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Published: December 26th 2017
Ecuador and Colombia
The Galapagos were out of this world. The one down side was that they had lapped up the majority of our Ecuador time. It meant that we now only had a week to see the delights that the mainland had to offer. We were busy trying to plan this out and decide what we wanted to do when the Capitan put on the fasten seat-belts sign for landing. Becky's movements were a lot brisker and she spoke curtly as she stowed her table tray and returned her seat to the upright position. She checked and then double checked her seatbelt to make sure it was securely fastened. I had picked up on her palpable tension when we were taking off and thought some tough love may finally get her over her fear of flying. To be honest, I was surprised she still got anxious about it after we were passengers in my New Zealand housemate's practice flight over the Cook Strait. Although she hid it well, I knew she was a bit "antsy" and telling her to "get a grip" on take-off did not result in the phobia-curing miracle I was hoping for. All was okay with
a bit of reassuring handholding as the wheels came down... until the nervous Latino girl to our left started crossing herself and praying.... and the sight of the ruler sized runway buried deep in the valley came into view... and the pilot revved back up the engines... and we were launched back into the sky only inches from touchdown. I was admittedly a bit nervous now as we circled round for a second go. Becky was a mess. After a little emergency braking to stop us running out of runway, the second attempt thankfully brought us safely down and into Quito. We found an absolute steal of a room next to a lively "party hostel" in Ciudad Viejo, Quito's old town. We organised trips through the Secret Garden hostel, used their free wifi to sort out our endless work-related forms, drank their beer, enjoyed the spectacular views of the city from their terrace, ate their delicious budget dinners, hung out and made friends with their guests, and then snuck back to our $7 a night bargain before doing the same the following day. We only had 6 days, but thankfully Quito is strategically positioned in the centre of the country
and surrounded by towering Andean peaks. Indeed, it was a key city in the latter stages of the Inca Empire where the King fathered a son with a Canari Princess, a local honey. His son grew up in Ecuador and went on to have two sons. This is where the Inca Empire all went to shit. Both sons succeeded the throne, dividing the empire between Atahualpa, who grew up in Quito, and Huascar who grew up in Cuzco. Civil war inevitably ensued with Atahualpa coming out top. His glory days were limited when Francisco Pizarro landed in Peru in 1532, after hoisting his ships across Panama. The victorious Inca King was promptly imprisoned by the Spanish who held him to great ransom and then went ahead and slaughtered him anyway. The likes of Quito and Cusco fell into the backwaters as Lima stepped into the limelight as Colonial capital. Later in the 16th and 17th Century Quito received its sterotypical Spanish makeover with leafy plazas, colonial mansions, grand churches and the occasional token Cathedral. The Cathedral was definitely one of the best in South America, and we should know as we have seen a hell of a lot of them.
Every town or city you visit it seems to be the 'must-do' thing to see, and almost impossible to avoid. A free walking tour took us up a breath taking hill (in the sense that it took our breath away with the altitude rather than the beauty of it) to the gothic spires of their incomplete cathedral. It has been in the process of completion for hundreds of years and the Quitenos have deliberately left it unfinished so they can keep adding their heritage and history. It was spectacular, and appeared to be modelled on Notre Dam. Its uniqueness shone through on closer inspection when, rather than adorning it with ugly gargoyles, they had Ecuadorian and Galapagean wildlife on every pillar and spire. No other Cathedral in the world can claim the likes of giant tortoises, penguins, land iguanas and sea birds as their decoration of choice. We didn't fancy too much more city and skipped the museums, monasteries and compulsory Virgin-on-a-hill for day trips out of Quito. Our second day on mainland Ecuador took us to Volcan Cotopaxi, A 5897m beast of a volcano south of Quito. For fifty bucks we were taken with a few fun others to
a refugio perched on the mountain slopes but completely smothered in cloud. We then hiked our way up to the snowline at 5000 metres and posed for some photos at the frozen snout of the glacier. She hid her head teasingly in a cloud of white but I loved being back on a mountain. I could tell Becks loved it too with the thundering pace she set up the cone. Back at the van we hopped on some mountain bikes (with crash helmets) to hurtle our way down the winding dirt road. It was pretty exhilarating as we skidded and slid around the corners and in less than an hour we dropped a thousand metres in height and safely stopped on the flat just as the top of Cotopaxi peaked out between a gap in the rolling clouds. The following day took us on one of the highlights of our whole trip. On the whim at the Carpe Diem tour office I asked about indigenous communities. Originally we were planning a 4 day hike in the rainforest to a local community to live out our Bruce Parry fantasies. The constant ticking enemy of time prevented this and we had resigned
