Introduction

The El-Dorado legend is based on a true story where a Chibcha king was covered in gold dust then put on a ceremonial raft and set adrift on a lake. After a while he dived into the water and then emerged with all the gold washed off him. Offerings of precious stones and gold objects were later thrown into what was later identified as Lake Guatavita, north of Bogota in Colombia. A small model gold raft discovered at the bottom of the lake backed up the story and this is now displayed in the Museo de Oro (Museum of Gold) in Bogota, one of the best gold museums in Latin America. Periodically attempts have been made to drain Lake Guatavita and items have been found there but not on the scale imagined by the Spanish who were influenced by the story of El-Dorado.

During the late 1980s Colombia became a kind of modern El-Dorado where you had the feeling that there was a large pot of gold under the nearest tree. Although considerable poverty still existed in many parts of the country due to the government's failure to deliver social and economic reform, the country boomed in business terms mainly due to the rise and export of drugs which affected every part of Colombian society. From 1990 to 1997 Colombia became the premier coca producing cultivating country in the world with production increasing by as much as 140%. Therefore, some people were doing very well and were getting wealthier. The desire for wealth also caused the Spanish conquistadors to search the remotest and most dangerous areas of Colombia for El-Dorado which ultimately caused the deaths of thousands of indigenous Indians and Spanish explorers.

Violence in Colombia was disproportionate to that of other South American countries during the 1990s. Kidnappings and homicides increased with politicians, judges, police and journalists being targeted by the drug traffikers. This made the country one of the most dangerous and violent in the world so I had never previously thought about travelling there. While I spent time in Colombia between 1987 and 1997 It turned out to be a great experience which led to many interesting adventures.

After travelling around the country which took me as far north as the Caribbean coast and as far south as the Amazon, I worked in Bogota, the capital, for about ten years during the time which saw some of the worst fighting between the drug cartels and the government. Experiencing bomb explosions, assassinations and street robberies first hand, I spent just over a year exporting exotic fruit back to London then several years teaching English at B.P Exploration. This enabled me to travel around the country and meet a wide cross section of Colombians, from the poorest to the richest. Colombia is a country of great social contrasts like other South American states. Those who benefit are the rich and the drug traffikers. The words fairness and equality were words not used or practised much in Colombia during my time there. 

I saw the good and bad side of the country with most of the problems stemming from the uneven distribution of wealth and the growth of the cocaine business. During the early 1990s Pablo Escobar, the leading and wealthiest drug lord and figurehead of the Medellin Cartel, led a war against the government and challenged both the authority of the politicians and the fabric of Colombian society. He accumulated vast wealth and even tried to obtain political power by offering to pay off the country's national debt but ended up being shot and killed by the security forces in Medellin. The vacuum left by Escobar was filled by the Rodriguez Orejuala brothers in Cali as the cocaine trade and the power connected to it shifted away from Medellin but the problems continued.

The 1990s remained a very uncertain time, particularly with the election of Ernesto Samper as president in 1994. He believed that social deprivation had become the main cause of the country's problems. He began talks with the FARC and ELN guerrilla movements and increased public spending on social welfare but after evidence emerged that the Cali Cartel had made a huge donation to Samper's election campaign, the government lost popularity and Samper was accused and charged with having links with the drug cartels. This led to political instability and the assassination of opposition leader Alvaro Gomez followed by the government declaration of a state of emergency. More evidence arose about the linking of government ministers with the drug cartels which resulted in the international community losing confidence in Colombia. This led to the USA decertifying it in March 1996 and ceased giving financial aid to the Colombian government. Therefore, a period of economic and political instability hit the country. This became apparent in Bogota with an upsurge in crime, social deprivation and the kidnapping of important Colombian figures.

Politics was not the only problem in Colombia as a Westerner had to be wary of poor people living on the streets of Bogota who viewed a gringo as a bag of money. Unlike other parts of the world such as India where the people are more passive, the mindset in Colombia is different. During the 1980s and 1990s some homeless people living on the streets felt it their right to have what another person had. If money was not given some took it. Drug addiction was inevitably linked to this as some beggars on the streets of Bogota were addicted to cheap derivatives of cocaine. The vast majority of Colombians didn't touch it. Coca is used by people in the mountains as a precaution against altitude sickness. Many poor country people grow it in their gardens for medicinal purposes. When travelling in the countryside it's not uncommon to see several coca bushes growing in somebody's garden.

I enjoyed my experiences in Colombia even though I did become the victim of street crime. I learnt many new things, I saw an interesting part of the world and when I finally left in 1997 I didn't have any regrets.

Arriving in Colombia

The journey from London via Madrid had been an interesting one. Nigel Barling and I had wandered around the centre of a cloudy and chilly Madrid for several hours during a December afternoon sitting at roadside cafes and drinking in bars. I even paid a visit to the Prado Museum to view Goya's Peninsular War paintings. We spent the evening dancing and drinking with the locals in a central Madrid disco and it was such fun that we overlooked the time and had to rush to the airport in a taxi and board our connecting flight with only minutes to spare. The passengers aboard the plane stared at us, clearly agitated to be delayed as we were the last to board and took our seats a few minutes after the official departure time. 

After the crew had undertaken their mandatory safety precautions we were soon in the air flying towards South America. I went to the toilet where I changed out of my sweaty clothes and into a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms which were more comfortable then returned to my seat. I had exhausted myself dancing at the Madrid disco and this caused me to fall into a deep sleep as soon as I closed my eyes and I only awoke when the Iberian Airways plane landed at San Juan in Puerto Rico for a short stopover.

Nigel and I were both from farming families and wanted some adventure and to temporarily escape from the Kent countryside not far from the village of Upchurch in England where we lived. Nigel had recently got divorced and I had lost my father to cancer so neither of us felt in a particularly happy frame of mind. We decided to head for Colombia where we thought we would have a holiday with some new and exciting experiences dreaming of our very own El-Dorado.

 As the plane descended through the clouds, Bogota, surrounded by mountains, came into view. The sprawling city is situated on a high plateau with several million inhabitants. It had been raining, the sky was grey and I could see puddles on the runway as we came in to land. Shabby buildings surrounded the airport, most were dirty white with Latin style orange tiled roofs.

Our arrival in Colombia wasn't problem free as Nigel's suitcase containing most of his clothes and other items failed to arrive from Madrid. He only had the clothes he wore, a shirt and a pair of light coloured trousers. After several loud and angry exchanges with Spanish speaking officials who couldn't speak or understand a word of English, we were referred to the lost property office. Fortunately, the official spoke English and after investigating the matter informed Nigel that his baggage couldn't be traced and that he would be given $50 dollars compensation. Reluctantly accepting the outcome, Nigel planned to investigate the matter further and actually collected his lost baggage in Madrid three weeks later. It had never left the Spanish capital.

After a speedy yellow taxi ride from the airport we reached the centre of Bogota at about 7 a.m. on a cool and wet December morning. This part of the city centre was almost completely deserted apart from a few dirty looking beggars who passed by. We found a fast food cafeteria in Avenida 19 where we ate some burgers and decided on our next move. A dirty ragged beggar entered the cafeteria asking for food but the staff refused to serve him. Shouting aggressively with bulging eyes, he eventually departed as the staff just stood watching shaking their heads. Not used to this and knowing that the city had a reputation as being the most dangerous in the world, we concluded that Bogota was a place to leave as quickly as possible.

After studying my map of Colombia we first decided to book into a hotel and get several hours sleep then head directly to the main bus station and catch a bus to Santa Marta on the Caribbean coast where we would find beaches, music and bars. This is where we thought we could begin our adventure.

We checked into the Hotel Italia situated in Avenida 7a near Avenida 19. Constructed in a Spanish colonial style next to a 16th century pink church named Las Nieves, the hotel served as a short stay destination for small time Colombian business people who travelled from the countryside or provincial towns to do business in the capital. I stayed in this hotel many times during the 1990s. The interior of the building, particularly the reception, had a musty smell and a dark, damp, dingy atmosphere. Two floors had a myriad of rooms with separate showers and toilets. Located on the first floor, a large lounge served as a rest area where a TV stood in the corner. The TV reception was so bad that it was hardly possible to watch anything so the small aerial on top had to be moved around to get a clear image.

The dingy ground floor of the hotel corridor near reception often became blocked with traditional ceramic pots which were brought in by Quecha Indians from Ecuador or businessmen from small towns or villages. The pots were later stored in one of the ground floor rooms for safe keeping and were then moved on to a store or market by the owner of the goods.

The male porters and receptionists wore identical clothing consisting of a navy blue jacket, light grey trousers, white shirt and red tie. They only spoke Spanish but I knew sufficient to communicate. Maids scurried around the corridors carrying bundles of sheets for washing in the hotel laundry and guests periodically passed by. Over time I got to know the staff who referred to me as 'El Ingles' and I became part of the furniture, familiar to all who worked there. Nigel and I stayed in the hotel during the morning and got several hours sleep. For me it was quite difficult because of the hard mattress while the thin partitioned walls meant that every noise could be heard and this made sleep difficult. Somebody even knocked hard on my door during the morning but I ignored it. In the outside communal bathroom a short distance along the corridor the toilet didn't flush properly, the bathroom mirror was cracked and a dribble of water came out of a metal pipe in the wall with water so cold it was hardly possible to bear on exposed skin for a quick wash never mind a shower.

Leaving the hotel early afternoon, one of the hotel porters waved down a taxi in the street just outside the hotel and we clambered in with our bags. I turned to the taxi driver and said.

"El terminal de autobuses, por favor."

The taxi driver understood and after a short twenty minute drive we drew up at the bus station situated fairly close to the airport on the opposite side of the highway. We walked very quickly into the terminal to evade the notice of potential thieves and pushed our way through the crowds with some difficulty and bought two one way tickets to Santa Marta on the Caribbean coast.

The bus station bustled with life as rural workers and families pushed past in an effort to reach their particular bay. A large collection of small shops sold almost everything required by a taveller from chocolate bars to soap. From the corner of my eye I noticed two policemen in khaki uniforms violently beating a man with sticks who I assumed had been caught stealing from someone. Meanwhile, two Colombian Indian boys guarded their mother's goods on the bus station floor as people walked past. We didn't have to wait long in the bay as our bus was due to leave at 2-30 p.m. and we had arrived early.

We boarded an old chiva like bus with a religious painting on the rear board and a ladder leading to a rack for merchandise on the roof. We were accompanied by a collection of country peasants and chugged out of the sprawling Colombian capital around mid afternoon. A journey lasting for 24 hours through the Andes was hard to imagine on the way to Santa Marta. The bus felt as if it had very little suspension and wasn't the most comfortable type of transport but a good means of seeing the countryside. The Salsa and Vallenato music which played aloud on the driver's cassette player made the journey a little more enjoyable. Air conditioning didn't exist so the windows were kept wide open for the wind to rush through and keep everyone cool but Nigel and I were full of excitement and expectation on our first visit to South America as the bus journey began.

Once out of the sprawling, dreary suburbs of Bogota and into the green and mountainous terrain of Boyaca state, the temperature increased and we passed lush green fields with cattle surrounded by willows, waterfalls, jungle covered misty mountains and fast flowing rivers. The beauty of the countryside made it easier to understand why the Spanish considered Boyaca to be a likely place for the location of El-Dorado. 

We stopped at different villages where an assortment of country peasants joined us with a variety of animals and chickens. When the bus stopped a line of men and boys entered the bus selling food and drink. "Chitos! Chitos!" some shouted loudly as they held packets of crisps above their heads. Beggars held out their hands at the bus windows in expectation of a few pesos. The bus stopped regularly for passengers to enter and exit. They had to climb over several sleeping people and animals in the corridor to find a suitable place. At one of several army checkpoints, everyone had to leave the bus while Colombian soldiers dressed in olive green uniforms and peeked caps conducted a search. They also carried out body searches and inspected the passports of passengers spread-eagled against the side of the vehicle. The soldiers were looking for contraband although they found nothing so we were politely allowed to re-board the bus and continue our journey without further delay.

As the bus climbed higher into the Andes and dodged large rocks that had fallen on to the road from the slopes above, it moved faster around the relentless winding mountain roads. When turning a corner the bus wheels precariously touched the edge of the road from where a precipice dropped vertically into the valley below. The passengers swayed violently from one side to the other as the bus turned a corner. When hitting a bump in the road passengers were flung into the air but their shouts were silenced by the loud cassette music which played on relentlessly as sleep became impossible. Oncoming vehicles travelling at unacceptably high speed narrowly avoided the bus when passing. It was hair raising stuff. Having this experience was made worse because road lighting didn't exist and oncoming headlights were blinding as vehicles rumbled towards us. The cassette music continued relentlessly on as the bus twisted and turned along the rough and dusty mountain roads.

The first main town in Boyaca is Tunja situated in a mountainous area about 137 kilometres from Bogota. As we passed by I remember seeing the town cathedral and a football match taking place between a group of locals. Although I passed the town many times on my way to the Caribbean coast, I never stopped to have a closer look but with a collection of different museums and churches it was probably worth seeing. Open, arid and hot, the locality was very different to the lush green mountainous area we had passed when first entering Boyaca. Centuries earlier Tunja had been the capital of the Muisca empire, equal to Bogota as an important city.

The Muisca totalled about 600,000 people who lived 2,000 to 3,000 metres up in the Cordillera Oriental Mountains north of Bogota. Living in huts and enjoying a cool climate with fertile land and plenty of rainfall, they were involved in agriculture, lived off potatoes and corn and drank Chicha, an Andean alcoholic drink made of maize. They made texiles from cotton, gold artefacts and did some stone sculpture. They also formed the highest concentration of Latin American indigenous Indians between the Mayan and Inca empires and had their own traditional myths and legends.

Rural dwellers in Boyaca inherited some past legends from colonial times and one of these is about priests who were persecuted in the early years of the Spanish presence and were driven into the mountains to live in caves. They were then transformed into 'El Mohan', cannibalistic creatures with yellow teeth and covered in fur who liked to eat children. The Mohan also liked beautiful young women to whom they showed their hidden treasure. They stole bait off fishermens hooks and enjoyed luring people into secluded lagoons and drowning them. Colombian mothers in Boyaca still advise their children to take salt if they go out to play because the Mohan, who may come after them, don't like it. The El Mohan story is one of many myths and legends told by country people in Colombia.

After a gruelling journey along the winding mountain roads, across iron bridges with streams or valleys below and past narrow rivers where groups of children swam, we reached the halfway stage at Bucaramanga in Santander. Bordered by mountains, Bucaramanga is a picturesque city with an old white colonial style cathedral surrounded by palm trees in the centre but apart from this there is little else of great interest to see. Many buses pass through on the way to the Caribbean coast or the Atlantic. In future years I twice visited Bucaramanga and enjoyed the peaceful feeling of the city. It is much more provincial than Bogota, well ordered, clean and relatively safe compared with the capital. 

At the bus station in Bucaramanga we hurredly refreshed ourselves with food and drink then re-boarded the bus and continued on course for Santa Marta. As we travelled farther north the terrain became flatter, the temperature increased and a pungent smell came from the nearby vegetation. From the window we could see open farming country with lots of cattle. We also saw some indigenous Indians in the northern part of Santander. These were the Bari people, an old warrior tribe who had many conflicts with the Spanish but had lost 90% of their land and were very much a minority in danger of dying out completely like other indigenous people in Colombia. 

While passengers tried to sleep, the bus raced through dark and deserted villages until dawn broke then mist unveiled an exotic landscape with green fields, distant mountains, banana plantations and grazing white cattle. Colonial style white houses dotted the landscape with wooden shacks making do for the poor in the side of the road. Some shacks served as shops selling an assortment of goods with old rusting cars or piles of tyres and plastic gasoline containers outside. Dark skinned children wandered around in nothing more than shorts or played football while old men wearing straw hats sat lazily watching the traffic pass by. We felt relieved to experience the bus racing along the flat roads and to feel relatively secure after our earlier mountain experience. As the day progressed the wind caused the banana trees to loudly rustle in the wind, men on donkey drawn carts periodically passed by and the heat became more intense. Occasionally, we passed an overturned vehicle with people standing around it or a dead dog or cat lying in the road.

Most of the villages we passed through were linear, small and nondescript without a lot going on but the bus periodically stopped which allowed passengers to eat at makeshift roadside restaurants with pots of food cooking on fires attended by Indian looking women. The women worked under the cover of a thatched roof on stilts as smoke and the aroma of freshly cooked meat wafted around the locality but the food tasted good.

As we passed through the town of Cienaga in Magdalena we knew from our map that we were on the last lap of our journey. We passed several villages located on lagoons where wooden houses stood on stilts and where a great variety of birds could be seen, especially pink flamingos. I remember visiting one of these lagoons in a boat at a later date. Herons and Flying Fish are common in this area and the local population use long flat boats as their main form of transportation along the many waterways to get from one house to another.

One of the most famous people from Magdalena is the Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who originated from the village of Aracatata 80 kilometres south of Santa Marta. He went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982 and became the first Colombian to win the award. Most of his work is influenced by the Colombian Caribbean coastal region and his own village of Aracatata. From the 1950s Marquez had spent most of his time living and working outside Colombia with only occasional visits to his native country but he later became an important and well known worldwide literary figure. 

During our whole journey we didn't speak to anybody and nobody spoke to us. This was probably due to our inability to speak Spanish and our fellow passengers were mainly rural people from poor backgrounds and were stand offish because Nigel and I were foreigners. This gave me time to think a lot about life and to consider the scenery which I suppose is what most people do when taking long bus rides.

We finally entered a congested central Santa Marta bus station on a steaming early January afternoon, completely exhausted and dishevelled after an arduous 24 hour bus journey through Colombia. As we clambered off the bus Vallenato music blared from radios, men and boys rushed towards us shouting "Taxi! Taxi!" A man standing in the doorway of a waiting bus shouted "Barranquilla ! Barranquilla!" We ignored everyone and carrying our bags we dodged the hawkers and taxi drivers and made our way on foot along the sea front of Santa Marta for an adventure on the Caribbean.

