're trying out something completely new. Here's an extended preview of Zigzag.

So early on, when we've been talking to everyone we knew to figure out like really should we start our own company, I had met with a friend of a friend who actually advised media startups. His name is Josh Benson. And then Josh called me back. Because the more he thought about it, since we'd had our first conversation, the more he thought that actually, Jen and I would be a great fit

for this other startup he was working with. It was kind of hard to explain, but the gist of it was that this group of techies and journalists were building something that would throw good journalism a lifeline, help it survive in a world now driven by free Facebook news feeds. They were called civil, and thanks to the generosity of a multi-billionaire, they had money. They actually had grants to give out to journalists with proven track records, like us. No strings attached. The journalists would own their work. All they had to do was contribute

to the civil platform. And the way they were making this media fantasy come true? It was something called the blockchain. Jen and I had heard of the blockchain, you may have too. We were entirely sure how it worked or what it had to do with journalism. And like most people, we pretty much equated it with Bitcoin, the most popular cryptocurrency that had made the people who bought in early, really, really rich. And according to memes, it seemed to compel them to by-lamp reginis. Why the hell would we want anything to do with that? But after doing some research, we started to understand.

Blockchain was just the technology that made Bitcoin possible. But it could, maybe, do so much more than just make some dudes rich enough to buy lambos. The we read the more we felt like actually the blockchain could be a second chance for the internet Because over the last few years we'd seen that the promise of the web Information and access for everyone and had been totally perverted But the blockchain if it really got off the, could do things like protect people's identity, help get aid faster to natural disasters, sustain the poorest populations, maybe even help protect democracy, and save important struggling industries like journalism.

These are big promises. Yeah. But man, after hearing what civil was doing with the blockchain, we were kind of stoked. Josh? Hi. How are you? We went to see Josh Benson, our blockchain matchmaker at his WeWork office on 23rd Street.

Stop the way I said this. So here, guys, please make yourself a little bit more. Okay, you sure? Okay, thank you. Very sure. Because I just think you guys are going to be obviously like a super interesting interactive proposition to bunch of places. It's like we know some people who are doing interesting things with podcasts and it's just like worth thinking about all that stuff because why the hell not?

Yes, that's right. We have this weird crazy blue sky opportunity at the moment and so we just should be thinking about all that stuff. And to get Tom and Catherine towards it. Once we left the meeting, there was no need to play it cool anymore. Jen and I wanted in. Just give me three words.

Ah! Ah! What, I mean, are you, are you psyched? I'm so psyched. Right? Isn't this like, it's kind of, I mean, I'm scared to say like, it sounds too good to me true, but like, it's perfect for but like it's perfect for us.

It's perfect for us. It's gonna help with us launching. It's gonna help with everything. It's also gonna be super fun. And it's a beautiful concept that's meant to help and support journalists doing good work. Yay! And civil wanted us to. Especially when we told them what we do with the grant they gave us.

Make our first podcast. One that actually explained in normal, non-hard-core techy language, what the hell the blockchain is. Because here's the thing, listeners, that grants its civil gave us. It was half real money. And the other half is a new cryptocurrency that they call civil tokens.

These tokens have no value yet, but after they get auctioned off to the public, they could be worth quite a lot, or nothing at all. Join Manouche and Jen in zigzag as they explore big issues of women, tech, journalism and capitalism. It's gonna be a fun journey and you're finally going to understand the blockchain.

Episodes 1 and 2 are out right now. Episodes 3 drops this week if you want to be my friend. Download it and listen to it and follow along with me and let me know what you think about it on Twitter. I have no idea if this is going to work or how it's going to end. And that's why it's fun. Zigzag from RadioTopia. Find it at zigzagpod.com on Radiotopia.fm and

wallsevelink in our show notes. Alongside the amazing team at Latino USA, our show was produced and edited this week by Senior Editor Delaney Hall. Mixed in tech production by Sharif Usif, Music by Sean Rial. The rest of the team is Senior Producer Katie Mingle, Digital Director Kurt Colstead, Joe Rosenberg, Avery Trollerman, Vivian Lee, Taren Mazza, and me Roman Mars. We are a project of 91.7 KALW in San Francisco and produced, on Radio Row, in beautiful, downtown, Oakland, California. 99% of visible is a member of Radio Topia from PRX, a fiercely independent collective of the most innovative shows in all of podcasting.

Find them all at radiotopia.fm. You can find the show and join discussions about the show on Facebook. You can tweet at me at Roman Mars and the show at 99PI Orc. We're on Instagram, Tumblr, and Reddit too. But on our website, we have pictures of cable cars and outdoor escalators and colorful camunas plus links to Latino USA and ZigZac. It's all there at 99pi.org. Radio tapio.

From PRX. from PRX.