A meddling Medellin quandry

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I must confess Medellin was one place I didn't think I'd visit on my journey to Colombia.
Why pay to travel to what, only a few years ago, was the most dangerous city in the world?
To try and sleep to the sound of gun shots outside the hotel window.
I did that 17yrs ago when I was working in Kingston, thanks very much.
I remember on one occasion, in 1999, within a two week period, 18 people were shot and killed and 4 police officers were slain in the line of duty in the Kingston area alone. Car and van-jackings. Shoot driver, steal vehicle. Gangland killings between rival drug areas. It was a depressing daily ritual on the television news. No forensic tent and police tape here. The officer in charge being interviewed virtually stood over the dead body or bodies.
May Pen cemetery riddled with bullet holes where shoot outs were the norm.
I asked a Superintendent I was working with how they coped with this daily onslaught. He just shrugged his shoulders in despair and commented that once they knew the identity of the culprit, soldiers and police were sent to arrest. This usually ended up in a shoot out and the death of the person sought.

It's still quite bad today. Visiting Jamaica over this New Years, and listening to the radio, on average two people were killed a day for the 10 days I spent there, four were murdered over News Years Eve alone.

Yeah, downtown Kingston is not a place for visitors. The rest of Jamaica is an amazing country full of life and bio-diversity and generally safe but downtown Kingston is a place to be avoided.

I recall attending the the wake of one officer in December 1999. To my shame I've forgotten his name.
On a hot and sticky evening myself and my colleague Paul attended with two sergeants from the Jamaica Constabulary Force. Sergeant Lloyd and Sergeant Dennis. The wake was in Denim Town, in the heart of downtown and a very dangerous place to go indeed. Travelling in a large, white 4x4 American pick up truck, and despite being armed to the teeth, even the local cops were worried and working out the best route in and the safest route out, as we needed to drive around Coronation Market, through the outskirts of Trench Town and Tivoli Gardens. Extremely dangerous places indeed where life was cheap and people died young.
They asked if we'd shot a gun before. Well Paul had, being an ex-firearms officer. They gave him a 9mm from the glove box. Me? I'd had training of some sorts but I have to confess I'm not a good shot and don't really like guns. More likely to shoot myself in the foot than any meaningful target.
Sgt Lloyd showed me his spare gun, which he kept strapped to his ankle. It was a snub nosed revolver.
"This is the safety" he said. " if I throw you this gun, switch it off and shoot the people I point to. Oh, and try not to shoot me or any other good guys"

We arrived at Denim Town Police Station as dusk fell. It reminded me of Roukes Drift from the 1970's film 'Zulu' starring a young Michael Caine and Stanley Baker. A whitewashed, ramshackle building constructed on one level. An ancient building, with four sides and a quadrant in the middle. Every house surrounding the station was made of old bricks and corrugated iron. A shanty town in all respects. Abandoned and burnt out vehicles everywhere from recent rioting, dogs roaming the streets eating scraps from the rubbish strewn across the road. Run down, dirt poor. A palpable sense of foreboding and menace hung in the air.
On one side of the police station quadrant were the cells of the jail. Bad guys looking out of the barred windows, their arms hanging out to feel the feint night breeze.
They were watching the relatives and colleagues of the slain officer whooping in sorrow and crying out to The Lord as the bible was read by a priest. A wooden table in the centre was banged relentlessly as hymns were sang, voices of sorrow rising to the heavens in the clear night sky. It made a distressing sight.

Having been shot at myself,executing a warrant in Bristol, I thought there but for the grace of god go I. Banging the door of the address to be visited, there was no reply but thirty seconds later, I heard two distinct clicks. Seconds later a pistol was thrown from the window. Luckily for me the gun was an 8mm conversation and the 9mm rounds jammed in the chamber. I suspect if the action hadn't jammed my colleague, Dave Leydon, who was stood behind me, and I wouldn't be here now.

Back at the station in the district commanders office, white faces of senior officers stared at a weapon lying in an evidence bag that could've caused much heartache that day.

Anyways, I digress.

We walked into the superintendents office of Denim Town Police Station.He welcomed us by flopping back on his chair, opening a fridge door and pulling out 4 beers! The fridge was full of beer, as was most of the station.For the next few hours, soldiers armed with M16 machine guns, and police officers carrying their own weapons got very, very, drunk.
We met the mother and father of the slain officer. It was a humbling experience and one I'll not forget.
The officer had gone to his home and the assassins were waiting. "I'm shot me gate" were his last words on the police radio.

It was time to leave. Word was now out that two white British cops were in the station.

Sgt Lloyd tossed me the gun. "Remember" he said "just shoot the bad guys"
Soldiers mounted roof tops, police took up positions on the street and we walked to the car.

I was so scared even my pants were shitting themselves.

We crossed the street, eyes everywhere followed by two drunk soldiers. I fumbled with my gun, finger on the safety but it wasn't needed. We got into the car and drove away at breakneck speed. Nobody spoke for 5 minutes until we were clear and back to the relative safety of New Kingston and our hotel.

So, as you can imagine, the thoughts of travelling to Medellin were not high on my agenda.

It was my friend and Ibiza Cricket Club all-rounder Jolyon Swinburn who persuded me otherwise. At Joe's Ibiza leaving do before Christmas he waxed lyrical about Medellin, having visited Colombia a few months before. That it was an awesome place and not to be missed.

So here I am at Bogota airport waiting for the flight to Medellin. It's a 10£, ten hour bus ride across I winding road across the high Andean mountains, or a 19£ one hour flight. I chose the latter.

Not sure what to expect but we'll have a look-see and make my own mind up about what was once the world's most dangerous city.

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