Santa Marta, founded by Rodrigo de Bastidos in 1525, was the first town in Colombia to be created by the Spanish conquistadors. The Spanish were attracted to it because of its harbour and closeness to the River Magdalena. During the mid 16th century sea dogs like Sir Francis Drake attacked and ransacked it twenty times but it survived. Although Santa Marta didn't have as much colonial architecture as Cartagena and parts were a little run down, it felt like a very vibrant and friendly town where most people knew each other and where the climate remained tropical and very hot.

We quickly found accommodation in the Hotel Yuldama which dated from the 1950s and it turned out to be a pleasant place to stay. With a blue and white frontage, small balconies and situated directly in front of a palm fringed beach, guests could get a good view of the sea. The beach wasn't completely clean and patches of petroleum floated on the surface of the water from the nearby port. A large cargo ship stood motionless on the horizon, not far from a huge rock with a lighthouse on top which protruded out of the sea. Small groups of people were dotted along the beach and young children worked as hawkers selling a wide variety of cheap products ranging from sunglasses to ice cream. Nigel and I spent several days on the beach sunbathing and talking to all kinds of people. Several years later I remember leaving my sandals and towel on the beach close to this location while going off to bathe in the sea. After a few minutes I noticed a nun and another woman waving frantically in my direction. I turned and waded back to the shore to find that a thief had stolen my clothes and had run away. After this I learnt not to leave personal items unattended on the beach in Santa Marta and always took appropriate precautions.

Nigel and I spent the days trying to escape the stifling heat, sitting in cool, air conditioned cafes with glasses full of fruit juice and the occasional ice cream with the remainder of our time spent on the beach being almost roasted alive but best of all was night time, the most exciting time of the day in Santa Marta as bright coloured lights illuminated most of the cafes and hotels and loud Vallenato music boomed aloud. This type of music which means 'born in the valley' and originates from the rural Caribbean part of Colombia is very popular in Santa Marta and can be heard in many of the bars, cafes and discos. Colombian singer Diomedes Diaz continued to be the most popular performer of Vallenato while I was there. Meanwhile, street girls wearing tight short mini skirts and high heel shoes paraded along the waterfront for customers and an army of small boys in bare feet begged for food and coins. Amongst these characters were tourists, mainly families on vacation from different parts of the country. A few foreigners, mainly backpackers, walked amongst them. Men sitting at clumsy looking metal ice crushing machines sold cold drinks. Occasionally, an old man or young boy would offer shoe polishing services. The bustle of the entire area was set off by the loud rustling of the waterfront palm trees as the warm and pleasant Caribbean wind passed through making relaxation a pleasant option. I sometimes sat on a bench in Simon Bolivar Park with its flower gardens or in Plaza Bolivar near a building named Casa de la Aduana, originally built in 1531. The body of Simon Bolivar, founder of Colombia lay there in state in 1830. He is one of several important historical figures revered by Colombians.

In the central part of Santa Marta the narrow streets were vibrant and crowded with shoppers who searched for bargains at the street markets. Street vendors standing at stalls and brighty painted barrows shaded by colourful sun umbrellas sold everything from fruit to watches. Small boys slept on the pavement and in doorways to avoid the stifling afternoon heat. People passed by multi coloured shop fronts as they did their shopping. Suddenly, a tall thin man dressed in blue stepped out of the shadows and introduced himself as Gabriel.

"Hey, are you Americans?" He asked with an American accent and a smile across his face.

"No, we're British", I replied.

"Long time since I met any British people around these parts", he answered. "Where are you heading?"

"We're planning on staying here a while", I replied.

Gabriel seemed keen to give advice and had taken interest because he had heard us conversing in English. This was our first introduction to Gabriel who became a long term acquaintance on future journeys to Colombia. He had started off in life as a dental technician in Los Angeles but had mainly concentrated on his music for much of his spare time as he was a guitarist and claimed to have played in the backing group for Jim Morrison and 'The Doors.'

"I reckon I could make at least $100,000 dollars with my Spanish ballads which I've composed in Santa Marta", said Gabriel.

I wasn't convinced by this and continued to believe that Gabriel stayed in Santa Marta struggling to exist and didn't make a breakthrough with his music. He always dreamt of a better life but like other Colombians he had to make do with what he had until his opportunity came.

Gabriel, who was about 40 years old, lived in a matchbox sized room in a building not far from Telecom. His only possessions were a guitar, a collection of small photos and several pairs of socks and underwear. The clothes he wore were some of the few he had, a dark blue Fred Perry shirt, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of grey trainers. I had never known a person to wear the same clothes over such a long period but Gabriel was not like others of his age. It was like describing Michael Jackson as a regular guy. However, he did an honest day's work changing peso notes for coins on the steps of the Telecom building. He made a bare living but he got by. He also did some part time work taking tourists around town and he did the occasional deal in cocaine. Although his daily routine was a little monotonous he met a lot of people and he could take time off work when he liked. His big moment of excitement occurred when a shoot out took place between two mafia gangs in the street near Telecom. Gabriel had to lie on the ground as bullets ricocheted off buildings in the street. He also experienced a difficult period when a young Colombian brother and sister came on to his territory as competition and this affected his income for a while. He never spoke to them and they never spoke to him but they all knew they had to make a living to survive. That's the way it is in this part of the world.

Gabriel had got stranded in Santa Marta after his arrival in Colombia to visit relatives on the Caribbean coast. His family was of Lebanese descent like many others living in the region which also included famous Colombian singer Shakira whose music was becoming popular during the 1990s.

Having spent several weeks in Colombia, Gabriel decided to stay longer but he didn't have sufficient money so speaking to men in the locality he got a job loading aircraft in the Guajira Desert, not far from Santa Marta. He claimed that he was unaware of what he was loading on to a small aircraft when the Colombian security forces surrounded the plane and arrested everyone as the cargo consisted of cocaine. Gabriel was taken away with the other men and put in jail. He claimed that his U.S passport was then confiscated and handed over to the U.S embassy. Several days later the local mafia paid for the release of the men from police custody but Gabriel claimed he was unable to get his passport. He was stuck in Colombia whether he liked it or not.

During the time that I knew Gabriel he had two girlfriends. The first was a street girl who he accompanied for a few weeks then she disappeared. She dressed shabbily, had bad teeth and was of dirty appearance.

"I know the bitch is going with other guys," he said. I treat her well but she can't change."

Gabriel always reckoned that she was still secretly selling her body when she was with him and eventually got murdered by a client somewhere in the Sierra Nevada, close to Santa Marta. The second was his middle aged girlfriend named Irene from Medellin. A religious woman who regularly attended church, she waited on Gabriel hand and foot and also assisted him in his business on the steps of Telecom.

"Irene looks after me real good. She cooks my food, washes my clothes and she goes to church almost every day," said Gabriel. "I'm pretty much happy with that situation."

They were always arguing and Irene usually got very vociferous and increased the speed of her voice to the point where she could not be understood. Fairly short in height, she had long black hair and wore knee length dresses. Not the smartest looking woman, Irene looked undernourished but was very kind, generous and hospitable. She tended to be extreme in her mood, saying almost nothing one moment or ranting about something and working herself up into a frenzy the next but I suppose that was all part of her Latin spirit.

Gabriel knew a lot of people in Santa Marta and once introduced me to the father and brother of famous Colombian footballer Carlos Valderrama. The family lived in Santa Marta and Carlos owned his own restaurant named 'El Pibe' situated in the tourist area known as El Rodadero. Carlos Valderrama, well known for his mop of permed blonde hair, became one of Colombia's most famous players. His father trained aspiring teenage footballers in Santa Marta and also became a well known personality. One day I also saw heart throb Latino singer louis Miguel wandering along the beach with his dog but I didn't want want to disturb his privacy so I kept my distance.

Our first female aquaintance turned out to be a young and overweight girl named Olga who Nigel had befriended. She was accompanied by her friend Luz who was shorter and thinner with one of her top front teeth missing. Nigel liked Olga who, at the age of 23 already had four children but Nigel kept everyone amused, especially when he performed his trick of making a lighted cigarette disappear into his mouth. He periodically met with Olga while we were in Santa Marta but communication proved difficult as Nigel couldn't speak Spanish but by using simple language, hand gestures and by changing his tone of voice he was able to make himself understood. Olga played along, spent most of her time laughing and had a fun time. 

On our third day we decided to find another hotel and The Hotel Miramar, the oldest in Santa Marta with a distinct pink exterior situated in Calle 10, had available rooms. The rooms were rather small, dingy and stuffy and the reception became overcrowded with tour guides at night but the receptionists were friendly and the rooms cheap so we based ourselves there while exploring Santa Marta and the surrounding area.

Gabriel acted as our guide in Santa Marta and took us to some very interesting locations which included a lagoon and some unspoilt coastline with fantastically beautiful white sandy beaches lined with palm trees a short distance from Santa Marta. I visited several different places but Macao situated on the Venezualan border was the most fascinating. It had a reputation as a wild town where a visitor had to be careful and vigilant because of the crime and insecurity. A small border town where contraband was smuggled between Colombia and Venezuala, Macao became well known as a place where quick cash could be made, either in business, at the barrel of a gun or at the point of a knife. Crowded with Guajira Indians and local business people selling their goods from trucks or in shops, Macao bustled with life. Thieves loitered in the shadows sizing up likely victims while sheep and goats wandered amongst the mass of people in the streets and private security guards dressed in brown uniforms and caps stood at the entrance of almost every shop holding a rifle or club.

Macao had come to life during the 1970s when it became a commercial centre due to the oil boom in Venezuala and the increase of contraband in the Guajira peninsular. Marijuana, produced in the Sierra Nevada Mountains also became an in demand commodity so many people converged on Macao to make money and some became very wealthy out of drug money or contraband goods.

The Guajira Indians had their own mafia. Armed to the teeth, they regularly held up and attacked passing trucks, robbing them of all their goods before reselling these on the black market. I saw several Indians fitting this description walking around the centre of Macao. One Indian had long black hair plaited down his back and wore sunglasses. The handle of a gun protruded from the top of his trousers. He wore a medallion around his neck and had a serious look on his face. I was told that the Guajira Indians who inhabit the area between Colombia and Venezuala are some of the most aggressive Indians in South America. Originally, the Guajira Indians had traded pearls with the Spanish in return for domestic farm animals and were semi nomadic people. Later they traded salt and gypsum found in the desert then from the 1980s, with the growth of the drug trade, they began helping the traffikers get drugs and contraband across the border into Venezuala.

During the 1980s and 1990s the fight between the government forces and the paramilitary groups had a negative effect on the area. Extortion, kidnapping and assasinations became common and the situation worsened with a downturn in the Venezualan economy. Trade decreased and the government became much stricter with the flow of contraband. The government tried to find a solution to this problem in 1991 when it gave Macao special customs status. The idea behind this was to allow raw materials into the country which were then converted into products and exported back out of the country. This attracted more business minded people to the area including merchants from the Middle East which led to the construction of the Al-Jatted Mosque in Macao, one of the biggest in Latin America.

While walking around the town I took photos of various people but I chose the wrong ones when I photographed two Guajira women dressed in colourful smocks known as mantas. The women were sitting on a wall and were very similar in dress to the Indians from Kerala in Southern India apart from a few who had their faces covered in black paint made of goat fat and charcoal as protection from the sun and wind.

Angry because I had taken photos of them, the women began shouting their objections which brought a serious looking Guajira man in my direction. I couldn't understand his Spanish but he was not happy. Gabriel immediately intervened and after telling the Indian that I was a friend of the local mafia the problem ended with smiles and I was allowed to go free without an escalation of the problem.

Visiting a Guajira village interested me but taxi drivers refused to take me after Gabriel had made enquiries. They said that they would not enter the nearest village even with the windows down and the doors locked. I later learnt that some missionaries had been decapitated by the Indians several days earlier so everyone felt a bit tense. However, I did get the chance to see a village on a future visit to the area where the buildings were no more than huts constructed of beach trash, sticks and metal sheets. I didn't see the presence of any water or electricity and the surrounding arid area wasn't good for growing crops although some Indians had goats, sheep and horses and spent their time looking after these animals while the women prepared meat, milked the cows and made hammocks, belts and bags from cotton and bags from reeds. The Indians lived simple lives in a very hot and barren environment where it only rained from September to December but they maintained their tribal traditions and spoke their own language.

Nigel became fascinated by an albino Indian boy seated on a sack full of produce accompanied by his family waiting for a bus. Dressed in traditional indigenous clothing with a wide brimmed hat he looked almost European but in reality he was as Indian as they come. He just stared back at Nigel  with a serious expression as if to say, "What are you staring at?" 

After an hour wandering around Macao Gabriel introduced us to some of his aquaintances and I was invited to visit their farm on the outskirts of Santa Marta. I went there several days later and my hosts, the Granados family, kindly showed me around their gigantic bungalow decorated with original paintings then a member of the family gave me a guided tour of the farm in his jeep, showed me various crops that were growing there and gave me a running commentary about how the farm functioned. I felt genuinly honoured by the hospitality.

I left Macao a little bemused and shocked by what I had seen but it wasn't my last visit to the small border town. I passed through on at least three other occasions after spending time in Venezuala. I always felt apprehensive when I got there during the day and it gave me the shivers passing through at night although I never experienced any problems with criminals at the crossing. Staring across the short distance of no man's land in the darkness you had the feeling that it was unwise to cross so I always gave in to caution and waited for the sun to come up.

The nights could be unbearable in summer due to mosquitoes with periodic plagues of the insects that gave a nasty bite. Fortunately, I didn't experience the worst of this while in Macao but I did have one bad night in Maracaibo several hours away in Venezuala when staying the night in a cheap hotel beside the bus station. With the windows open for ventilation and without blankets I got stung badly by mosquitoes while trying to sleep. I was told that I could suffer the same experience in Macao but I never stayed there long enough to find out.

Nigel and I returned to Santa Marta where we spent most days on the beach and the evenings drinking in different bars overlooking the sea. We had a great social experience. Being a relaxing place to escape the pressures of the modern world, Santa Marta offered sunshine, beaches and friendly people. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry and life slowly passed by. I got fed up with street boys begging for money or food whenever I sat down to eat but I eventually got used to it and accepted it as part of the culture.

We met a variety of people as we sat at a beachside bar watching a group of local men playing billiards when suddenly a very big Afro-Colombian man with a scarred face and completely drunk stumbled off the street and slumped down on a chair beside us. We couldn't have a sensible conversation because he was unable to understand anything we said. He just shouted the same word 'gringo' over and over again and demanded drink after drink. Eventually, the men playing billiards guessed that he was bothering us and so they came over and told him to leave. Refusing their polite request he repeatedly shouted and gesticulated at them. They tried to reason but it was no good. Turning their billiard sticks around they began beating the man violently on the head and back. He staggered away trying to shield his head but the men continued striking him until he disappeared into the darkness. The men then offered us their apologies and resumed their game of billiards as if nothing had happened.

We spent the long and hot sleepy evenings mixing with all kinds of characters along the seafront in different bars. They usually had a sad tale to tell and ultimately asked for money. I sometimes felt like somebody from a foreign charity  giving out cash to those in need but this is how life was in Santa Marta and I could not change that.

The street girls who originated from different parts of Colombia mainly went for the Philippino sailors from the merchant ships that periodically entered the docks. These men were prepared to spend a week's wages on the girls and buy them all kinds of gifts and treated them well. The girls were from poor families trying to make some money. They spent their evenings sitting outside the local bars looking for potential customers. They did not have much going for them but at least they were friendly and I spent some evenings talking to them while enjoying the warm evening breeze from the Caribbean.

In Santa Marta people were coming and going. The only ones I met regularly were Gabriel and an old man dressed in white who spoke to me near the beach. I never knew his name but he spent his time watching people pass by then would get into conversation which I could barely understand because of his strong Caribbean accent. Dark skinned, wrinkled and thin to the point of emaciation, he had his own theories about life but spent his time in the same place every day talking about Santa Marta and the people who lived there. Every time I visited Santa Marta he recognised me and had one of his little conversations in Spanish.

Taganga is situated just over a hill which leads up from the port in Santa Marta and at the top there is a manificent view of the picturesque bay below with rows of colourful fishing boats nestled on the palm fringed beach dotted with sun umbrellas. During the early 1990s wooden shacks selling food and drink stood back from the beach and were surrounded by palm trees. Cactus covered mountains led up from the beach. Very tranquil and laid back, Taganga was a pleasant place to relax . I rested and bathed there many times over the years while visiting Santa Marta although I did once have a difficult moment while I was bathing in the sea when the current pulled me out. Battling hard. I managed to regain control and got back to shore but it was a nervous moment.

Nigel wanted to purchase some emeralds while in Santa Marta and made an appointment to view some in a shop but had a shock when the owner summoned an armed man in sunglasses to watch the proceedings with his gun at the ready. Nigel and I felt uncomfortable but this is how things worked in Colombia and nobody wanted to take a risk where money was concerned. The same applied to many shops and businesses that were constantly watched over by security guards in brown uniforms armed with a club or gun.

The last big problem facing Nigel and I concerned our return flight to Bogota which we had decided to take instead of suffering another long and punishing bus journey. We had booked an Avianca flight from Santa Marta to Bogota. Although we had all the details we overlooked checking the flight time carefully. One morning while relaxing on the beach an Avianca flight passed over.

"Look at that plane up there, it's Avianca" said Nigel. "I hope it isn't our flight."

"I'll check the tickets to make sure", I replied as I opened my bag and took them out.

"I hate to tell you this Nigel but it is our flight, we had better get back to the ticket desk at the airport as quickly as possible."

Rushing quickly back to our hotel we packed our bags, paid the bill then in the company of Nigel's friend Olga and her friend Luz we hailed a taxi to take us to the airport.

We reached the Avianca ticket desk before it closed and I was able to speak to the desk clerk  to explain what had happened.

"Well, sir, there aren't any more flights from here to Bogota for several days but you can get a flight early this evening from Barranquilla if you hurry."

"Thanks very much", I replied. "Can you give me all the details and book two seats then I'll go to Barranquilla."

The girl did everything in a few minutes, politely wished me luck then Nigel and I departed as quickly as possible in the waiting taxi outside the airport.

We asked the driver to take us to Barranquilla then after several hours speeding along the flat coastal road we reached the airport where Nigel said a quick farewell to a tearful Olga then we passed through passport control. Soon we were in Bogota where we boarded a connecting flight to Leticia in the Amazon for a very different adventure.