to the fact that chanting Shamans, body paint and ritualistic cleansing was something that would only ever be brought to us by The Beeb. That was until we were told about a "pilot project" the tour agency was trying to set up as an ecotourism community venture. The Tsachilas were a mysterious tribe numbering only 4000, who were rumoured to know magical healing properties of plants, dyed their hair bright red and were ready to welcome Becky and I into their midst. *written retrospectively, a year later* Without getting Becky's journal entry out to sharpen my memory of our time with the Tsachilas, my account may be a little faded, and miss out events and experiences. However, looking back through the retrospectoscope I can remember bits like it was yesterday. And these are the bits that I am going to write down. It was not the first time I had stayed with, and experienced the culture of, a local tribe. It was relaxed and natural without them trying to peddle some beaded tat or us taking a thousand photos while they cooked fish in a pot over a fire. They spoke Spanish well and we had a Quiteno studying Tourism
who had come along as our guide and would intermittently translate into broken English. I read about the tsachillas....... Blah blah blah We had a tour of their village and surrounding farmland, with bananas, mangoes and betel nuts growing bountifully in the warm, humid climate. Walking through a steep sided valley we learnt how the nearby spirits in the stream were "malo", and as we picked our way over roots and armadillo holes in the dense undergrowth, we couldn't help but feel there was an element of truth in what he said. Children would never dare to venture to those parts, as they were easy prey for the bad spirits. Whether these scare-stories were just clever parenting skills to keep the kids away from the fast flowing water or whether they were ancient and deeply rooted animist tribal beliefs I cannot say. Maybe they were a mixture of the two. A variety of nuts and berries were collected so we could adorn ourselves for the ceremony that night. My hair was caked with bright red paste and sculpted into a bowl-shape on my head. Willingly I have experimented with an array of peculiar hairstyles in the past, but this one
topped them all. Our bodies were painted with traditional decoration; we drew lines on our skin and rings around our arms and legs. Becks topped them all by drawing a large snake across my whole back. Our Shaman rook a liking to this and requested she duplicate the masterpiece on his own! We helped our Shaman cut down the trunk of a thick vine and shred and dice it for the pot. We let it stew for several hours, watching with apprehensive anticipation as the intoxicating powers of the Ayuhuasca plant leeched into the bubbling and spitting water. This was a big decision for us. We had read and researched a lot about these ceremonies and had decided that the growing number of tourist ceremonies were not for us. They made an often irresponsibly managed spectacle of a sacred tradition and we had concerns over the safety and ethics of it all. However, with a Shaman who felt very trustworthy and honest, in a friendly village, with a guide acting as a guardian, we felt we were in a position to experience an Ayuhuasca Ceremony and meet with the spirits of the Amazon. It was dark. We picked our way
by torchlight through the sounds and smells of the lush jungle garden to the very edge of the village where the trees grew tall and the Shaman had his hut. He lit a candle which threw light across a simple room with an earth dirt floor and a homemade table, strewn with bizarre relics. I felt like I had entered a filmset, as was the stereotypy of it all, and would have thought it all a show if we had not watched him with a patient earlier in the day. We sat tentatively on the edge of a grubby mattress, atop a low wood and rope bed. The Shaman called Becky forward first, and she sat opposite him in front of the table. In the flickering light I watched him chant and use stones, branches and water to read her soul. He spoke of her being "muy fuerte", very strong, but that she had sickness in her abdomen. After some more chanting he poured a large glass of Ayuhuasca and encouraged her to take it. I saw her struggle to drink it, but with ongoing encouragement she managed to finish the bowl. The Shaman took some himself and he guided her back to the bed next to me. It was my turn. Halfway through my ritual Becky saw a man appear at an invisible window and give her a cheery wave. The Ayuhuasca started