In the Amazon

As we flew from Bogota to Leticia on our Avianca Airways flight the vast expanse of Amazonia filled the landscape below. A mass of green trees and the winding River Amazon curling through it like a snake filled the view from the airplane window.

The Colombian Amazon forms part of the world's largest ecosystem with over one third of the total species found there. The largest river in the world, the River Amazon flows through this area and Leticia is located on its banks. There aren't any roads connecting this part of Colombia with other parts, only the River Amazon can be used. Therefore, Leticia, with about 35,000 inhabitants is isolated apart from its close links with Tabatinga in Brazil and Santa Rosa in Peru.

Although the Amazon looks all the same from an aircraft there are three different types of forest with particular ecosystems. The first of these is Terra Firme which remains dry throughout the year. The second is Varzea which is flooded for part of the year and the third is Igapo which is flooded all year round. The area close to Leticia is mainly Varzea and Igapo while the nearest Terra Firme area is in Brazil and Peru.

December is a month when the climate is generally cool in central Colombia but the temperature in Leticia remains high with humidity. While I travelled in the Amazon matters were made worse by the intense rain that fell heavily like clockwork at exactly the same time every afternoon. This made walking outside for more than twenty minutes an uncomfortable experience.

When Nigel and I arrived at the small Amazonian airport of Leticia, we passed through immigration, showed our passports and yellow fever inoculation certificates and collected our bags. We were approached by a short, thick set man with black silky hair, a wide smile and a square shaped head. Although smiling and talkative he looked shifty. When he discovered that we needed accommodation he took us to a small hotel with available rooms about one mile from the airport. He offered to be our guide but we refused then after a short conversation he left. We met him several more times at the hotel, each time he offered his services but he failed to convince us. He was a friendly person but not one that we felt we could trust.

On the first day we headed straight for the banks of the River Amazon to explore the area. All kinds of people mingled there. Fishermen sold fish and bargained for the best price at the harbour, indigenous Indians mixed with tourists and macho looking Colombians drank small cups of black coffee known as 'Tinto' which is a Colombian slang word for red wine.

In the crowd a man resembling Tarzan stood out. Although middle aged with brushed back black hair and a muscular body, he dressed in the style of the movie character and enjoyed fame amongst the local population. Known in the area as 'Kapax' or 'Amazonian Tarzan', his real name was Alberto Lesmes Rojas. He had been born in a village in the Putumayo jungle but as a boy he never attended school. He became famous in 1976 when he swam the River Magdalena from its source south of Barranquilla. After this he remained in Leticia where he posed for tourists with an anaconda around his neck and taught children about environmental protection. I learnt that he had jumped into the Amazon River to rescue a group of tourists after their boat had capsized. Everyone seemed to know this Colombian who stood out distinctly amongst other people and made a great tourist attraction.

At the side of the river, tied by rope to a sturdy pole, an old white wooden steamer rested against the riverbank. This had been used in a film several years earlier. It featured German actor Klaus Kinski as a famous Irish rubber planter known as 'Fitzcarraldo.' The film had been directed by controversial film maker Werner Hertzog. The steamer now stood as a reminder to days past when the film had been made although many Indians probably didn't want to remember it as a large number had died in the making of the movie after getting crushed under the boat which they were moving across land for a scene in the film.

Indian women did their washing in the river and semi naked children played nearby. Countless small boats with thatched straw roofs  serving as homes were dotted along the river front. Poor people sat around talking or fixing clothes before the dreaded rain returned. Dry conditions in Leticia are limited at this time of the year.

During the late afternoon while the rain poured down we stood in the dimly lit reception of our small hotel talking to the receptionist. She was a very friendly, dark skinned Latin Indian girl who only spoke Spanish. Suddenly, a man entered the reception. He looked to be in his early thirties, very friendly, smartly dressed and he wore a huge gold crucifix  with emeralds embedded in it around his neck. He spoke a little English and showed interest in us. We told him about our adventures and seeming impressed he invited us to visit his private zoo. Nigel and I looked at each other not really taking what he said seriously but in this part of the world you can expect anything.

The next morning we were collected outside our hotel and taken to the zoo somewhere in Leticia by jeep. Our new friend showed us around and we were amazed at the variety of animals he kept there. I saw a jaguar, monkeys and a huge python that one of the zoo keepers held by the neck and forced it to open its mouth, big enough to swallow a dog. It was certainly impressive and we learnt that our friend not only owned most of the hotels in Leticia which included our own but was also the biggest exporter of illegal cocaine in the area. Whatever his faults he remained friendly, offered us food and drink and introduced us to his friends and colleagues who were also very hospitable. We were later given an invitation to attend his New Year's Eve party due to take place the following night on the grounds of his house near the river.

Next morning we shared a boat with an American couple and an Indian guide on the River Amazon. The couple didn't seem to get along too well but like us they wanted to see some Amazonian wildlife. We sped along the river in the motor launch towards a national park area called Monkey Island which took about 40 minutes from the harbour in Leticia. We saw colourful parrots in the trees and a wide range of monkeys which were quite tame. Unfortunately, the American woman began fooling with one of the monkeys which enfuriated the animal and it repeatedly tried to bite her leg while chasing her. While she ran in circles with the animal closely in pursuit, her husband and our Indian guide tried to resolve the problem by pursuing the monkey. This only made matters worse with three humans and a monkey running in circles in a jungle clearing. Nigel roared with laughter and I also found it amusing.

New Year's Eve arrived and as midnight approached we discovered that we could celebrate New Year twice on the same day. A difference of one hour separated Colombia from Brazil at the junction of the River Amazon.

Travelling between the two counries couldn't have been easier as Nigel and I walked across an open border between Leticia and Tabatinga without having to show any documents. The two parts form on large town. Only the language changed as Spanish is spoken on the Colombian side and Portuguese on the other.

We crossed into Tabatinga at about 10 p.m. and spent a little time looking around then as the clock struck midnight fire crackers were thrown on the road. Some people dressed in colourful clothes danced wildly and eveyone seemed joyous. A man and woman selling fruit at a stall in the side of the road sat swaying from one side to the other in time with the music while onlookers smiled. Nothing much more happened so we made our way through the gathering crowd and returned to Leticia to seek out our Colombian friend who we had met several days earlier.

Crossing back into Colombia at about 11 p.m. we hailed a taxi on the dark and crowded streets of Leticia. I had the address of our mafia friend and we were taken directly there by the driver in just a few minutes. Situated about twenty yards from the edge of the River Amazon, the house, surrounded by exotic trees and plants, stood isolated in a quiet area. We entered the building to find a wild party taking place. A mixed crowd of people danced, ate and drank and the house vibrated to the loud sound of Salsa music. Our friend, dressed in a red shirt and black trousers and still wearing his gold crucifix around his neck greeted us with a huge smile as we entered his house.

"Hi, amigos", he shouted above the ear splitting sound of the music. "Let me introduce you to my friends."

Most of his friends were hyped up with alcohol and some had bruises on their faces as if they had been fighting but we joined in the fun by dancing and drinking Aguardiente. I danced with a short, attractive Indian girl with long black hair that reached her waist. I kept up with her for at least twenty minutes but eventually gave up due to the overpowering humidity. After we finished I noticed a long line of young Colombian girls enter the room and sit down on a row of chairs.

"I have invited these girls just for you", said our Colombian host. "Take who you like and enjoy yourselves, have a good time."

I chose a girl and danced very badly to the Salsa but she didn't seem embarressed. About 18 years old, she had black hair and wore a light blue silk dress with puff shoulders but I soon became distracted as everyone moved outside for the New Year's Eve midnight celebration. I stood on the lawn with a view directly over the River Amazon. A large bonfire had been lit and a huge cow was being roasted on a spit for our consumption. An orange glow from the fire reflected off the gathered throng which had assembled nearby and awaited midnight with great excitement and expectation.

Midnight struck to the cheers of those present then everyone began dancing to loud Salsa music which boomed from large speakers positioned on the lawn. Several men pulled handguns from their jackets and pointed these directly into the bonfire and fired. Bullets passed through the fire, hit the back wall of the house and ricocheted back over our heads. Becoming nervous, Nigel decided to leave but I felt happy and continued to celebrate. As the excitement became less, those present gradually drifted back into the house and looked tired. After several moments to gather my thoughts I joined the others in the living room where some guests had collapsed on  the floor and on the sofa. I wandered into one of the side rooms where I found a group of Colombians snorting cocaine from silver paper laid out on a table. They offered me some but I turned it down thinking it was the wisest thing to do as I had never taken it before and didn't see the benefits of taking drugs anyway. Several of the Colombians passed some unintelligible comments in Spanish then continued snorting the white powder laid out in front of them.

By 3 a.m. everything had become subdued and most of the girls had gone home. At this stage I returned to my hotel. I walked out of the house and along the road then into the hotel a few minutes away. After the security guard had let me in I went to bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep, unaware of the wild experience awaiting me the following morning.

Our motor launch set off from Leticia after our Indian guide had been paid in pesos at an agreed price. Our aim was to venture deep into the Amazon jungle. After we set off we passed wooden buildings on stilts periodically dotted along the shoreline. Children waved from the riverbank and small motor launches passed by creating a wave that turned our boat to one side. Our journey continued for about an hour until the river became an endless grey expanse with impenetrable vegetation on each side which did not change much for several hours.

We first stopped at a Yaguar Indian village on the banks of the river and wandered around photographing the inhabitants who were generally hospitable and friendly. The Indians dressed mainly in shorts and T-shirts and appeared to have a peaceful existence. Some women were openly breast feeding their babies while others were preparing food or washing clothes. As I photographed one small girl sucking her left thumb I noticed her look of suspicion and a knife grasped firmly in her right hand. I knew I had to be careful. The Yaguas had tried to maintain their culture and up to 4,000 of them lived in villages in the Peruvian Amazon, some lived within several hours of Leticia.

After we left the Yagua village we got into our boat and continued our journey then turned into a narrow tributary where we passed semi naked Indians in canoes, groups of women washing clothes near the shore and giant rodents called Capybaras swimming nearby. The humid atmosphere felt suffocating as spots of rain fell. We stopped at an opening in the jungle and stepped ashore. A Yagua Indian boy watched from the top of  a nearby tree. Nigel overturned a stone to find a deadly snake underneath. It attacked but Nigel killed it with a rock and the danger passed. Exploring the area, Nigel climbed on to a large branch protruding into the tributary and put his arm into a hole in a nearby tree trunk. In seconds giant ants were rushing up his arm. Letting out a yell he jumped into the water and brushed away the insects but being told that pirhanas were found in these parts he vacated the water hastily. We made our way back to the motor launch and our waiting Indian guide. He told us to be wary of the Indians and also of a water spirit known as 'La Mojana' which many locals believe inhabit the Amazon region in the form of a human who lures people away into the jungle. Some locals apply this to pink dolphins found in the area but we didn't experience any problems.

Travelling much further along the narrow tributary and under overhanging vegetation, we were watched closely by peeping Tikuna Indians with red painted faces. Eventually we reached another opening and walked along a winding, narrow pathway to a Tikuna village with wooden houses on stilts. Indians gathered to watch suspiciously as we journeyed farther. I noticed a pot containing a capybara cooking over a fire. The village chief approached, greeted us apprehensively then showed off a tarantula in a small wicker basket and allowed me to take photos.

Although the Tikuna Indians had been in contact with outsiders since the 16th century, they were eerily silent and emotionless as I took their photos, almost as if they didn't understand. An Indian with a red painted face played panpipes as we stopped at one building and others touched us laughing and fascinated by the tattoos on Nigel's arms. Most of the villagers, both men and women, just stared at us with fascination. We explored the village for little more than an hour and I photographed almost everything. Dead capybaras lay on the ground at the entances of some houses, exotic birds made unfamiliar sounds from the trees and the humidity remained suffocating. After a while the Indians became more serious and our guide instructed us to give money. I pulled out a wad of pesos and handed over some notes. More Indians joined the gathering holding out their hands. The atmosphere suddenly turned tense.

"Move towards the river slowly", said the guide. "Then when I give the word run as fast as you can to the boat."

"I don't like the look of this", said Nigel. "Let's get out of here." 

The Indians became increasingly agitated as we walked backwards handing out money then we turned and ran at full speed towards the boat with the yelling Indians following closely behind. We leapt into the boat with beating hearts, the guide pulled the engine cord and we sped away, relieved to escape a threatening situation as the Indians yelled and gesticulated from the shore.

"I'm glad we're out of there", said Nigel. "I thought we were going to get killed. I won't be coming back here again." 

The grey skies opened up and a prolonged deluge of rain soaked us to the skin. Our Indian guide stopped the boat and we sat out the storm for a while but the temperature decreased sharply which may have caused the flu like symptoms that I later developed.

After the storm a magnificent brown and orange sunset appeared which tinged the area with a brilliant glow. A quiet stillness developed and as darkness quickly fell we sped along the river until we eventually saw the distant lights of Leticia and were happy to arrive although a little ruffled by our Amazonian experience.

For the next three days I confined myself to bed after contracting some kind of river sickness after our adventure in the Amazon. The unpleasant symptoms resembled a severe dose of flu. I ached all over and became weaker as the day progressed. Nigel went out and bought food  but I could do nothing. This brought my Amazonian adventure in Leticia to a premature end and I was soon travelling back to Bogota on an Avianca flight with Nigel sitting next to me with the memories of a fascinating experience.

Expedition to the Lost City of the Tairona Indians

With the mules laden with sacks of food we began our journey. There were three of us, me and two professional German climbers named Andreas and Hans. A guide from Santa Marta named Miguel Ramirez armed with a handgun and experienced in the mountains led the expedition. He spent most of his time in Santa Marta getting drunk but he knew the mountains and the people there and stayed sober all the time he was working. His Afro-Caribbean wife who he called 'Gordita' cooked the food and proved to be very agile when climbing. Two other Colombians named Pedro and Juan carried the equipment and led the mules. Pedro wore a pair of football boots without laces but climbed like a mountain goat and had the ability to spear fish in the mountain streams. We intended to become the first people to climb to the Lost City of the Tairona Indians high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern Colombia which until recently had been considered Indian territory. Even nowadays the mountains are only sparsely populated with non Indians. 

The Lost City, discovered in 1972, is known as 'Teyuna' to the indigenous Indians and is thought to have been founded in 800 AD, about 650 years earlier than Machu Picchu in Peru. The Tairona Indians who constructed it had a sophisticated culture. They produced gold artefacts, built stone roads and bridges, maintained an efficient system of agriculture and had a religious belief that the Sierra Nevada was at the heart of the world. The four Indian tribes who live in the Sierra Nevada still continue this old traditional culture and regard themselves as guardians of the area but are non violent, passive people.

We set off over the foothills and into the jungle covered mountains in temperatures soaring above 100 degrees Fahrenheit. It was fairly easy to walk along the wide tracks and gentle slopes, nothing like the arduous experience that we later encountered.

We spent the first night sleeping in a shack with noisy piglets in a jungle clearing, part of a small farm owned by a Colombian peasant farmer. It wasn't a comfortable experience but I slept well. Earlier that evening I watched two barefoot teams of local Indians play each other on a makeshift football pitch, a relaxing way to end the day. Next morning our mules escaped into the jungle with our equipment but after some panic they were recaptured by our Colombian porters then we continued higher up the slopes which became steeper until the mules couldn't progress any further. We left the mules in the care of a local man in a jungle clearing to graze until we returned. The guides loaded the sacks of food on to their backs then we continued our upward journey. Torrential rain at night turned the ground to mud. This made climbing treacherous and tiring as white mist rose from the jungle, monkeys hooted from the green jungle canopy above, colourful warblers perched on branches and huge blue, purple or yellow butterflies periodically fluttered past in the early morning haze.

Late on the second day after struggling up steeper slopes we entered a Cogi Indian village where the Indians lived in huts with their animals. About 12,000 Cogi Indians lived in the Siera Nevada during the 1990s. They wore traditional white clothes with upturned flower pot hats covering their black shoulder length hair. They were very passive, treated us with suspicion and took cigarettes from us. One of them even shared some Aguardiente with us and became drunk. Generally, the Indians were serious, shy people and kept their distance. They only really wanted to mix with their own kind but they didn't cause any problems.

The Cogi Indians had tried to preserve their cultural heritage and had a highly organised society with tribal chiefs. Most of their villages had from ten to twelve huts surrounded by a bigger building hidden in the mountains. These villages were only periodically occupied as the Indians moved to other locations where they lived in isolated huts with some land and had a variety of crops at different altitudes. These were as high as 2,000 feet above sea level and consisted of bananas, beans, plantains, potatoes, maize and fruit trees growing in a variety of different temperatures. Therefore, the Indians were mainly self sufficient and made their own clothes, pottery, bags and ropes but led very simple lives well away from mainstream society.

The Indians only occasionally visited towns like Santa Marta to buy esential goods like aluminium or metal pots, knives, machetes and salt which they could not easily get in the Sierra Nevada. Sometimes they sold herbs which could remedy different ailments. I remember purchasing a root with a very strong aniseed smell that could ease headaches when rubbed on the forehead and to my surprise it worked but caused a stench in my hotel room.

Several hours after leaving the village and after climbing more steep and difficult slopes, we bathed under a cold waterfall which refreshed our tired bodies and got rid of the sweat and mud that had accumulated. Being pure, the water was drinkable so we used the site for our encampment. Hammocks were slung up between trees, plastic covers were erected as protection from rain and a fire lit. I was so tired that I just lay in my hammock watching countless numbers of insects get incinerated as they ran up the lighted candle next to me. Fireflies resembled moving white stars as they flew in the pitch black night sky. Eventually the splattering of rain droplets hit the plastic cover above me then as these became more intense I fell aleep.

Next morning we washed and shaved in a mountain stream then after gathering our equipment we loaded up everything on to our backs and continued upwards to the top of the Sierra. The next part of the journey was the most arduous with vertical slopes and thick vegetation to deal with. As the day progressed and the heat became more intense the sweat poured off my brow and my clothes became saturated. Sometimes we had to shuffle along narrow ledges holding on to roots protruding from the side of the mountain. Other times we used ropes to climb from one boulder to another and progress further up the mountain. This wasn't easy with many dangers. One slip could have easily led to a fatal accident. My colleagues who were experienced mountaineers coped easily but being a novice I had to struggle. Miguel Ramirez kept me going with his conversation but there were times when I doubted my ability to cope with the climbing which exhausted me both physically and mentally.

When we reached less testing terrain we cut a pathway through some thick vegetation with our machetes and experienced a period of relative ease. This part of the jungle was very dark, very pleasant and natural to be in. We stopped and rested several times in the stillness as afternoon approached and I drank some water from a mountain stream. Soon after this we reached a clearing and found ourselves in a field of cocaine bushes which were guarded by two workers with machetes. Miguel seemed to know them so there wasn't a problem and with the onset of rain we took shelter in a thatched roof hut adjacent to the field. After a conversation and coffee the rain eased so we gathered up our equipment and continued our journey for several more hours before setting up camp. Along the way we were periodically visited by several Cogi Indians who were checking on us but they didn't cause any problems so we reached our camp site without incident.

During early afternoon of the third day we reached a towering, vertical mountain face with 1,200 narrow steps leading upwards through overhanging vegetation. These steps dated back centuries and looked very loose and fragile, stretching almost vertically upwards as far as the eye could see. This was the only entry point to the Lost City. After a long and hazardous climb we eventually reached the top almost totally exhausted. I had to lie on the ground and couldn't move for several minutes due to exhaustion. Several of my colleagues were in a similar condition.

We continued our journey towards the Lost City through a jungle landscape covered with thick undergrowth and speckled with pink flowers. A soldier suddenly appeared holding a rifle pointing upwards above his head. We were all a little worried as he approached and asked us in Spanish what we were doing and inspected our papers. Several more soldiers arrived then everything became less tense and we were allowed continue and explore the ruins of the Lost City and its surroundings.

The Lost City consisted of 169 terraces, tiled roads and plazas. Walls and irrigation canals on several levels formed the main ruins with vegetation growing between. One of the soldiers informed us that the Lost City had once been bigger than Machu Picchu in Peru and had served as a hidden refuge for the reclusive Indians who had moved higher into the mountains to preserve their culture and to escape the Spanish conquistadors. Much of the vegetation had been cleared and there were some magnificent views of the surrounding terrain available from this high position. A portion of the area had been cleared for helicopters, allowing soldiers to be transported in and out for their campaign against the FARC (The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) guerrillas and to seek out and destroy illegal coca factories concealed in the surrounding jungle. The location, peaceful and desolate had become a perfect refuge for the Tairona Indians and more recently for their descendants.

We spent several hours in the Lost City, chatted about our adventures and were shown a guest book with the names of foreigners who had visited the site. The book showed that I had become the first Englishman to climb there which gave me a feeling of satisfaction that I had done something that a fellow countryman had never done before.

After a welcome rest and a good meal which lasted for several hours, our return journey began. The porters put the baggage on their backs and we departed. Struggling down the vertical steps which led from the Lost City back into the jungle was dangerous an one slip could have sent everyone crashing to certain death but we reached the bottom safely. We quickly continued down slopes and through thick vegetation which meant that we didn't have to rest as frequently as on our upward journey. Going downhill felt a lot easier. We occasionally passed peasant farmers accompanying their mules along the mountain paths but we did not meet any FARC guerrillas. On the way Andreas fell into a shallow ravine and we had to resue him. Fortunately, he didn't fall very far so there wasn't a big problem as several of us were able to go down and pull him out uninjured.

While journeying down the slopes I noticed some interesting wildlife like Red Billed Emerald Humming Birds hovering in the trees and loud squawking macaws but not much more than that. I had heard that jaguars, pumas, bears and armadillos inhabited the area but I didn't hear or see any.

After days of walking and climbing sleeping became easier and getting covered in mud and sweat or blisters on the feet remained the only problem. Bathing in a stream or under a waterfall felt very comfortable but moving quickly we soon reached the clearing where we had left the mules. We collected these from the farmer who had looked after them and then continued our journey which became easier after we had put our bags on to the animals backs to carry for us. We then reached the starting point at the foot of the Sierra Nevada where a minibus awaited us.

Although the trek had been a fascinating experience, I felt a sense of relief that the adventure had ended and enjoyed the exotic beaches of Santa Marta when we finally arrived several hours later.

Journey to Cartagena and Tolu

The road from Santa Marta to Cartagena has the advantage of being flat but parts of it were full of holes when I undertook my first trip, making a rapid bus journey for passengers a bit uncomfortable. I took the route by bus with Gabriel who wanted to show me the city and then take me to see his uncle's farm.

On the bus I enjoyed the music and observing different people who were getting on and off. I noticed a dark skinned girl get on because of her youthful appearance. She had very short black hair, wore large gold earrings, a violet coloured half top with her waist exposed and a light yellow skirt down to her ankles. She carried two large bags full of clothing and stared in my direction, fascinated by my conversation with Gabriel in English. Gabriel approached the girl and after a short conversation she took a seat beside me. She couldn't speak any English so Gabriel interpreted. In the conversation it turned out that the girl whose name was Cecelia was not a teenager but a 23 year old businesswoman from Barranquilla. She made a living by buying and selling clothes, mainly for tourists who came on vacation to the Caribbean coast. Living with her aunt in a middle class district of Barranquilla, Cecelia didn't have any parents. They were both dead. She was trying to make her own way through life the best way she could.

The journey from Santa Marta passed quickly but an incident occurred when two drunkards staggered on to the bus somewhere between Barranquilla and Cartagena. They found seats close to us and one of them pulled out a bottle of Aguardiente which he shared with his friend. Shouting and singing aloud they were intimidating and I noticed a revolver protruding from the shorter man's belt. They offered me a drink which I accepted and they tried to converse but the only words they uttered were 'amigo' or 'gringo.' I smiled and tried to maintain a sense of humour while all the passengers watched nervously. The incident quickly ended when the two men got off the bus at a deserted point along the highway. I watched them staggering along the side of the road, one of them still drinking from the bottle of Aguardiente and singing as our bus continued on its way.

We reached Cartagena after a journey of about six hours, left the bus and the three of us immediately booked into a hotel close to 'La Bocagrande', a well known street in Cartagena full of hotels, bars, restaurants and entertainment situated about one kilometre from the old city. With fast food joints and shops we were very close to the sea where the beaches were rather dirty and huge breakers and strong currents made swimming difficult and dangerous. Only the sea near the islands known as Los Islas del Rosario was fit for swimming. 

La Playa Blanca (White Beach) turned out to be the best beach. Situated on an island just off the coast, we reached it by taking a boat from Mercado Bazurto which only cost a few pesos. It allowed us to relax on the best beach where a coconut full of coconut milk and rum could be bought, a body massage experienced or if you were a woman you could have your hair put into braids. Hawkers paraded along the beach selling a variety of goods while locals cooked food on the beach. It was almost like paradise.

We spent time looking around the old city full of colonial buildings and narrow bustling streets. Vendors crowded the pavements selling different products and Afro-Caribbean women sold lottery tickets on street corners while some people slept on public benches. Horse drawn carts clattered along the narrow streets of the old city while the sounds of Vallenato and Merenge music filled the air. Many buildings had balconies with overhanging colourful flowers. Large wooden shutters hung each side of the windows. The houses were painted in a variety of bright colours which enhanced the vibrancy of the area. It reminded me of Seville in Spain and it had a very romantic atmosphere, particularly at night when the dim orange street lamps created an attractive glow throughout the whole area.

Pedro Heredia from Spain founded Cartagena in 1533. In an area populated by the Calamari people, the city soon became very rich as it accumulated treasure brought there by the Spanish as plunder from the Indians in Peru and Colombia and it became known as 'The Gateway to South America.' This made the city an attractive target for many pirates who attacked it. During the 16th century there were five major sieges of Cartagena. In 1551 the French pirate Robert Baal attacked the city forcing the governor to flee. The pirates then demanded payment in gold and silver and departed after they had received it. Later in 1559 another French pirate named Robert Cote attacked the city and demanded a huge ransom but although the inhabitants put up a good fight Cote still managed to obtain a lot of plunder. English seaman John Hawkins unsuccessfully attacked the city in 1568 but this was followed by Sir Francis Drake who attacked it in 1572 causing many of the inhabitants to flee and take refuge in the nearby village of Turbaco. Drake and his men fought their way into La Bocagrande then into Punta del Julio, now the site of the Naval Club. They burnt 200 houses and destroyed part of the city cathedral with canon fire before securing a ransom of 107,000 ducats along with gems, jewels, 80 artillery pieces and a selection of other goods.

We visited the fortress of Cartagena which had protected the city from marauding pirates. I remember seeing a statue dedicated to British sailors who had died there centuries earlier. This took place in 1741 when Admiral Vernon attacked the city with 186 ships and 25,000 men. The strong city fortifications which had been built in 1536 had been the largest Spanish fort constructed in South America. This enabled the inhabitants to put up a strong fight against the invading British force. Heroic Spanish officer Blas de Lazo led the defence. He had already lost an arm, eye and leg in previous battles but died during this one. Cartagena held out and de Blas de Lazo became known as 'The Saviour of Cartagena.'

Because Gabriel wanted me to visit his uncle's farm we didn't stay long in Cartagena and very soon we were aboard another bus heading for the farm somewhere on the coast. Miles from the nearest town, the farm was located near a small village in a peaceful area and consisted of two houses, some outbuildings and about 100 acres of farmland. The two resident servant boys rode their mangy horses from the farm to the local village to fetch beer for us. They brought it back in tin containers stored in a bucket of cold water to keep it cool. The three of us sat drinking it while we stared at the surrounding countryside, listened to the periodic sounds of tropical birds and talked until darkness arrived. Surrounded by banana trees and plants in endless countryside the environment felt incredibly tranquil. 

Gabriel's uncle, a dark skinned quiet man in his sixties wearing a traditional straw hat, lived with his wife and teenage daughter in a small comfortable house on the farm. He had more or less retired, was interested in selling the farm and wanted his daughter get a good education at university. We were asked to stay in the adjacent bungalow. Basic but fairly spacious, the building had bananas stored in the main room where we erected three hammocks. These were not very comfortable but bearable. Meanwhile, a giant rat came into the room and kept making a loud and eerie grunting sounds. We stayed in our hammocks until the grunting became so tiresome that Gabriel decided to investigate with the aid of a stick. After prodding the area close to where the rodent lay in hiding, Gabriel succeeded in driving it from the building and then we were able to get some sleep.

We stayed on the farm for three days relaxing and talking but apart from some horse riding we didn't do very much until we got bored and decided to head for the beach at Tolu, a small resort with several beautiful islands just off the coast and 175 kilometres from Cartagena. The most well known and beautiful island near Tolu is San Bernardo. We hired a boat which took us there in about twenty minutes then we spent the whole day swimming in crystal clear water watching a wide variety of tropical fish swimming under the surface and relaxing on the beach until the boat returned later in the day. Several vendors sold an assortment of goods on the beach, a cabin sold food and drinks and a group of tourists sat under sun umbrellas. We spent only two days in Tolu because Cecelia had to return to Cartagena to collect some clothes for her business and I had to return to Bogota to resume work.

The hotel where we stayed was old but comfortable. Made of wood and built in a colonial style, with a balcony, the green coloured hotel was situated in a picturesque location facing a palm fringed beach, a pleasant place to relax with panoramic views of the sea. A slim Afro-Colombian girl looked after all our needs so we did not have to do very much during our short stay.

I finally said farewell to Cecelia at the bus stop flanked by colourful painted houses and a huge tree in the centre of Tolu. A range of brightly coloured buses were parked in the locality while drivers congregated nearby chatting and drinking Tinto. Afro-Colombian people sat on the street in front of their homes sleeping or watching life pass by while a small collection of sloths climbed trees in the park nearby. Ready to leave Cecelia, wearing a bright red tight fitting dress and carrying two bags, boarded a Barranquilla bound bus and waved as it set off  but I never saw her again. Several years later I learned that she had married a Frenchman, moved to France, had three children then got divorced. Two days after saying farewell to Cecelia I departed with Gabriel for Santa Marta then on to Bogota after an enjoyable time on the Caribbean coast.

A Return to Santa Marta and the Sierra Nevada

In January 1990 I made the journey to Colombia with my two British companions Nigel Barling and Julian Martin after a great week in Venezuala. We had met up at Caracas airport, partied in the city centre, ventured down to Angel Falls in Canaima then after time on the Orinoco we relaxed in Puerto de la Cruz on the coast before departing for Colombia.

We entered Colombia by taxi from Venezuala at night after a long bus journey from Puerto de La Cruz and the driver recommended that we shouldn't get out for fear of being robbed. He said it was best to pass directly through the border post without getting our passports stamped. We wrongly took his advice and two days later when visiting the immigration department in Santa Marta we were instructed to return to the border post at Macao to get our passports stamped. It couldn't be done in Santa Marta. We met our old friend Gabriel at the Telecom building in Santa Marta. Pleased to see us again he joined us for a meal but was unable to travel to the border because of his work which only left me who could speak Spanish. The three of us jumped into a taxi and sped rapidly towards the border.

As the taxi sped towards Macao I became anxious about getting my passport stamped. It had to be completed on this day otherwise there could be trouble with the authorities in Santa Marta. That was something I wanted to avoid because I knew all about the reputation of the Colombian police. 'Never trust a Colombian policeman' I had been told many times by Colombian friends.

As we approached Macao nothing much happened with the exception of a brief stop to ask some Guajira Indian girls about the location of a petrol station. Because one of the girls was very attractive Nigel offered her 100 pesos for a kiss. Giggling, she obliged, grabbed the money eagerly then we sped off on our way. The route had been quick and easy, only about two hours. Palm trees on the coastal side of the road rustled in the wind and banana plantations on the other side cast shadows across the road.

Travelling farther along the road we reached the Guajira peninsular, a flat scrubland punctuated with cactus trees which stretched to the Venezualan border. In the distance, near the shoreline, flocks of pink flamencos walked the beach searching for food. The turquoise blue sea contrasted with the desert like landscape in the distance. Several heavy trucks passed us along the highway full of Guajira Indians accompanied by a few animals. Trucks served as taxis for many of the local Indians.

After speeding through a succession of coastal villages and towns we reached the quiet provincial fishing town of Riohacha, about 160 kilometres east of Santa Marta. Famous Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez had once resided there. With white sandy beaches lined with palm trees, Riohacha was a beautiful and peaceful location making it easy to understand why the great Colombian writer enjoyed spending time there.

When we reached the border we went directly to the immigration office. I explained to the official in Spanish what had happened. He was quite a friendly person, stamped our passports and took 1,600 pesos for the service with a big smile and best wishes for the day. With the problem solved we jumped back into the awaiting taxi and quickly returned to Santa Marta to resume our holiday.

I had always thought about returning to the Sierra Nevada after my first expedition to the Lost City in 1988 which had been such a memorable adventure. We met my former guide Miguel Ramirez at a beach bar near the port in Santa Marta. Miguel had obviously been drinking alcohol because his speech slurred and he swayed as he spoke. When I told him that we were interested in a return expedition to the mountains his eyes lit up and he suddenly became focused.

"I can take you on a six day trip to the highest point in the Sierra Nevada but I need somebody to help me and a mule to carry the food and equipment. Wait for me in the reception of your hotel and I will meet you there at 6 o'clock to give you the details."

"It's a deal", I replied. "We'll meet you in the reception of the hotel at 6 p.m."

After we made the agreement Miguel had one more beer on us then he quickly departed to make arrangements for our journey. In the meantime, Julian had to return to the U.K because of work.

Nigel and I visited the local police station to inform the police about where we were going. The Sierra Nevada was not the safest place in those days with bands of FARC guerrillas wandering around an area well known for the production of illegal cocaine. The police advised us not to travel into the mountains but we were willing to take the risk. They informed us that they wouldn't be responsible if anything happened. We departed feeling a little apprehensive but with a great sense of adventure.

Early next morning we met at an open air cafe overlooking the sea in Santa Marta. We were lucky because breakfast was being served so we were able to eat before our departure. Only a pair of tired street girls who were left over from the previous night sat chatting nearby. We were served omelette and tea by an attractive black girl but I kept looking at my watch as Miguel had failed to show up on time although that should not have been surprising , after all, this was South America where time keeping is not always an important priority.

Arriving one hour late Miguel Ramirez, accompanied by an Indian assistant, asked us to climb into the mini bus that drew up at the cafe. We got inside with our bags and began our journey. We were then transported to a location several miles outside Santa Marta at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. As the truck waited for us beside a cabin we climbed into the back after throwing in our bags and were then transported to a higher point in the mountains. The wind rushed into our faces as we proceeded along the road pitted with holes until we finally reached our destination. The emerald green coffee plantations were very beautiful against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada and a line of small Cogi Indian women dressed in white passed us walking barefoot with big baskets on their backs ready to begin a day's picking.

At this point we were joined by a German man named Andreas. Dressed in a black shirt, blue jeans and wearing a black peeked cap, he just wanted to trek part of the way to see the views. He didn't say very much but after paying some cash to our guide he accompanied us for about a day. We collected our mule and a week's supply of food was strapped to the animal's back then we began our trek. It was hard work as we had also had to carry our own bags on our backs. Mine was particularly heavy because it contained cameras and lenses. The full intensity of the blazing sun without any shade from trees also made us very tired and after a while walking became very arduous. I wore a white straw hat and thin lightweight trousers but the sun and the heat still got to me and I felt like giving up several times.

After a gruelling trek we were accommodated in a small shack in the mountains where a woman and her teenage daughter served us a meal on the first night. They were both friendly and looked after us well. It was very dark inside the building without any electricity and the food was cooked in a pot over an open fire which illuminated the room with an orange glow. The food smelt and tasted good after our long trek and we slept well in our beds after a hard first day.

Setting off at 5 p.m. in the coolness of the early morning, we reached the Indian village of San Miguel several hours later. Our way was blocked by an indigenous Indian with long black hair and dressed in traditional white clothes. He looked at us with a stern unwelcoming expression and carried a muchillo at his side with the strap over his right shoulder.