to take its effect on her as she ran outside to be sick. I fought to swallow the bitter liquid, my motivation for downing it being challenged by the sound of profuse vomiting outside. I returned to the bed to rest with a sweating Becky, who was talking to crowds of imaginary faces around her. Before long my stomach started to churn and together we staggered out to throw up. Our guide lent us a reassuring arm as Becky apologised for vomiting on someone's imaginary feet. A gentle calm briefly returns with the beat of the Shaman's drum. He sees off another bowl and the rhythm blends with the beat of our internal drum. A drum that, for now, has left us curled up hugging each other as we hypersalivate and prepare for the next retch. The time comes to return to our hut in the village and we walk the 100 metres over half an hour. Staggering, unable to tell where the ground ends and the sky begins, the earth shimmers and moves under my feet like I am rippling across water. I try and support Becks. We know we are there for one other but alone in our hallucinations. We lie down in separate beds to deal with our individual spiritual demons and let our minds dance with the wild animal spirits of the rainforest. The following day I awoke with an overwhelming feeling of peace and calm. Maybe this was due to the wild thoughts and vivid hallucinations of the night before, or possibly due to the truce between my soul and the jungle spirits... All I can say is we definitely felt different and in a good way. Our purification ceremony involved squatting in a hole as the Shaman poured bucket after bucket of chilly water infused with petals and plants over our heads. It felt incredibly therapeutic as he blessed us and cleansed us from the horrors of the night before. We washed off in the river - I spent ages unmatting and rinsing the red paste from my hair, which left me with a faint ginger dye-job. Becks was relieved she didn't go whole head! The time had come to say goodbye and head back along the bumpy blood-red road to town for our onward travel back to Quito. We felt especially together and close, more so than ever before, with a blissful feeling of contentment and affection. Be this due to the relief of quiet after a storm, or, as the Tsachila's believe, the magical effects of the Ayuhuasca, it was another experience through which we had lived together and come out stronger. Overall it was an experience we would not do again, but one we were happy to have had. Becky's camera unfortunately gave up the ghost when snorkelling in the Galaps so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to invest in a Go Pro. The issue was, where the hell in Quito can you buy one? After surrendering to the congested streets of the old town we headed to La Mariscal, Gringoland in the New Town. This was full of the standard tourist restaurants, agencies and bars playing the World Cup, but no resilient video cameras. Taxi drivers took us from one Centro Commercial to another before we finally found an outdoor adventure shop that had the shiny Go Pro stand and one remaining Hero 3. Let the wild filming of adventures commence. Mindo Mindo is a beautiful town nestled amongst the stunning cloud forests north-east of Quito. It happened to be our next destination for a day. We headed to a Mariposa house and watched the beautiful butterflies dart around us, catching the morning rays. Next we found ourselves clinging onto a raft of inner tubes lashed together with rope, trying not to fall into the Rio Mindo. Our guide, wearing a shirt and jeans, guided the makeshift raft down between rocks and navigated us through the churning water. I tried to catch a passing hummingbird on the Go Pro and this momentary loss in concentration was enough to throw me into Becky, clashing helmets. After 30 minutes of near-flipping we safely made it ashore and were driven back into town, semi naked, on the back of a pick-up. After a classic Menu del Dia we jumped in a taxi to the Tarabita. This was a rickety old cable car that whizzed us 152 metres above a river to the far side of the valley. We wandered through the cloud forest, appreciating its diversity of plants and bird calls. We came across an injured snake that appeared to be bleeding from its mouth and although we felt sorry for it, we couldn't rule out that the blood belonged to the previous sympathetic hiker, so we opted to walk swiftly on. The trail took us to half a dozen waterfalls along the route. We jumped into most of them, enthusiastically making Go Pro videos, aside from ones which we deemed 'rubbish', 'hated' or 'not as good as the ones in New Zealand'. At the last one Becky accidentally flashed an old Ecuadorian boy who seemed to perfectly time his arrival with Becks getting changed. He didn't seem too fazed or apologetic and hung around silently for a while before slouching off when he realised the show would not go on. We got back to Mindo just in time for a tour of the chocolatier El Quetsal. It was interesting tasting the sweetness of coffee fruits (as long as you don't