"What do you think the problem is?" I asked Miguel.

"Leave it to me, I will speak to him", he replied.

After a long conversation with the Indian in Spanish Miguel turned to me with bad news and said.

"We can't go into the village because FARC guerrillas were there several days ago and murdered some of the Indians, we have to keep going."

We thanked the Indian for his information and as he watched us closely and suspiciously we continued on our way.

The murder of indigenous Indians by paramilitary groups and the Colombian army had become a regular event. The drug traffikers and left wing guerrilla movements forced the Indians to work for them, if they didn't they were murdered. If they did work then the army murdered them so the unfortunate Indians were in a no win situation. They periodically sent delegations to meet the government in Bogota to voice their grievances but with left wing paramilitary groups and drug dealers operating in dense jungle, the government found it almost impossible to satisfy their demands. However, in 1991 with the adoption of the new Colombian constitution, the indigenous Indians were given rights of self government and the power to implement social, political and economic policies in accordance with indigenous law. They also got support from Amnesty International who released periodic reports about the victimization of indigenous rights and killings by the army and paramilitary groups. Furthermore, the Indians set up their own organisations like the Association of Indigenous Council of Northern Cauca, the Regional Council of Cauca and the Indigenous Council of Colombia. These organisations were able to exert territorial, political and social pressure on the government and fight for the Indians cultural rights, recuperation of their land and community development.

As we proceeded higher into the mountains we passed several groups of Indians who stared at us suspiciously as if we were unwelcome intruders. We stopped at a mountain stream where two female Indians were washing clothes but they departed very quickly upon our arrival. After a few minutes I noticed one of the Indian women peeping at us from behind some rocks. She ran away quickly upon realizing that she had been seen. Like in previous situations the Indians preferred to keep their distance but watched us closely.

Late in the afternoon we approached another Indian village high in the mountains which appeared to be completely empty and eerily silent. Wooden huts with straw roofs stood close together but as we got closer there was no sign of life. Nigel rode the mule into the village but when he returned he said.

"I can't see or hear anything, there's nobody there."

"They are there and they are watching us", said Miguel. "They don't like outsiders coming into their territory so they keep their distance."

I was not sure about this but we continued on our way then after passing through an exposed area of high elephant grass Migual announced.

"We have to stop here because we need permission from the local Indian chief to cross the tribal territory. You wait here while I go and speak with him in the village."

Miguel and his Indian assistant then strode off with the mule to visit the local chief in a nearby village. Nigel and I rested and chatted as we sat down in the grass and after about thirty minutes Miguel and the Indian returned to inform us that permission had been given for us to continue so we resumed our trek higher into the mountains.

In this part of the Sierra Nevada the mountains were dry and exposed without quite the same beauty as the jungle covered part that I had visited years earlier. Tracks cut into the sides of the mountains allowed us to ride the mule, save our legs and admire the valleys situated between the huge and bare rugged mountains. As we proceeded along one stony mountain path we saw a group of FARC guerrillas encamped on a mountainside opposite but they were cut off  from us by a deep valley. A group of them sat in front of a tent drinking from mugs with their guns on the ground beside them. They were dressed in paramilitary uniform and waved when they saw us but made no attempt to make further contact. This was our first sighting of FARC.

Fortunately, we did not have any meetings or incidents with FARC who were part of a peasant army formed in 1964 and were inspired by communist ideology claiming to be representatives of the rural poor against the rich classes of Colombia and the U.S. government. They formed the largest insurgent group in Latin America and had fought a constant battle against the government for about forty years. Although self financed, most of their money came from the drug trade, kidnapping, taxes on local government, businesses and extortion. According to the Colombian government  their estimated earnings amounted to $400,000,000 dollars from the drug trade with a total income of $900,000,000 dollars. This allowed fighters to be sent to the Soviet Union and Vietnam for military training and for the movement to become strong enough to fight and inflict casualties on the Colombian army when in combat. The fighting continued during my time in Colombia with daily TV reports showing incidents and casualties.

Human Rights organisations accused FARC of crimes against humanity with civilian massacres and killings of innocent people with gas cylinder bombs. Furthermore, the organisation had recruited minors, sometimes by force and contributed to the displacement of 1.7 million people during the period 1985 to 2000. An estimated 7,000 to 10,000 fighters across the country represented FARC, mainly unemployed poor country people who were led by a small group of intellectuals. Their leaders included Alfonso Cano, a former communist party member who became the idealogical leader of the group in 1990 and Victor Julio Suarez Rojas or 'Mono Jojo' who had joined the organization in 1975. Without a formal education Rojas was wanted by both the Colombian and American governments on drug traffiking charges. During the 1990s Rojas became one of the top FARC commanders and was one of seven members of the organisation's General Secretariat. He became the first FARC leader to collect a tax from peasant farmers on coca plant cultivation and went on to prove himself a ruthless leader and astute military commander responsible for the kidnapping of political figures, murder, extortion and the exploding of a bomb in Bogota.

FARC obtained great advantages from the drug trade by taxing peasant growers and contracting out their services to the traffikers. The FARC leadership was openly accused of involvement in the international drug trade by government ministers although they denied any involvement. Negotiations had periodically taken place between FARC and the government but in 1993 talks were broken off.

By the end of a hard gruelling day walking upwards we were almost at the top of the Sierra Nevada with fantastic panoramic views of the surrounding countryside while mist drifted across the landscape and the temperature became cooler. We reached an isolated Arhuaco Indian home around late afternoon and met up with the inhabitants who consisted of two men wearing hats and traditional clothes and a woman carrying a baby on her back. All three were short and passive. Miguel conversed with them in Spanish and arranged for us to stay in their home. The Arhuaco Indians were peaceful by nature so we were not worried. Our mule was tied to a pole near a thatched hut and we ventured inside.

With a dark and spacious interior the hut had a hole in the centre of the roof which served as a chimney for the fire that burnt on the floor with food cooking in a large pot. Various objects lay around including animal skins which served as beds on the floor. A dog and several pigs wandered freely in the hut. After a short time the indigenous Indian men joined us, listened intently to everything we said and were interested in Nigel's cigarettes which they smoked. They found Nigel's trick of making a lighted cigarette disappear into his mouth very comical and laughed loudly when he did this. Suddenly, one of them noticed something outside. He took a rifle from the wall of the hut and stood by the entrance observing a group of armed men silhouetted against the setting sun approaching. I worried that these figures were FARC fighters but as they got closer it was clear to see that they were soldiers and when they finally arrived conversation revealed that they were looking for FARC guerrillas. They departed into the darkness after a short conversation with our Arhuaco hosts.

After food had been prepared we all sat down to a meal of soup and bread. Although basic it was very welcome after a long day and we ate it very quickly. Unfortunately, later that night both Nigel and I had to run outside to be sick. Either the food or the smoky interior of the hut had disagreed with us and we suffered the same symptoms. We slept well on the animal skins placed on the floor but the pigs were sometimes a bit noisy, grunting and moving around. It was how I imagined life to have been in Medieval England during the 13th century.

At 5 a.m. we were ready to begin our return journey after Nigel had climbed to the top of a nearby peak to prove that he had visited the highest point in the Sierra Nevada. We then took our mule and departed with Miguel Ramirez while the two Arhuaco Indians led the way and acted as guides for the first few kilometres. They then turned back towards their home and we continued our journey alone. We took turns riding the mule until Nigel got bored then I rode it for the remainder of the journey. At one point the mule lost its footing and almost slipped over the side of the mountain path into the valley below. I lurched dangerously sideways on its back but managed to keep my balance. Local rumour tells of an evil spirit that lurks in the area and appears as a pack animal causing violent winds and storms that results in people falling off mountain pathways and into the precipice below . The spirit known as 'La Mula Retina' (The Dark Mule) didn't appear and we didn't have any bad experiences.

We passed two FARC encampments on our return journey without incident and several groups of Arhuaco Indians driving their sheep along the road. We also saw some Indians carrying goods on their heads at the entrance of a coffee plantation. Small Indian villages with basic huts dotted the open landscape with wide open spaces of green where cattle fed against a backdrop of mountains. The journey back to San Miguel was extremely hard and tiring in the intense heat but we were strong and determined enough to make it.

We reached our pick up point at 4 a.m. and jumped into the back of a waiting lorry as day began to break. We experienced freezing conditions with the cold wind blowing in our faces. The road was so bad that when the truck struck a hole we were thrown all over the place. The truck took us to Santa Marta where we immediately found a bar and had some beers with Miguel Ramirez and met his wife who I had last seen on my journey to the Lost City then we made our way to the beach at El Rodadero for a well earned rest.

At the base of the Sierra Nevada on the Caribbean coast is Tairona National Park, an area of 150 kilometres with great natural beauty which I had first visited about the time of going to the Lost City. With golden sandy beaches, thick tropical jungle, magnificent views and a great variety of wildlife it was an incredibly beautiful location. Howling and Titi monkeys hooted in the vegetation and a snake or iguana occasionally appeared. Indian huts with thatched roofs poked out of the vegetation on a hill not far from the beach. I journeyed to the park for the first time with Gabriel and some of his girlfriend's relatives who had come to Santa Marta from Medellin. The trails were great for hiking and the entire area was a magnificent place to relax and to forget about the everyday pressures of life.

Some distance from the beaches and quite high in the mountains along an upward winding track was El Pueblito, an archeological site where a small group of indigenous Indians lived. When the Spanish first came to the area there were approximately 5,000 Indians living there. When I visited the site only two families remained. The majority had been wiped out by disease brought by the Spanish centuries earlier. This was one of several indigenous sites in the locality.

El Pueblito consisted of several thatched roof huts at a clearing in the mountains, quite an idyllic and peaceful spot. Two Indian women dressed in traditional white clothes sat on the ground sewing and making clothes. Their children, dressed in a similar style, sat around staring at us or played nearby. The women and children remained silent and made no attempt to converse with us. Several years later the taller of the two women sat on an Avianca Airlines flight just one seat in front of me as I travelled from Bogota to London. She was accompanied by her husband and children, all dressed in traditional clothes. They were on their way to a conference or exhibition. It seemed sad that so many of the indigenous people of Colombia had been reduced to figures of curiosity and that many were just clinging on to their culture by a thread.

Climbing the rough tracks was not difficult compared with my previous Sierra Nevada adventures but in the heat of the sun walking was tiring. The area consisted mainly of forest with a selection of colourful birds and wildlife but not many people.

While climbing the trail in the lower part of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, I met several Colombians from Bogota. Three of them spoke English and were well educated middle class people. One of them introduced herself as Maria Cristina Acosta who was accompanied by her three boys and her sister Margarita who was with her husband and son.

Maria Cristina came from a rich and priveleged family who lived in a Swiss style chalet in the exclusive Rosales district of Bogota. Her father dealt in emeralds and had sent her to Cambridge University where she had learned English. She was married to a fellow academic. Both worked as lecturers at the National University in Bogota. Maria Cristina worked as a Sociology lecturer in the Social Sciences department and also held a part time position as an interpreter acompanying visiting foreign diplomats in Bogota. She also did translations and looked after her house and three boys at the same time. Her life appeared to be a continual rush and whenever I met her she appeared to be in a hurry, pushing her boys out of the house, jumping into a taxi or preparing for work. Although a little abrupt in her manner, Maria Cristina turned out to be very kind hearted and helped me a lot. She introduced me to many interesting members of the Colombian middle classes and intellectual elite.

After several hours in Tairona Park I said farewell to Maria Cristina and exchanged telephone numbers so that we could stay in touch. When I returned to Bogota I contacted her and we remained friends. Back in Santa Marta I met up with Nigel and found a small colonial style hotel with available rooms situated in a side street not far from the beach. Owned by a friendly family from Medellin, Residencia Nueva Granada had a small collection of comfortable rooms. The manager named Elvis sat in reception. He was a quiet, dark haired man who allowed us to check in. Everything turned out well except when Nigel spent too long in the sun while on the beach and suffered serious sunburn which confined him to his room for several days wrapped in wet towels. I think he suffered badly with his bright red roasted body but I got food and drink for him until he recovered several days later.

I spent three days relaxing on the beach at El Rodadero where there wasn't much cover but the water was calm and the security good. Sometimes five a side beach football and volleyball competitions were organised for groups from different parts of the country. Scantily clad Colombian girls danced to loud booming Latino Vallenato and Merengue music on a wooden platform and encouraged bathers to dance on the white sandy beach and most people joined in the fun. I even found myself dancing each time I returned to the beach from the water and felt like a teenager again.

We met some interesting people on the beach at El Rodadero which included three young sisters named Fanny, Maribel and Janeth who invited us to their family house in Bucaramanga. After our long and interesting conversation in Spanish we took up their invitation six months later on another visit to Colombia.

After taking a bus from the terminal in Bogota we travelled 420 kilometres north to Bucaramanga in Santander. Any long haul north of Bogota usually meant a stopover in Bucaramanga which I experienced many times in future years. As Nigel and I stepped off the bus in Bucaramanga two smart and elegantly dressed girls approached us. I immediately recognised them as Fanny and her sister Maribel. Fanny wore an elegant pale blue dress with black shoes while Maribel wore a long dress with a floral design. They welcomed us by kissing us on the cheeks then escorted us to an awaiting car. Fanny took the driver's seat while the rest of us clambered in and were driven to the Tarazona house.

Situated in a wealthy part of the city, the house had a large number of rooms for the nine family members. All the siblings were professionals and their father worked as a cattle producing farmer with his brother. They produced cattle for meat on the Colombian markets and also bred bulls. Nigel and I asked to visit the farm but we only got excuses which indicated that a problem existed. The most likely reason was guerrilla activity and we believed that Mr Tarazona was paying money to the guerrillas. Extortion became an increasing problem for farmers as the guerrillas often occupied their territory and issued threats which often resulted in money passing hands.

We were shown to our rooms and assigned a servant named Edgar to look after us. Edgar, a small dark skinned boy of about seventeen years old made the beds, ran errands and cleaned our shoes. Nigel always referred to him as 'The shoeshine boy'. He usually greeted us with a smile, a bit simple and lacked a high school education but was hard working and rarely sat around doing nothing. I spoke with him in Spanish but Nigel could only smile, joke and pass comical comments which Edgar only partly understood but he always smiled.

We spent most of our time eating and drinking in local restaurants and looking around the city. We even did some bowling beside a roadside cafe in the mountains. We also had an evening meal in a luxurious restaurant high in the banana plantations. The restaurant had a fantastic view across the whole city and was lit up in a variety of colours. In the dimly lit interior I bought everyone pizza while enjoying the beautiful panoramic views.

The next day we had an enjoyable time in Giron, an old colonial village about nine kilometres from Bucaramanga. Open air cafes with Salsa bands were situated near the river. During the 1960s Giron had been designated a national monument by the Colombian government and had become a popular tourist site.

After looking around the town we had a meal in a colonial style open air restaurant and watched multi coloured fireworks light up the night sky as we ate and drank. This was a highlight as three days in Bucaramanga caused boredom and only the evenings offered any excitement so we decided to travel to Santa Marta for a short holiday. After a long bus journey from Bucaramanga we reached Santa Marta and booked into the Hotel Miramar which overlooked the palm fringed beach. We spent three days eating, drinking and relaxing on the beach then returned to Bogota.

In Bogota

The capital of Colombia and the most populous city in the country, Bogota is 9,000 feet above sea level. It is also the third highest city in the world behind La Paz in Bolivia and Quito in Ecuador. The estimated population of Bogota founded on a high plateau in the Andes in 1538 by Gonzalo Jimenez de Quesada is 8, 244, 980 inhabitants.

The people of Bogota are a mixture of white Europeans originally from Spain, black Africans brought in by the Spanish as slaves and indigenous Indians. With intermarriage the mixed blood people are known as 'Mestizos.' Pure indigenous Indians can still be found in the country but many of them are cut off from the general population like the Cogi and Arhuacos in the Sierra Nevada and the assortment of other tribes found in the Amazon area.

The altitude caused me breathing problems when I first arrived in Bogota because I had to stop to get my breath while walking the streets and when jogging breathing became difficult. Kerosene in the atmosphere from traffic stung my eyes because of its intensity. With a huge volume of traffic on the streets due to an absence of trains, road congestion remained a problem and a short twenty minute journey by road could sometimes take more than an hour during the rush hour.

The growing population became one of the city's biggest problems during the 1990s due to thousands of poor rural people coming to the capital in search of work and a better life. Growing violence due to the armed conflict between rebels and the army had displaced huge numbers of people in the countryside. Most of these rural dwellers had very little money and nowhere to live and this caused an increasing number of them to come to the capital seeking safety, the possibility of employment or accommodation in buildings that had been illegally erected in poor areas like Ciudad Bolivar. Many poor people ended up living on the streets. This contributed to the growing violence and social deprivation found in the city.

I spent most of my time in downtown Bogota, a commercial centre packed with shops, offices, banks and hotels and a great mix of architectural styles ranging from modern buildings to old colonial types. The streets were always packed with people walking, sitting on the pavement or selling goods. Being an unsafe city, a foreign visitor had to be very vigilant, particularly from midday when the numbers of beggars and thieves increased. Many of these people slept under the city bridges, in parks or sewars during the morning then emerged on to the streets at lunchtime. They could be quite intimidating because of their ragged and dirty appearance and their aggressive manner. I tried to avoid them as much as possible but some were able to catch me unawares. They were experts at doing this. I tried to humour them but because of the cultural and linguistic differences this was not always easy so I often took the easy way out and handed over a few pesos.

During the 1990s Bogota bustled with traffic and choking pollution. Buses and taxis made up a large percentage of the never ending traffic filling up the grid of city streets. At night the traffic remained heavy until late then dwindled until about 7 a.m. next day.

Young people ventured on to the streets at night looking for a good time in the many bars and clubs but took a risk where thieves and vagabonds were present. For many Bogotanos the streets were unsafe after dark. On weekends the city became much quieter as most young people went out partying on Friday nights and stayed in bed to recover the next day while well off Colombians visited farms on the weekend for fun and relaxation or spent time in clubs like Bogota's El Rancho Club for activities like tennis and swimming. The very famous rich minority hardly even resided in Bogota for fear of being murdered or kidnapped and lived in countries like the USA or in Europe.

Although the yearly temperature in Bogota is pleasant and comfortable for most of the time, the worst times of the year are the two wet seasons. The intense rainfall and lack of drainage cause roads to become rivers leading to massive traffic jams at all times of the day. The beggars living on the streets took advantage of this by placing wooden boards across the roads for pedestrians to cross in return for a few pesos. Some of the beggars, out of their minds on drugs, slid down hilly side roads on their backsides in the fast flowing water whooping loudly like children as they did so while some pedestrians got soaked with spray from cars passing through lakes of water on the road at high speed. I suffered this experience many times getting covered in water and mud while some drivers looked back laughing as they sped off. For most people in Bogota the wet seasons are just a pain.

During my time in Bogota a big gap existed in the distribution of wealth which the residential construction of Bogota reflected. While the north consisted mainly of affluent neighbourhoods with plush shopping malls, huge villas and apartment blocks with visible private security, the south remained impoverished with poor housing, shanty towns, roads with potholes and a very high crime rate. Ciudad Bolivar became the most notorious of these districts containing huge numbers of poor and desperate families living in crowded conditions. The district was the largest in Bogota with 10% of the city's population living there. From 1993 to 2002 it grew by 50%. A neighbourhood of Ciudad Bolivar named Lucero had a density of 42,000 people per square kilometre making it the most densely populated part of the city. The police rarely entered the area to chase or to investigate criminals. I journeyed by bus with a Colombian friend and saw the run down area and youths hanging around the streets with nothing to do except join gangs and get into trouble or rob people for a few pesos.

The government buildings and many banks and businesses were located in the downtown part of the city while luxurious shopping malls like Hacienda Santa Barbara were situated in the north. Unfortunately, the downtown part of the city also had a red light district with huge numbers of prostitutes walking the streets and hanging out in shop doorways. Many thieves and beggars also lurked in the area making it highly dangerous after dark and risky during the day. Avenida Caracas remained the most dangerous street in this area, packed with thieves and beggars. I only went there once for about twenty minutes but it was still sufficient time to watch a man pull a knife on someone and demand money.

In Avenida 7a not far from El Banco de la Republica a large group of suspicious looking men mainly dressed in suits and ties gathered on the pavement  concealing something in little packets of white tissue paper. These were small time emerald dealers trying to make some easy money as the stones on sale were not the best quality and were usually pale green in colour. Colombian emeralds are valued for their transparency and crystallization with the darker shades being the most popular. Some of the rarest and most expensive emeralds in the world come from mines in Muzo, Coscues and Chivor in Colombia which are guarded by the National Police. Thieves or quaqueros dig tunnels into the hillsides to steal emeralds from these mines and risk suffocation, cave ins or being shot by the police. However, if a quacuero succeeds in getting away with the crime he quickly tries to sell the product to an esmeraldero who will then try to sell it on for a higher price in Bogota. I usually avoided the dealers as I knew what they were selling.

Opposite the old 16th century church of Vera Cruz in the city centre, a small plaza attracted many types of people. A man wearing a trilby hat sold baby bulls heads and a number of street performers offered entertainment. A showman blew flames while different buskers performed almost daily with a variety of instruments. One man held rat races. After his assistant had collected bets the man would release the rodents on to the pavement and they would scurry quickly to a box a few metres away while smiling onlookers watched with interest.

The most attractive part of downtown Bogota and very popular with artists, writers and academics is the Barrio La Candalaria. Situated just above Avenida 19 in and around Plaza de Bolivar, it is composed of old colonial style white Spanish buildings and narrow cobbled streets. Some of the buildings date from the 16th century and the district is considered to be one of the most well preserved historical centres in Latin America. Colonial houses with barred windows, carved doorways and orange tiled roofs are a feature of an area that was declared a national monument in 1964. La Candalaria not only had historical importance but it also offered culture with art exhibitions. I saw an exhibition of the work of famous Colombian painter Fernando Botero in this area during the mid 1990s

Central Bogota has a large choice of hotels ranging from very expensive international types to cheap and basic accommodation and I stayed in many types. I had one memorable experience after returning to Bogota from Santa Marta when I discovered a row of small hotels which had very colourful exteriors and unusual names. I chose Hotel Pina, went inside and the receptionist informed me that each room was rented by the hour which I found very odd. I paid my money and informed her that I would like to stay for two days. The receptionist took me to a small and comfortable room with mirrors on the ceiling and a TV high on the wall. I switched it on to find a pornographic film being shown. When I turned on the other two channels I found the same. I couldn't understand what was happening. Without asking questions I stayed in the hotel for two days but after leaving I mentioned my experience to a Colombian friend who informed me that I had stayed in a love hotel. These are common in most major towns in Colombia and are for young couples who want secret relationships or for prostitutes and their clients. Customers can spend as little as an hour or as much as a day there. I found it cheap and good value for two days accommodation and didn't have any bad experiences but I didn't stay a second time.

Overlooking Bogota is Monserrate, the site of a white church and a place from where some of the best views of the city can be obtained and is the highest point in Bogota. The white church can be seen for miles away. Getting there by cable car isn't a big problem but one has to beware of thieves in the area. I wasn't mugged or approached by thieves and my trip was very interesting. Breathing could be difficult at the top because of the altitude but I managed to cope. A path existed on which people could walk to the top in about 90 minutes but I didn't try as I had been warned about thieves who stalked the area. I only visited the site once but it was worth the effort because of the wonderful views.

Political violence periodically broke out in the conflict between the Colombian government and the drug cartels which inevitably led to violence on the streets of Bogota, mainly in the form of bombs planted in different parts of the city and I had personal experience of this. As I approached La Plaza de Los Torros from the northern direction of Avenida 7a on a crowded bus one morning, clouds of grey smoke billowed across the road. A traffic jam caused the bus to screech to a sudden halt and calculating that my journey probably wouldn't continue for some time, I got off the bus and began walking towards the plaza. As I got closer I noticed large orange flames through the clouds of smoke and dark figures running chaotically in all directions. I could clearly see the devastation. Rows of cars were ablaze, glass from windows had been blown out of virtually every building in the vicinity, including those of the Colmena skyscraper that towered over the plaza. People with blood streaming from their heads sat on the ground or staggered around in a dazed condition. A few bodies lay motionless on the ground. Two policemen were putting a blue plastic cover on one of these as I approached. I asked a blood soaked man in Spanish if he needed help but he refused. Countless pieces of shattered glass covered the pavement below the surrounding buildings and pieces of paper blew around the vicinity in the wind. I later learnt that the mafia had been responsible for the devastation as part of their war against the Colombian government. Two vehicles laden with dynamite had been placed at each end of the plaza then exploded simultaneously killing five people and injuring 192.

The bombings started in Bogota with the destruction of the DAS police headquarters on December 6th 1989. A truck laden with 1,000 pounds of explosives was parked outside the building and the resulting explosion killed 50 and injured over 600 people. About 300 commercial properties were damaged. I personally visited the site a few days later and saw both the devastation and the huge crater which the explosion had caused. The mafia regarded this as a great victory over the police who were dealt a massive blow. Scenes of violence in Bogota then became more frequent which included the blowing up of a pizza house in the centre of Bogota which killed 32 innocent civilians. On February 16th 1991 a car bomb in downtown Bogota killed 20 people then on April 13th 1993 another car bomb killed 15 bystanders and injured over 100 outside the Centro 93 shopping mall.

I personally experienced the political violence when my part time business partner Jairo Castiblanco was killed in a terrorist bomb explosion aboard an Avianca internal flight over Bogota in December 1989. While I knew him he piloted international flights to many destinations worldwide and worked part time with me exporting exotic fruit to London, Frankfurt and Paris. He had previously trained as an airline pilot in Denver in the USA and had been working for Avianca for some years.

Boarding a flight from Bogota to Cali, Jairo was due to spend several weeks well earned rest in his apartment. The Avianca Boeing 727 on which he was travelling was blown apart by a bomb two minutes after take off. The bomb had been placed under a passenger seat immediately above the fuel tank by a man who got on board, planted the bomb then got off. A massive flash took place minutes after take off and the Avianca aircraft exploded in a gigantic ball of flames and disintegrated. Luckily, the debris came down over a piece of wasteland in the suburbs and not in a crowded part of the city otherwise the damage and death toll would have been much higher. The incident became the only act of terrorism involving a Colombian plane during the conflict between the government and the drug cartels. Jairo's remains were found by his brother Orlando who had been called to the scene by the police. The experience badly affected him psychologically for many years afterwards.

A small man of 32 years old, Jairo lived in a Cali flat and part of the time with his parents in the Bogota suburb of Modelia not far from the airport. Because of his work and the financial rewards this gave him, Jairo was well set up in life with a good job and a promising future.

Although Jairo's parents originated from the poor classes, the family had done very well with all five brothers and one sister becoming professionals in different fields of work. They had been influenced by their father who had become a well known bull fighter in his younger days and had led as an example of how to succeed against the odds. The family moved into the quiet middle class suburb of Modelia with relative peace and security in the area. They kept a large alsation dog to guard the property and it always had its tongue hanging out, it growled whenever it saw me and once gave me a nasty nip. I never suffered a serious bite but I always kept my distance until the animal was stolen from the property by thieves while the family was out visiting relatives one Sunday afternoon and was never recovered.

I only met periodically with Jairo because of his work which kept him away from the fruit business. Most of the responsibility for running the business had been left in the hands of his friend Jorge Navarette who worked as the General Manager. A middle aged man of 40, Jorge was friendly but I never fully trusted him and he had a suspicious look about him. My suspicions of him were later justified after I had invested money in my first consignment of fruit to London. When I visited the packing area to inspect the goods before departure I found melons of low quality that Jorge had arranged to be sent. He clearly didn't want me to make money. The consignment was sent to London but the fruit sold at giveaway prices and so I lost my investment. I complained to Jairo about this and he decided to compensate me by sending a consignment of strawberries to London on my behalf. After the murder of Jairo my worst suspicions were realized when Jorge took a flight to Miami and withdrew all the company finances from the company account located in a bank there and disappeared into thin air. Jairo's family hired a private detective to trace him but this proved unsuccessful so Jorge escaped a richer man and was never seen or heard of again by either me or Jairo's family.   

I only knew Jairo for about one year after I had become involved in his company 'La Compania Frutera del Caribe' and he visited my home in the U.K shortly before he was killed in December 1989. Jairo had ties with Colombian vice president Luis Galan who had spoken out about corruption and the illegal activities of the drug cartels but I'm not sure if this had anything to do with his death. 

At Jairo's memorial service which I later attended at the Catholic church in Modelia, I met two former bodyguards of Luis Galan who had been assassinated on August 18th 1989. They graphically described the assassination and about how they had tried to shield the vice president. They pulled up their shirts to show me the bullet wounds they had sustained which had resulted from the gunfire. Luis Galan had been widely expected to become Colombia's next president.

Luis Carlos Galan who originated from Bucaramanga had worked as a journalist for the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo and had served as a politician in Bogota as a member of the Liberal Party. From the 1980s he had become a self declared enemy of the drug cartels and vehemently supported the extradition treaty with the United States. From 1987 Galan gained increasing support for his criticism of the drug cartels which he viewed as disastrous for Colombia and promised to have drug dealers extradited to the USA. When he decided to run for the presidency in 1989 his popularity rose to 60%. This threatened the drug cartels and their supporters so Galan began to receive death threats over the phone and threatening notes in his mailbox to kidnap or kill his children.

On August 4th 1989 a plan to assassinate Galan in Antoquia was thwarted by the Colombian police commander Franklyn Quintero. Galan survived but Quintero  and the mayor of Medellin Pedro Pablo Palaez were murdered. Galan became restricted in his movements and travelled mainly at night for his own safety. Advised not to go to the town of Soacha to attend a political demonstration, Galan ignored the warning and went. This is when an assassin murdered him on August 18th 1989. The drug cartels were suspected of being responsible for his death because of Galan's continued support for the extradition treaty with the United States and his increasing political popularity which enhanced his chances of becoming president and implementing his anti drug cartel policies.

One of Galan's main enemies Pablo Escobar, leader of the Medellin Cartel, was believed to have personally instigated his death and also became responsible for many of the bombings that took place along with another drug cartel leader named Jose Gonzalo Rodriguez Gacha also known as 'El Mexicano.' Both men were billionaires and were responsible for the deaths of many people but they didn't have all their own way. After the assassination of Galan President Virgilio Barco decided to take on the drug cartels. The government seized houses, ranches, airfields, cocaine processing labs and large amounts of cash. In response to this the Medellin Cartel declared war on the government.

Pablo Escobar, leader of the Medellin Cartel was born in the town of Rionegro not far from Medellin. His father worked as a farmer and his mother a teacher. Instead of gaining a higher education Escobar got involved in petty crime stealing headstones from graves in cemetaries then selling them on to customers. He also visited Ecuador and Peru where he bought coca paste and had it transported back to Medellin. By the mid 1970s he was running a small drugs business in Medellin but he got arrested and spent three months in jail before getting released.

As he made more money Escobar invested in an aircraft fleet and purchased buildings and land. He utilised some of his money for the poor and had 400 fully equipped houses built and poor people were moved in free of charge. He also had eighty football pitches constructed for the young. This helped him build political support in Medellin and he became popular in the area. He also had his own indulgences like his private zoo in Puerto Triunfo where he kept a variety of animals which included giraffes, buffalos, dolphins and wild birds. He even had a kangaroo which he successfully taught to play football. In his house he displayed two solid gold life size statues of his favourite prostitute and another of former 'Beatle' John Lennon with a bullet hole engraved in the forehead.These were just some of Escobar's excesses.

Escobar became so confident at the height of his success as leader of the Medellin Cartel that he once posed for his photo in front of the White House in Washington D.C. at a time when he was wanted by the US government and got away with it.

After more bombings and political assassinations Escobar and Rodriguez Gacha were eventually killed by the security forces. This was partly connected to the Cali Cartel which had been formed and led by the Rodriguez Orejuela brothers and Santacruz Londono. In their rivalry with the Medellin Cartel they formed an organisation called PEPES (The People Against Pablo Escobar) which targeted Escobar, his properties and employees. They also provided the Colombian police and DEA with information about Escobar's activities and movements.

In the months leading up to Escobar's death a Catholic priest named Padre Raphael Garcia Herreros played a big part in negotiating Escobar's surrender as an intermediary. Padre Garcia, famous for his long running daily TV broadcast 'El Minuto de Dios' (God's Minute) persuaded the drug lord to turn himself in. Although this proved to be successful Escobar and nine of his men fled from their luxury jail near Medellin during a government attempt to put them in a more secure facility. Soon after this Escobar was cornered in a house in Medellin and shot dead after refusing to surrender. Famous Colombian painter Fernando Botero depicted the scene in his painting 'Pablo Escobar's Death.' Rodriguez Gacha met his fate in a shoot out with security forces near Tolu on the Caribbean coast

Both Escobar and Rodriguez Gacha had become involved with leading Colombian football clubs. Escobar had funded Nacional of Medellin while Gacha became owner and patron of Millonarios in Bogota. Their involvement in Colombian football had a devastating effect on the game although several clubs became wealthier, were able to buy players from other South American countries and their clubs did well in the Cupa de Libertadores. Nacional of Medellin won the competition and America Cali reached the final several times.

In the 1994 World Cup Colombia were expected to do well as the team had won almost every warm up game and even former Brazilian superstar Pele predicted that they would win the competition. I personally watched their final practice game against Bayern Munich at the El Campin stadium in Bogota and the team recorded a very impressive 2-0 victory. Unfortunately, in their first game in the competition they suffered defeat against Romania in a closely fought game then were defeated 2-0 by the United States which resulted in their elimination from the competition at the group stage. It was difficult to understand why such a gifted and talented team should have performed so badly after some great displays in the qualifying and warm up matches.

As a spiteful act of revenge, the mafia, who had bet large amounts of money on Colombia to win the World Cup, assassinated defender Andreas Escobar as he left a Medellin night club after the team had returned home. Escobar's own goal against the Uunited States had cost him his life. This act of vengeance enraged many Colombians and it didn't help the cause of the drug cartels. Over 120,000 people attended the footballer's funeral in Medellin, many of the national team players quit football completely and Francisco Madurana, the manager, fled to Ecador where he became manager of the national team.

In Colombia Pablo Escobar was viewed as a benefactor by people who had obtained jobs and other benefits as a direct result of the drug business. At a later stage Escobar wanted to stand as a candidate for the Colombian government and offered to pay off Colombia's national debt if he was allowed to stand. The government refused. However, such was Escobar's popularity in Medellin that thousands of people mourned his death at his funeral and his grave became a shrine and a tourist attraction.

Although the death of Pablo Escobar brought hope to many Colombians that more peaceful days were near, the streets of big cities like Bogota remained very hazardous mainly due to the presence of thieves and beggars desperate for money and keen to rob. Most failed to find employment and lived on the streets so crime became their alternative way of survival. At night filthy beggars and gangs of thieves wandered the streets of downtown Bogota like packs of hungry wolves searching for victims. I remember one particular night when a power blackout gave thieves the opportunity to go on the rampage. As I stood in the doorway of the Hotel Italia in Avenida 7a, groups of ragged figures holding stones ran along the darkened street. I could hear the crash of smashing glass as they smashed shop windows and stole the goods before making their getaway under the cover of darkness while the police were nowhere to be seen.

Beggars slept in shop doorways at night. Sometimes a pool of blood was all that remained of unlucky ones the next morning. During the night police or death squads disguised in black balalavas and overalls murdered them in their sleep. They usually shot their victims in the head then took the bodies away in trucks for disposal. Local shop owners paid the police to terminate troublesome beggars who caused potential customers to stay away, an easy and effective way of dealing with the problem but it enraged human rights groups.

Some beggars sat on the streets smoking Bazooka, a cheap derivative of cocaine which curbed their misery for a while and give them short term relief from hunger. Ragged children, small but highly dangerous, armed with razors, knives, pieces of sharp glass and sticks wandered the streets by day and slept in the sewars at night. I once saw a beggar stabbed to death by his companions in the street after an argument. Homicides were daily events in downtown Bogota. This reflected the national homicide rate which had reached 30,000 by 1997.