bite the bitter seeds!) and seeing the different stages of refining the cocoa pods. We were beside ourselves with the threat that our bus would leave for Quito before the tastings began. At three minutes to five I made a desperate plea to our guide who wrapped up some Brownies in tin foil before we hurtled down the road to our escaping bus. We got on it just in time and tasted the most delicious chocolate brownie ever concocted. OtavaloWe headed across Quito early the next morning to be greeted by huge queues at the bus terminal. It looked like we weren't the only ones heading to the Saturday market in Otavalo, the biggest in the whole of the Andes. We planned to continue north up the mountain chain into Colombia, so schlepped our backpacks with us. After dumping our stuff at a friendly hostel with views over the highland town, we made our way down to the market. It sprawled out from a central square, spilling down the narrow roads and hummed with life. Becks and I had some great success at buying a bounty of gifts for ourself and our families. We even went for a couple of hammocks which, considering the rental we have recently signed for has no garden, may be a strange idea. The second hammock comes with a solid 4 foot pole which will need to be carted around Colombia and across the Caribbean bound to the side of my bag. We also acquired some painted trays, wood carvings and clay bowls, all of which are pretty fragile. Becks insists they will not get damaged if she nurses her day sack like a baby and never lets it leave her lap. The most memorable time in Otavalo was not from the market, drinks on balconies overshadowed by mountains, great Mexican food or hippie-watching but the brief amble we had through the animal market. It was where all the Ecuadorians in the neighbouring towns, villages and farms came to buy and sell livestock, and we had been told it was always a hive of activity. When we got there it was apparent we were a tad late. A lonely bedraggled old horse was tied to a post and stood head slumped low in a field of dirt. The horse that no one wanted. Some pigs were rooting around the dried mud, straining their short leashes waiting for the buyer to reverse up with his truck. The other animals seemed to have lost the fight in them and were led away with little fuss. The pigs however squealed like a... well, a pig I guess, and bucked and squirmed as they were grabbed by their tales and loaded into the pick up. The guinea pigs followed suit as they tried to wiggle out of the strong grips around their heads, their chubby little bodies wobbling as they frantically pawed the air. Seven dollars a beast, we were tempted but decided against it. Some of the ducklings or kittens being sold probably stole the cute factor anyway. A ring of men started jeering at the far-side of the enclosure. I headed over to investigate. Becks quickly saw the 'entertainment' and backed away in disgust. Cock fighting. I had never seen anything like it before. I thought about avoiding it completely and joining Becks, but before I knew it I was amongst the circle of men watching two beautiful cockerels, with blades attached to their feet, trying to slaughter one another. It was more than just curiosity that had brought me to that circle, it was the fact that I had never had a particularly strong opinion about the 'sport'. Sure I thought it should be illegal but it had never provoked anger in me. The cockerels are merely doing what they would do naturally, no? In Indonesia they have a similar betting game where cobras fight to the death, but this hasn't made its way into the world's conscience. Dog fighting is a definite no no, but cock fighting? I didn't feel as passionately against it as I felt I should. So I sidled up next to the owner of the strutting white cockerel. He was eating an ice cream and transfixed on his prize chicken as if watching a tense game of boules. Money exchanged hands and people placed their bets as the cockerels circled each other. Both rivals boasted striking gold and auburn plumage but all their beauty was lost as they went at each other. Pecking face and throat, jumping up and clawing eyes, flapping and chasing, the whirl of white and brown soon became a bedraggled mess of matted red. The once beautiful creatures looked like they were at death's door but they kept ripping into each other as the surrounding circle of Ecuadorians hooted and jeered. A pale and disturbed looking me looked on in horror. The worse was still to come as the bloodied white cockerel started to show signs of defeat. The fight was stopped as ice cream man grabbed the bird, inspected its wounds, blew a prayer into its feathers and sent it back out to fight. It was stunned. Like a concussed boxer it weakly stumbled back into the ring, only to be lacerated by more savage pecks. It fled, chased by its opponent, and I assumed the fight had been won. Unfortunately greedy ice cream man was not willing to back down just yet. He put his poor cockerel back in the ring, and it ran for its life again. His opponent almost