My first personal experience of a mugging wasn't so bad because it happened quickly. While walking to a local post office in the centre of the city, I turned off Avenida 7a and into calle 10 near the Colmena skyscraper when a gang of six ragged beggars surrounded me. One of them wielded a small knife which he pointed at me as he slowly but nervously approached. The others, holding sticks, stood watching but had me trapped. As I gave all my attention to the knife wielding beggar and prepared myself for an attack, another beggar rushed me from my blind side and tore my breast pocket which contained several hundred pesos completely from my shirt. The beggars then ran into the darkness and disappeared, leaving me shocked and dazed with the speed of the incident but I remained physically unharmed.

The most serious incident occurred early one morning at about 6 a.m. while on my way to work in the north of the city. I left the Hotel Italia as usual and walked steadily along a deserted Avenida 7a towards La Plaza de Los Torros. After walking several hundred yards I noticed three youths wearing baseball caps sitting on a wall near a set of traffic lights, their eyes focused on me as I briskly strode along the other side of the road. I remained suspicious so I kept a wary eye on them as I passed by. They did nothing and remained seated as they stared at me. After I had continued for a further twenty yards a dirty and ragged female with long black hair, no teeth and wearing a tatty red skirt and a black sweater came out of a side street with one hand behind her back and the other extended outwards as she asked for money. I continued walking briskly but she kept up with me.

"Give me pesos", she said sternly in Spanish. "I have five children, I'm starving and I have no money."

The woman persevered with more desperate pleading, almost leaning against me as I gathered pace to reach my destination. I could sense that trouble was brewing. Unfortunately, I had taken my eyes off the three youths sitting on the wall some distance behind me and concentrated my attention on the woman. Suddenly, I felt someone grab me from behind. I thrust out my arm and turned quickly to find the three youths facing me. They initially jumped back but then two of them rushed me and tried to grab my bag as I put the strap around my neck. While I fought them off the woman tried to hit me across the head with an empty bottle which she had concealed behind her back. She missed and struck me on the shoulder then retreated. One of the youths had moved behind me and as I grappled and fought with his companions he thrust his hand into my right trouser pocket and removed my ID card and several hundred pesos. In seconds all of them turned and ran leaving me standing in the middle of the road in a shocked state. I continued walking and caught a bus but after twenty minutes I got the shakes because I knew that I had been lucky. The youth who had got behind me didn't use a knife but if he had I could have been killed or badly injured. I felt lucky to have escaped unscathed although a little shaken.

Another dangerous incident occurred during the early hours of one morning after I had been to a night club with Nigel Barling. As we were about to enter the club a beggar asked me for money. I pushed past him and started climbing the stairs. As Nigel followed the beggar asked him for money.

"I'm not giving you any money," said Nigel as the beggar persisted. "Go away and ask somebody else."

The beggar grabbed him by the arm but Nigel, being of an aggresive nature, shouted.

"Get off me!"

The beggar continued to hold on so Nigel delivered a heavy blow to his head causing the beggar to stumble backwards and fall on to the pavement with a look of disbelief on his face. Nigel then followed me upstairs into the building.

After several hours dancing Salsa with the local girls and drinking beer both of us had forgotten about the beggar and left the club during the early morning hours, happy after a fun night. As we walked into the dark street we were suddenly surrounded  by a group of armed figures. They held sticks, pieces of glass and one of them had a brick. I recognised one of them as the individual who Nigel had earlier struck. He had returned with his friends to get his revenge.

"We are going to kill you gringos", said one of the men in Spanish. "Now give us your money."

An escape looked impossible but thinking quickly Nigel pulled out some change from his pocket.

"Right Dave when I throw the coins and say now run straight ahead to the main road."

Nigel then threw some coins on the ground between the legs of two beggars standing directly in front of us. As they bent down and gathered up the coins we ran at full speed through them towards Avenida 7a about fifty yards ahead. The beggars, after scooping up the coins, pursued us waving their sticks in the air and shouting loud comments.

We reached Avenida 7a some distance ahead of our pursuers who were less fit than us but they continued their pursuit. We kept running side by side at full speed along the pavement until we reached some traffic lights at a junction not far from Avenida 19. As our pursuers closed in I said to Nigel.

"When the lights change from orange to green cross the road as quickly as possible then they will be cut off from us."

As we did this the traffic sped through the lights and effectively cut us off from the beggars who stood motionless on the other side of the road realizing that we had evaded them. We were lucky to escape unharmed in a potentially very dangerous situation and relieved to reach the safety of our hotel.

At night incidents could occur anywhere at any time and could quickly escalate as I experienced while having a quiet drink in a bar in the suburb of Modelia, usually a quiet part of Bogota. While I sat in a corner drinking a beer, two men entered the bar and began mugging a man sitting alone in the far corner. One grabbed him from behind while the other rifled through his pockets. The barman, suddenly becoming aware of what was happening, grabbed a baseball bat from behind the bar and attacked the two muggers. One of them pulled a knife but the barman landed a well directed blow to his head sending him sprawling across a table. The other man threw several punches and then fled. Pulling himself up from the floor, the injured man caught the barman on the cheek with another slash of his knife causing blood to emerge. He then staggered out of the bar and limped off into the darkness. The barman then quickly made a phone call and moments later two men arrived who I assumed were his friends and they all left to search for the two criminals. While this was happening I just sat and calmly watched while drinking my beer. I suppose I had just got used to the violence in Colombia.

Some criminals offered food and drink laced with a drug called Scopolamine to unsuspecting victims. This caused drowsiness and victims fell into a kind of hypnotic trance allowing the criminal to get valuables or money from them. Some victims were marched to an ATM machine  and forced to draw out large amounts of cash. I knew several people who suffered this fate and another who had chemical sprayed in his face while sitting in a stationary car. When he awoke he was lying in the side of the road but his car had gone. Attractive girls working in night clubs sometimes put the drug into the drinks of men they believed had plenty of money. The chemical could be dangerous and could render a victim unconscious for 24 hours or more and in some cases could cause death if the victim suffered respiratory failure. One Colombian I knew spent several days in hospital after falling unconscious.

Kidnapping always existed as a risk for anyone important and one morning while travelling to the BP Exploration offices to work in the north of the city just off calle 100 I noticed security men and armed Colombian soldiers everywhere. I asked a security guard standing at the entrance of the BP building what was happening.

"Two BP managers have been kidnapped", he replied. "They were driving to the offices when two vehicles blocked them from each side about 50 yards from the building, gunmen then forced the men out of their car and drove away with them."

I couldn't believe that with such a high level of security on the streets a kidnapping of that nature could occur in broad daylight just yards away from the BP building. After negotiations with the criminals the BP managers were later released but kidnapping remained a serious problem for foreign executives and for well known or rich Colombians.

The shooting of someone was something that I had only read about until one night when I went to the house of one of my private English language students to teach a lesson. I waited for almost an hour but my student didn't arrive. Diana Diaz was a 28 year old trainee doctor who specialised in plastic surgery in a Bogota hospital and had ambitions to work in the United States so she was preparing herself by learning English.

Diana's mother thought that her daughter had been held up at work and told me that it would be better to leave then phone to make an alternative arrangement the following evening. As I was about to leave Diana arrived in a visible state of shock.

"What's happened?", asked her mother looking very concerned.

"They've shot my boyfriend", she said, holding back her tears. "We were on our way home from a restaurant when a car forced us into the side of the road. Two men got out armed with guns and ordered us to wind down the windows. They then robbed both of us of everything and as they turned to walk away one of them shot Miguel in the head. I have to get back to the hospital."

Fortunately, Miguel survived after being in a critical condition for several days but it demonstrated how risky being on the streets of Bogota could be and how willing criminals were to use violence even when it was unnecessary.

Unexpected sights were commonplace like a bearded and dirty individual I saw walking completely naked down the centre of the street with a sack slung over his shoulder as cars passed each side of him. He seemed oblivious to crowds of people staring at him from the pavement. Groups of beggars would sometimes form a circle around a set of traffic lights then as the lights turned red they would close in on a stationary car and dismantle as much of it as possible before the lights turned to green. The terrified driver could only watch helplessly from inside the car. I also remember watching a young woman carrying several boxes of goods in her arms along a crowded street when a group of filthy street urchins, less than ten years old approached. Two of them lifted her dress high above her waist exposing her bare legs underneath. The woman screamed and dropped the boxes but in seconds the urchins had gathered up the goods and ran quickly down a side street with their loot, leaving the woman shocked and empty handed.

About 60,000 children were living on the streets of Colombian cities during the 1990s and 37% of these were located in Bogota. Many of these children known as Los Disposables (The disposables) spent most of their time scavenging, stealing or delivering drugs to dealers, smoked crack and sniffed glue. They formed street gangs to protect each other and to steal. Many lived on the streets, under bridges or in parks. With an increase in death squads, many fled to the city sewars for safety. This could also be dangerous as the children risked drowning by flooding sewage, disease or incineration by petrol bombs thrown into the sewars by death squads. The squads were comprised of soldiers and off duty policemen who went into the sewars where large groups of street children were believed to reside and carried out mass murder.

About 12 million of Colombia's children didn't attend school during the 1990s due to poverty, displacement and violence and were stigmatised, marginalised or persecuted. The long running battle between the government and guerrilla groups also contributed to the displacement of many youngsters. The authorities dealt with the problem by periodically rounding up as many of these street children as possible and transporting them to other cities in trucks. While I spent time in Santa Marta I spoke to several youngsters who had been taken there from Bogota and were without knowledge of their parents whereabouts.

'Los Ninos de Los Andes' (The Children of the Andes), a charitable organisation formed in 1988 helped street children. Their members patrolled the streets in and around Avenida Caracas assisting street children with shelter and food and gave some basic education but little other help from either the government or other charitable organisations existed.

Beggars usually worked in groups so the public had to be careful about retaliating in an incident. I once watched a Chinese waiter pursuing a beggar who had stolen something from the restaurant where he worked. The waiter slapped him across the head but within seconds a group of other beggars attacked the waiter and one of them just missed his head with a heavy piece of wood. The waiter ran back into the restaurant where four Chinese waiters then had to push their bodies up against the door to prevent their foes from entering. Street people descended on the restaurant from all directions and I thought they were going to destroy it. The Chinese staff successfully blocked the entrance until the police arrived and calmed an explosive situation.

Not all the beggars showed aggression, some were quite friendly and acknowledged me in the street when they got to know me. Some asked if I could find them work and tried to hold conversations with me in Spanish. I often gave them money or bought them food to help but there were others who were not so friendly and were only looking to steal.

Even walking along crowded streets during the day could be dangerous for a European tourist. While walking along Avenida 7a one afternoon I saw a young man fighting off a group of thieves in the middle of a crowded street. Two of the thieves were desperately trying to pull the knapsack from his back while another grappled with him. Although a crowd of onlookers stood watching nobody offered any assistance. I instinctively ran towards the thieves who turned and ran as I approached. The young tourist who spoke English with a German accent cowered in a shop doorway.

"Can you help me, please?" He said shaking with fear.

"You had better get back to your hotel as quickly as possible", I said. "Don't walk on the streets of Bogota with that bag on your back otherwise you will be a target."

He nodded in agreement, thanked me and then departed to get a taxi.

One evening while walking along the street just outside the Hotel Italia an Afro looking man with dreadlocks aproached me and spoke in English.

"Excuse me, sir, could you spare a few pesos so that I can get some food?" He spoke politely with a West Indian accent.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Are you in trouble?"

"I'm a fisherman from Jamaica", he said. "I was working just off the coast of the island of San Andres when the Colombian police boarded my vessel. They accused me of smuggling cocaine and brought me here to Bogota for interrogation. They weren't able to prove anything so they released me but the problem is that I don't have any money and I have to find a room for the night, buy food and get back to Jamaica. I have a wife and two kids to look after. Now I'm on the streets with nothing."

Feeling sorry for him I treated him to a meal and gave him several thousand pesos to help him out. It was difficult to know if he was telling the truth as Colombia had become a great magnet for foreigners wanting to deal in cocaine. I saw him hanging around the streets of Bogota for about a week before disappearing but I wasn't convinced that he had been telling me the truth. The same applied to a group of Nigerians who turned up at the Hotel Italia and told me they were looking for work. A few days later they disappeared then the Colombian police arrived to ask questions about them as the Nigerians were suspected of being drug dealers and were on the run.

One of the most interesting characters I met at the Hotel Italia was a 65 year old pensioner named Giovanni. A short thick set man with a shaven head, a long Roman nose and happy disposition, he visited Bogota for several weeks every year. He owned a pizza business and sold silver cutlery. He also liked to mingle with young women and often had a young and beautiful Colombian girl on his arm. "I can't help it", he once told me. "I love women."

Sitting in a small cafeteria hear the Hotel Italia one morning, Giovanni arrived with two young women and they sat down on a table opposite. Giovanni treated both girls to breakfast. The girls were sitting each side of Giovanni kissing him on the cheeks and running their hands all over him. While this was happening Giovanni removed his false teeth, placed them on the table and began eating his breakfast. After this the two girls began arguing about something then exchanged blows. They were obviously jealous of each other and Giovanni interrupted his meal to calm them down but they continued to argue. I later learned that he had bought both girls gifts so they both viewed him as their benefactor. Giovanni eventually experienced the reality of Bogota while taking an evening stroll in the street. A group of thieves surrounded him, one of them held a knife to his throat while the others took all his jewellery and cash. I saw him minutes after the incident and he was not worried about losing cash but he was very upset having his pocket watch taken.

"This belonged to my father and grandfather", he explained. "It has great sentimental value for me. Why couldn't they have just taken the cash? I asked but they just ignored me and took it."

After meeting him for two consecutive years in the Hotel Italia I later learned that he had died in Italy so I never saw him again.

After several years living and working in and around Avenida 7a I gradually got to know the people who inhabited the area. A man patrolled the street with a white lama and offered rides for a few pesos. Several buskers played music including a group of Andean Indians who performed with panpipes. A woman sold homemade sweets from a tray attached with a strap around her neck and had to give a percentage of her takings to several street people to avoid robbery. An Indian woman with long pigtails sold Chicha from a flask while a wide range of other people conducted business on the pavement.
Meanwhile, an Afro-Colombian man dressed in the national Colombian football strip regularly showed off his skills with a ball in the street in order to earn a few pesos. He performed in the small plaza opposite the Hotel Italia almost every night and many people stopped to watch him. Eventually news about his skills circulated  and he appeared on the pitch in the El-Campin football stadium when Colombia played Bayern Munich in a warm up match for the 1994 World Cup. I was amazed to see him dressed in his national Colombian football strip performing his skills with players from the national team in the pre-match warm up.

On some Sunday mornings large speakers were set up in the street and loud Salsa music played while semi clad Colombian girls danced on a quickly erected platform. Even the beggars joined in the street dancing. It was all good fun and I loved it. A street market took place at the top end of Avenida 19 where you could buy almost anything and Avenida 7a closed to traffic which allowed crowds of fitness enthusiasts to jog, cycle or rollerblade along the street for the whole morning.

The police were highly distrusted by many people in Bogota because they broke almost every law they were supposed to uphold, they regularly rode their motorcycles on the pavement, sometimes eating hamburgers as they dodged pedestrians. At night they were rarely seen when the criminals came out on to the streets in force and were sometimes in league with them, creating an almost totally lawless city.

Foreigners had to be wary of men posing as plain clothes policemen which became a well known scam in the city. A tall dark haired man of about thirty dressed in a dark brown leather jacket once approached me and began asking me questions.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"From England", I replied.

"What are you doing in Bogota?"

"Working", I replied.

"How much money do you have with you?" he asked.

"I don't have any money with me, it's all in the hotel where I'm staying."

"You must get it and bring it to me", he replied. "I have to count and record it for police purposes."

Quickly realizing that this was a scam I asked the stranger to accompany me to my hotel where I intended to have him checked out. He refused and repeated that I should return to my hotel, collect the money and return to him with it. He said he would stand on the corner and wait for me. I returned to the hotel and explained to the receptionists about what had happened and they told me about the scam. I went outside and looked towards the corner. The man had gone. I think he realized that he had been rumbled.

From 1995 there was an attempt to clean up the police led by General Rosso Jose Serrano in which corrupt members were terminated from the force and better benefits and pay were given to policemen in an attempt to attract better quality recruits and to instill greater public confidence in them. From this point the quality of the National Police began to improve.

Some efforts were made to improve security in Bogota but these were only token gestures. However, every Friday night, the main social night of the week, soldiers were deployed on the streets of central Bogota. Platoons of armed soldiers wearing green uniforms, white helmets and spats marched in groups along the streets dealing with crime. This prevented complete anarchy but in some dangerous parts of the city like Ciudad Bolivar security did not exist.

City mayor Antanus Mockus attempted to make greater social improvements in Bogota during his term in office. He had initially worked as a researcher and professor at the National University. He then resigned his position to take on the responsibility of city mayor. During this period he became well known for using unusual but effective techniques to improve life in the city. In 1993 he caused a stir and got widespread publicity when he dropped his trousers and exposed his rear end to an auditorium of rowdy students at the School of Arts in order to gain their attention.

Mockus introduced several initiatives in Bogota which began with 420 mime artists being placed on the streets to humiliate traffic offenders. The artists, who had painted white faces, approached drivers and pedestrians using different hand gestures and facial expressions. This captured the attention of passers by and could be very humiliating. I tried to keep well away from the mime artists after my first experience in central Bogota. Mockus also created a 'Women's Night' when the city's men were asked to stay at home and look after the house and children while the women went out. Bars offered specials to the female clientele, the city's female police controlled the traffic and kept the peace. Over 700,000 women went out on the first night of the initiative. Furthermore, Mockus imposed a 1 a.m. curfew resulting in fewer murders and traffic accidents. He also imposed rush hour restrictions on private cars which cut congestion in half and created bicycle routes and closed the streets of central Bogota to traffic on Sundays so that residents could take exercise.