seemed to show some sympathy, he was no longer a threat, there was no need to keep fighting with artificial, razor sharp claws. Podgy, stubborn ice cream man, refused to admit defeat and returned the half dead bird time and time again until the opposition decided they had had enough and scooped up their competitor to go and sort out the winnings. In my eyes, no one won. Except perhaps animal rights campaigners who have gained another supporter against this barbaric practice. We opted to stay an extra day in the area after being captured by the beauty of the area and the towering peaks of Cotacachi and Imbabura surrounding us. As always, it made us yearn to get amongst it and we set off early the next day to Laguna Cuicocha. This grand lake lay in a crater of a dormant volcano and got its name for the guinea pig shaped island in the middle of it. It took us most of the day to circumnavigate it, hiking along the undulating ridge and stopping for a tasty packed lunch with a stunning view over the surrounding farmland and snowy peaks. Our trip to Otavalo had neatly tied in with La Fiesta de San Juan, the centre of celebrations being held at nearby Cotacachi Town. So after getting dropped off by the taxi driver we jumped on a bus to the festival. That makes it sound a lot more straight forward and comfortable than what became the reality. The next few buses were all choc-a-block with drunk festival goers and the only way we got in was for a conductor taking pity on us and let us hang out the door with him, cramming our way in so we wouldn't get swung back out on a tight corner. The festival was in full swing when we got there. It basically consisted of a group of men from each nearby village dressing up in thigh-high chaps and moving forward rhythmically down the street whilst chanting, swinging whips and waving sticks. A lot had a bottle of lethal cane sugar alcohol with them and a few had already submitted to its effects and lay passed out in the streets. Becks and I followed a group of revellers from a highland village and tried to subtly snap a few photos and soak up the atmosphere. They had to keep stopping their progress and dance round in circles as another village tribe would hinder progress by coming from another direction. It didn't take long for our travelling sixth sense to make us feel a bit uneasy as two groups started to move towards each other with us and some other innocent bystanders in the middle. We noticed the huge amount of armed police in riot gear and managed to squeeze round the outside of one group and make our way out via the main square of awaiting spectators. With all the alcohol being consumed and inevitable village rivalries it felting like a hot pot about to boil over. We made our way back to Otavalo and were not surprised to read later that people have been killed every year in the 'celebrations'. We were pleased we had got safely back and that both our gut instincts got us out of what could have left us in the thick of it. Rising with the shine of another crisp Andean morning we shouldered our substantially bulkier rucksacks and made our way to the station. Destination Colombia! It was probably the country we had been most excited about and also the one we were most nervous about. Babs (Becky's mum) had even threatened to fly out to stop us going and it took a lot of diplomacy and route changing to come up with an itinerary which would not give our parentals MIs. We headed to Ibarra, where we changed onto a bus for the border town of Tulcan. We knew we were sensible enough travellers not to take unnecessary risks, but knowing that we were going against Bab's will made us feel tense and on hyper-alert. We met a few other westerners at the border and reminded ourselves that we were being extra cautious by refusing to get a night bus to Cali, instead we were to stop off at Pasto to spend the night away from the risk of bandits and hijackers that worked the remote routes bordering Ecuador and overlapping with FARC territory. The advantage of only travelling during the day was the stunning scenery that greeted us on every bend in the road. Some of the best we had seen in South America which was already making the perceived risks of Colombia worthwhile. CuiAs we entered guerrilla territory, we left behind Quechuan territory. Since northern Argentina we had been mingling with descendants from the once great Inca Empire, and amongst the rich history and culture they had left behind was one of the more peculiar traditions Becky and I were eager to try. A clue to it lay on the table of the painting of The Last Supper in Cusco. Guinea Pig. A cultural delicacy, likely relating to their high fat composition and hardiness against the cold in remote, impoverished Andean villages. We ventured out from our deserted 'backpacker's favourite' hostel and took a taxi to Cui Street. The two restaurants we had been recommended were closed, but the driver was friendly, possibly a little tipsy, and had enjoyed our broken Spanish conversation about our travels. He popped into a rather unremarkable building and confirmed they could cook us up some Cui there and dropped us off with a cheery wave. Becky and I waited for the menu which never came. Guinea Pig was the only option, no turning back now. The entree was a bowl of popcorn shared with a delightful mix of Cui innards. Amongst them we identified pan-fried guinea pig liver, heart and kidney through a mixture of anatomical knowledge and taste. I think it would be fair to say it got a mixed review. The best was yet to come. As we cleansed our palate from the insult of the entree with a Colombian Dorada half a butchered guinea pig (be them from separate beings or two halves of the same) was ceremoniously plonked in front of us. A pair of disposable plastic gloves was provided to each of us to assist in our eating. No sooner had we started tucking in when a striking looking Colombian chica started giving us advice on how best to dissect and rip into them. The Colombians were proving to live up to their reputation and be some of the friendliest in South America. With top tips under our belt we realised that prying scraps of meat off the ribs was not the way to do it. After initial reluctance over the fattiness of the flesh we got stuck in and really enjoyed the rich pork-like meat with the skin akin to crackling. Que rico!
The following morning we were up early for our minibus to Popayan. We had a few hours to explore the town before our night bus set off North to Medellin. We felt we were deep enough into the country now for night travel to be safe from bandits and wanted to press on to give us time to explore the Caribbean coast. We headed down to the local Church which was a disappointment. Just another big whitewashed Chapel appearing a little jaded. Becks was having a strop, for reasons neither of us can remember. We headed down the road in the wrong direction and our lacklustre sightseeing continued as the town all looked a bit grubby and bog-standard, not a Colonial jewel on the road to Cali. That was until we realised we were walking in completely wrong direction and as we backtracked we made it to the Center of town and the pretty Colonial facades all reflecting a bright white in the afternoon sun. Becks found a pretty little cafe with a typical Colombian drink of warm fruity brandy which was a temporary antidote to Becky's strop. After the last few days cooped up on buses I wanted to get some blood flowing and adrenaline pumping. A small hill nearby was famed for its stunning views across Popayan, however the LP advised on only going up with the tourist police as escorts due to reports of the odd rape and violent mugging. I was feeling a little frustrated with how we were not really giving Colombia a fair trial and had such preconceived safety concerns before even crossing the border, we were travelling with prejudice. It was an ultimate evil. Travelling helps you see the real world and form your own ideas of a place not solely based on sensationalist reporting of isolated events beamed into our living rooms. It is little wonder how people become scared to leave their own country with the horrors that await them in the big bad world. Colombia had its fair share of bad press, particularly in the 80's and 90's and that was likely where the current backpacking generation's mums and dads got their safety concerns from. That and the FCO website. Anyway things were feeling a little beige so I thought I would strip myself of my valuables, take a "mugger's wallet" and hurtle myself along the narrow cobbled street to the hill. The sun was setting and as expected there were a lot of young students coupling in the last rays of the day. I figured if I ran into any trouble a good samaritan amongst them would surely step forward before things got too nasty. Just as I started up the hill I had that strange feeling of knowing that someone was watching me. I turned around and saw a tough looking "youth" on a motorbike staring up at me. He nonchalantly looked away when I clocked him. I started up again and looked back after twenty or so more metres of steep climbing. The hard looking youth had repositioned himself to the other side of the road. A strange place to be on a motorbike, unless he had done it deliberately to keep eyes on the prize? I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid and to relax with the sunset but I couldn't. I thought about heading down the far side but a group of young men were standing around smoking and kicking a bottle around. I waited awhile, feeling trapped and acutely aware of the ever darkening sky. I hid over the crest of the hill and worried that Becky would now be surely fretting. I picked myself carefully forward until I could see the view of the road and was relieved that my tormentor had vanished. My heart thumped at the window of opportunity as a Colombian couple ambled gently down the hill. I walked just behind them and as things stayed clear I thundered past and scrambled down the steep dirt track before careering off towards a lamp post. I swung off the side of it and landed heavily on the pavement below. No mugger in sight. I sprinted back along the street and arrived panting back at the cafe where Becky was so engrossed in her diary she didn't notice the wild look of relief on my sweaty face.* *I have just written about this on a bus in Tunisia (on the way back to our 4 star hotel from a stunning tour of the Sahara). It was the first Becky had heard about it and she felt there was a fair degree of poetic licence but remembered me looking like I had seen a ghost. In hindsight I am sure it was just our Colombian paranoia that had led me to be so untrustworthy and on edge. I am sure the youth was just chillin' on his bike and not planning a brutal robbery. It highlights how safety and security is key to travel and its crucial to make informed decisions about places such as with the FCO and guidebooks, however it risks jeopardising the enjoyment of a place. It creates a prejudice of insecurity which is always difficult to shake. Our trip in Tunisia has reaffirmed this. A new dawn slowly crept in and illuminated the once notorious city of Medellin. For much of the eighties and nineties it was a city synonymous with a certain Pablo Escobar. The ultimate drug king pin who was largely responsible for Medellin having a reputation as one of the most dangerous, bloodiest and crime-ridden cities on the planet. Becks and I shared a taxi with a couple of non-descript North Americans to the surrounding hills and looked down with admiration at the beauty of the majestic city. It was difficult to imagine that a decade before the blood soaked streets and carcasses of burnt out buildings would have prevailed over the grand Colonial facades, museums and cathedrals. The King of Cocaine was estimated to be worth $30 billion in the early 90's and is said to have been the wealthiest criminal in history. Harnessed up, straps tight, buckles checked and I followed the instructions to run down the grassy slope until, just before reaching the plummeting precipice, we started floating and soared off into the sky. Up and up we circled with the Condors guiding us through the best thermals so that Becky appeared as a tiny speck amongst the tropical vegetation and cliffs beneath us. With the Go Pro unashamedly fastened to a selfie stick I took some snaps with my instructor smiling manically back and realised a little too late that he was, indeed, a maniac. After half an hour to climb gently up he pulled down hard left on the canopy to send us spiralling downward through the sky like a pea down a plughole. We plummeted back to the landing zone in a couple of minutes and we touched down gently on the grass to give me time to get a few snaps of Becks paragliding for the first time and having the time of her life. To get a better idea of the once notorious city we went on a guided walk, one of the "free city" tours which have started to crop up in hundreds of cities around the world and always tend to be highly informative. We learnt about the traditional arrogance of the Medellians and the pride they had in their city. The warm welcome we seemed to receive as foreigners resonated with the peoples' desire to move on and rebuild from the past, with the recent influx of tourists shoeing hope for stable, peaceful times ahead. It was evident though that most shiny streets and public squares had a darker side where a few years ago a grenade was thrown into a crowd here, or a homemade bomb was detonated in an art installation there. With each bloody attack the death toll would rise, and the revenge attacks from the paramilitaries, the FARC, Escobar or local drug gang would keep coming. Nothing illustrated the hope and promise that Colombia had left its dark days behind than football. Universally, it unites a nation and we were lucky enough to experience that in Medellin. Where England had failed dismally, Colombia were doing better than anyone could have hoped for. For the first time in my life, I bought a football shirt and we became completely engrossed in the electric atmosphere building up to the big quarter final against the host nation Brazil. The nations hopes lay on the likes of Cuadrado and James Rodriguez and we gathered at a huge screen immersed in a sea of yellow and red. The passion in the crowd would rival any game watched in the home nation and summed up what the World Cup was all about. We were befriended by some locals and I had shot after shot with one, whilst Becky remained the sober traveller to ensure we made it onto our night bus North that evening. We cheered, we booed, we gasped, hoped and dreamed. Colombia lost and were out of the World Cup. Not that it did anything to dampen the outrageous celebrations across the streets and squares afterwards. A country that had lost but were bloody happy they had done so well. No riots, no violence. Just delight and celebration. With sprayed foam and Colombian flag transfers smothering our smiling faces we made it to the Terminale for our bus out of Medellin and onto the Caribbean coast.
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