Mockus also tackled bad behaviour by handing out 350,000 thumbs up and thumbs down cards to citizens in Bogota. The cards were used by people to shame those causing problems or to approve of good behaviour on the streets. Many people used these cards and it worked. Mockus also asked people to pay 10% extra in voluntary taxes and surprisingly about 63,000 people paid. Finally, Mockus asked people to call in at his office and inform him about any kind and honest taxi drivers. About 150 people made contact which resulted in Mockus arranging a meeting with the nominated drivers to advise him about how to improve the behaviour of other taxi drivers. A club for taxi drivers named 'Knights of the Zebra' was founded and supported by Mockus in his role as mayor.

When his term in office ended Mockus stood for the presidency in the national elections but he only obtained 5% of the vote. He failed to win over a majority of people in Colombia and continued to be viewed as an academic favouring the middle classes but he did successfully contribute to making Bogota a better place to live.

I stayed at a variety of places while working in Bogota with the most comfortable being in Modelia. I got to know a doctor at Hoechst Marion Roussel pharmaceutical company where I taught English for part of the week. Dr Ricardo Yepez was an educated and very polite man who had qualified as a doctor just one year earlier. With a wife and a young son, he wanted a better life in the United States. He knew that I was looking for accommodation so he spoke to his mother and I moved into her house as a lodger. Situated in Modelia, the house was quite close to the motorway that led to the airport and a short distance from Hoechst Marrion Roussel where I was working.

Mrs Yepez, a middle aged, quietly spoken woman of average build and dark hair had recently lost her husband to a heart attack. This had been a big blow for her but she had coped well. She behaved politely to all she met, a decent person. Ricardo wanted her to go with him and his family to the United States to begin a new life but she refused.

"Colombia is my country and I don't want to live anywhere else. My friends are here and I don't think I would settle well in the United States. Maybe I could visit Ricardo and his family but I don't want to live there."

When Ricardo eventually got permission to settle in the United States Mrs Yepez remained in Modelia, happy with her life. She still had her mother who lived with her. Mrs Yepez senior who looked emaciated and very old remained surprisingly lively, keeping herself occupied throughout the day. Both women looked after me extremely well preparing my food and doing my washing and ironing in return for a small monthly rent. They treated me as one of the family, allowing me to eat and watch TV with them and to meet visiting relatives. I felt very happy in their company and had many conversations with them both in Spanish.

Old Mrs Yepez was a country person but spoke to me about many things. She told me that she had been raised as the daughter of rural workers in the countryside of Boyaca and preferred to live there but because of her age and the death of her husband years earlier she chose to live with her daughter in Bogota. She did many chores in the house but found difficulty with electronic gadgets but usually excused her inability  by saying.

"I'm only a simple country person." 

The two ladies spent most of their time in the house and entertained their relatives who regularly visited them. The occupied themselves with work in both the house and in the garden and were rarely indolent. They also had a small dog that they had found wandering in the street. Feeling sorry for the small creature they provided it with a home. It didn't have a name, the ladies just referred to it as 'El perro' or 'pobricito.' Finally, they had to get rid of the animal because it regularly defecated and urinated in the house. Without the little dog the house seemed much less lively.

I had a happy time lodging with the Yepez ladies and only one problem arose while I was there when one morning a loud crash next door sent everyone running into the street. A thief had smashed the front window of the adjoining house while trying to break an entry but had run away when the residents appeared. Glass lay on the pavement but the neighbours soon had it fixed.

Accommodation was not always easy to obtain in Bogota but word of mouth brought results. In 1995 one of my teacher colleagues offered to share his family house with me in northern Bogota. Situated in calle 176 just off Avenida 7a the house was very spacious with a large lounge, two bedrooms, a kitchen, two bathrooms and servant's quarters.

Diego Villegas, a single man in his early thirties came from a well off middle class Colombian family and also had a property in Miami so he was in and out of Colombia and only periodically worked. He spent most of his life having a good time with a collection of different girlfriends or with his parents and brother Alberto in their house just off calle 140 in Cedritos in northern Bogota. His mother gave him financial help which didn't give him much incentive to work so he spent much of his time partying.

The resident maid, a black girl from Cali called Maritsa, didn't extend herself very much when it came to work and seemed to think that she was sharing the accommodation with Diego and I on equal terms rather than working as a maid. She had previously worked for Diego's older sister who had recommended her. Things came to a head one afternoon when I returned home from work to find that the washing up had not been done, dirty washing from the previous day lay on the kitchen floor while Maritsa stretched out on Diego's bed watching TV. Diego took the incident very seriously and had stern words with Maritsa but after getting a negative and insolent response he fired her. Initially she refused to leave then after shouting abuse and giving numerous threats she departed. She returned about one week later to collect some items while I was there but although she was polite I refused to let her into the house. I only ever saw her once more after this waiting in the street for a bus but although she recognised me she did not acknowledge me.

Diego's younger brother Alberto came to collect the rent at the end of each month. Grossly overweight with a bulging stomache, big moustache and balding head, Alberto had a great sense of humour, was obsessed by women, spent a lot of time laughing and always offered his assistance to solve any problems. He owned his own little advertising business in Cedritos, close to his parent's home. I don't think the business made much profit but it kept Alberto occupied and he was helped by two young female assistants. Alberto seemed a very nice person but I had a shock on my last day while preparing to leave for the U.K. when I saw him rustling through my bag in the bedroom while I was busy in the living room. I later found money missing. He had been so nice and helpful to me that I couldn't bring myself to challenge him about the matter so I turned a blind eye. Fortunately, he didn't see me watching him so he was unaware that he had been discovered. A short time later he drove me to the airport where he assisted me with my baggage and had a lively and polite conversation but after saying farewell I never saw him again. 

Entertainment in Bogota

I regarded Bogota as  a cultured place with a wide range of entertainment and sophistication which seemed surprising considering the economic circumstances and violence which existed there. Poetry bars, Salsa bars, night clubs, restaurants, cinemas and theatres, bullfighting and football were all available and there were several fine art galleries.

The most tempting and interesting haunts were the Whiskeria clubs, dimly lit combined discos and strip clubs packed with young beautiful women who would accompany, dance and flaunt with any man willing to buy them drinks. I periodically visited the International Show bar close to the Hotel Italia. A customer had to pay for an expensive bottle of rum and share it with a skimpily dressed girl. The game consisted of the customer buying a bottle of rum while the girl was given a coloured token which she later traded in to get her commission from the club. In order to obtain more commission the girl had to drink the rum as quickly as possible and commit the customer to buy another bottle. Sometimes the girl would give away the rum to her colleagues while the customer wasn't looking so that the bottle could be finished quickly. Most of the girls took cocaine and were able to consume huge amounts of alcohol without suffering drunkeness. I sometimes bought several bottles of rum. Over a long period of time I guess that the girls made a terrible mess of their health but because they were from poor families they were desperate for money and were willing to sacrifice their health, their dignity and eventually their lives.

For a night out dancing and flirting with a beautiful girl the Whiskeria could be an enjoyable experience but it could also be very expensive. Over a period of time I got to know several of the girls, all with sad stories without any sense of principle. Cash was their first priority and nothing else in life appeared to matter. Most were willing to do anything and lie through their teeth to earn a few pesos making it difficult to trust any of them.

More sophisticated places like poetry bars were very enjoyable with a very middle class clientele, particularly on a very busy Friday evening. I regularly visited one of these bars just behind the Hotel Tiquendama. People stood up and recited poetry and musicians played a variety of Spanish music. Quite often a Bolivian group played traditional Andean tunes with panpipes and had all the customers singing, cheering, clapping and banging on the tables. Being small with plenty of atmosphere, customers sat down for a meal and were served beer by waiters while listening to live singing and music. I spent many enjoyable evenings in this atmospheric and friendly place although the loud noise made conversation difficult.

My other weekly social event took place in a flat belonging to Jamaican expatriate teacher Adrian d'Costa who worked with me in Bogota. He lived with two white poodles in a small apartment block in the district of Fontibon, close to where I lived in Modelia. One of his poodles was so pleased to see me each time I arrived that it would run the whole length of the room and jump up at me and then repeat the same action over and over again. Unfortunately, the friendly little animal drank some household cleaner and expired several weeks after my first visit.

I usually visited Adrian's apartment every Sunday afternoon along with several other people and we all took a bottle of wine as a contribution. Adrian showed jazz videos and served up Jamaican rum punch. Socializing and listening to jazz music in Adrian's apartment every week was an enjoyable way of spending a Sunday afternoon.

Adrian had spent the early part of his life in Kingston Jamaica before moving to Canada then to Colombia. He had a Colombian father and a Jamaican mother and was proud to have been raised in Melrose Avenue Kingston. He claimed that he had become a well known figure in the community.

"Everyone called me Mr D and came to me for all kinds of advice", he explained. Getting to know people like cricketer George Headley and Prime Minister Malcolm Manley, Adrian was well connected in his old country.

Adrian sometimes appeared as a rather sad character and had been separated from his much younger Colombian wife who had refused him access to his children so he spent most of his free time alone. At 63 years old he realized that life was passing quickly so he was trying to enjoy his time. He periodically broke down while under the influence of alcohol but appeared to be more cheerful when working and concentrating on other things.

Adrian had formed his own small teaching business in Bogota and employed me and two other teachers to visit various companies in the city and teach English. Being an honest man Adrian always paid on time so problems were few.

Adrian once asked me to bring a bat and ball from England so that we could play some cricket so I did as he asked and accompanied him to a public park where we took turns batting and bowling. The watching Colombians didn't know what to make of it but it was all good fun. So there we were a 63 year old Jamaican and a 46 year old Englishman playing cricket like young boys in a public park in Bogota which must have looked a strange sight.

On weekends during the football season I regularly visited the national stadium called El Campin where I watched Bogota premier club Millonarios perform. The area around the stadium was quite spacious and on match days stalls selling food and drink appeared eveywhere. A heavy police presence prevented violence and the atmosphere always seemed peaceful.

Compared to England watching a game in Bogota was great value for money and a spectator could expect to pay as little as $2.50 to watch a First Division game followed by a Premier Division match. A little slower in pace than English games, the matches were of a high standard and usually very entertaining although the players could get a bit emotional. During one match that I watched between Santa Fe de Bogota and America Cali six America players were sent off and four controversial penalties given. Unlike England from the 1970s to the 1990s, violence amongst spectators was uncommon and a carnival like atmosphere existed with a large number of women watching games. Before matches young cheerleaders gave dancing displays while officials carried food and drink on trays for spectators to buy. Because of a big difference between the top four clubs and the rest, many matches were poorly attended but when the best teams met the games were sold out.

The most memorable game I watched took place between Colombia and Bayern Munich just before the 1994 World Cup Finals when the home team secured a very convincing 2-0 victory against the German club in front of a huge crowd in the El Campin stadium. In this game Colombia showed why former Brazilian star Pele had chosen them as favourites to win the World Cup.

The bull fighting season drew big crowds to the bull ring opposite the Hotel Tiquendama in La Plaza de Santamaria during January and February. Enthusiasts descended on the capital from all over the country dressed in colourful and traditional clothes. They gathered in the square outside the bull ring eating and drinking at many of the stalls situated there. Long lines of people queued at the stadium entry points before undergoing checks by the police. I once had my pocket picked by a woman who pushed herself against me from behind and smiled when I turned and looked at her. I thought she had taken a fancy to me but she brazenly picked my pocket with crowds of people milling around. I didn't realize what had happened until I put my hand into my pocket to find my money gone several minutes later. By this time the woman had departed with several hundred pesos.

Inside the bullring, designed for about 16,000 people, a band played traditional Spanish music as a warm up for the event which I had experienced in Spain years earlier. With all the seats in the stadium occupied before the beginning of the event, the picadors entered the arena fully equipped on their padded horses and were armed with long pikes ready for the first bull. Torreadors concealed themselves behind sturdy wooden panels located each end of the arena.

With the arrival of the first bull excitement began to build, especially when the bull caught sight of the picador on his horse and charged. Although the picador was usually able to hold off the bull with his pike, the bull sometimes toppled the horse over with its strength forcing the torreadors to appear with their capes in order to prevent the bull from inflicting serious injury. Next, a torreador ran directly towards the bull and stuck two short spears into its back to weaken and enrage the animal before the matador arrived.

Matadors from both Spain and South America participated in the fights with Spanish bullfighter Eduardo Ponce being particularly popular. Very thin and elegant he was a master of his trade and very quickly had the crowd chanting "Ole". He usually inflicted a clean kill compared to others who frequently had to make three or four messy attempts to kill the bull.

The event usually went to plan but I once remember a spectator jumping the perimeter fence and challenging the bull with his own cape. This is considered a criminal offence in Colombia punishable by imprisonment. Officials removed the culprit vey efficiently but not before the bull had twice charged him. I also saw an exciteable bull that jumped the perimeter fence and run freely amongst the fleeing crowd until it was recaptured by officials. This all added to the atmosphere.

Five bulls were usually used during one afternoon and these varied in weight ranging from the lightest to the heaviest. This allowed the event to be built up to an exciting peak then ending with the matador being cheered, clapped and showered with flowers after the final kill.

After the event many spectators went directly to the up market Hotel Tiquendama at the opposite end of the square where free wine was available and guests could dance to a Salsa band. This continued into the evening. I remember going there with Maria Cristina Acosta on numerous occasions and having a good time.

The cinemas in downtown Bogota were cheap but poor in quality and sometimes rats scurried around the floor but some good films were shown and these places were very popular at weekends. Most of the films were blockbusters from the United States with Spanish subtitles. I usually went every week but the most memorable occurred with a Colombian girl named Adriana. Before we entered the cinema she presented me with a gold statue of the 'Indio de Cartagena' as a token of friendship. I placed it on the floor while watching the film but forgot it when we left. About twenty minutes later she asked for it back. Horrified when I told her that I had left it on the cinema floor, we rushed back to the cinema but it had gone. Adriana never accompanied me to the cinema again.

Travelling By Bus in Bogota

With a complete absense of a train or underground service in a highly populated city, Bogota had a traffic problem and the only public transport services consisted of buses and taxis. There were two types of buses available during the 1990s known as buses executivos and busetas. The first of these was spacious, comfortable and modern while the other was smaller and cheaper. The buses were usually overcrowded, particularly during rush hour periods and to reach a destination could prove difficult when stuck in heavy traffic. Collectivos also existed, small mini buses that were safer and cheaper than the buses. Bus stops were placed along main routes but buses would usually stop anywhere to pick up passengers as long as they were flagged down. Because buses were always crowded, people stood all the way down the corridor as the driver tried to pack the maximum number of passengers in. Sometimes a man would give up his seat to a woman but generally it was every man and woman for themselves with few giving way.

On main routes buskers regularly climbed on board to perform for a few pesos. These included children who sang, did tricks and recited poetry. Others had bad luck stories to tell and even showed passengers bullet wounds or their diseased bodies. The performers tried to play on the passengers sensitivity by performing an act then pleading for money. The entertainment varied considerably from the most able to the most pathetic. In most cases the performers would receive at least a few pesos.

Passengers gave generously if they faced a threatening situation. While travelling to Cedritos in the north of the city one weekend I watched two big and dangerous looking individuals board the bus. One of them announced that they had just been released from prison and needed money. One of the men, an aggressive individual well over six feet in height with a shaven head had a nasty scar on his right cheek. The other man, a little shorter was less aggressive but appeared very edgy. After every passenger had given generously the two men departed from the bus happy with their takings while the passengers gave a visible sigh of relief.

Occasionally a filthy beggar would board a bus and could be immediately identified by a terrible smell. Drivers had their own methods of dealing with these people as I experienced while travelling on a bus along the notorious Avenida Caracas in downtown Bogota. When the bus stopped to allow passengers off a dirty beggar climbed in through the open exit doors. His stench immediately filled the bus and passengers held their noses. While the driver tried to concentrate on the road he shouted at the beggar to leave. The beggar replied with loud insulting remarks. The driver then stopped the bus, grabbed a baseball bat from under his seat and marched to the back of the vehicle where the beggar was sitting and began beating the life out of him. In seconds the beggar had departed from the bus shouting comments as he fled.

Travelling by bus was not the safest method of travel as crime was rife and passengers usually favoured a corridor seat as an easy escape route and this deterred a thief from pulling a knife and quietly demanding money. Occasionally buses were hikacked by desperados who would rob all the passengers and even rape the women while driving around the city. This happened at least twice while I was in Bogota and several people were murdered. Such incidents caused outrage but very little was done to stop it.

In traffic jams buses would sometimes mount pavements or grass verges to escape the wait and maintain their time schedule. At weekends a bus sometimes lay on its side in the road after turning over in an accident, inevitably the result of speeding or irresponsible driving.

I remember one afternoon when a man boarded the bus on which I was travelling and sang a series of beautiful Spanish ballads. This lasted for about twenty minutes and I was so impressed that I gave generously.

"Thankyou very much sir", said the man with a strong Irish accent.

"Where do you come from?" I asked.

"The Irish Republic", he replied. "I come from Dublin."

The man explained that he had been making a living by busking on the buses for about two years. An Irishman busking on the buses of Bogota was the last thing I had expected to see.

The rainy season was the worst time to travel on the buses because twenty minutes of torrential tropical rain could quickly flood the roads and bring traffic to a standstill. I once got stuck on a bus for two hours while trying to complete a twenty minute journey. I couldn't get off because the water level on the road was so deep that it covered the bus wheels.

Travelling on buses in Bogota could be an interesting or hazardous experience but with so many buses operating in the city you never had to wait long for one to turn up.

Earthquake in Bogota

Sunday afternoon in Bogota is not that different from Sunday in most countries. People relax or socialize with their families and nothing much happens with the exception of seasonal events like professional football matches or bullfighting.

One Sunday afternoon as I lay on my bed I could hear a Colombian man imitating the buzzing of a bee to entertain his young son through the thin partitioned walls. After a while the noise became so tiresome that I decided to prepare some lessons for my English teaching work and placed the earplugs from my Walkman into my ears to block the noise.

As I concentrated on my work I suddenly felt a strange rocking sensation. My bed was slowly moving backwards and forwards. I felt bemused but at first I ignored it as I could hear children running and shouting in the corridor and thought that this must be causing the problem. Gradually, the movement became more severe. I took off my earphones and looked at the bed which shook vigorously. I then looked up to see the walls moving in and out. I suddenly realized what was happening. I was experiencing an earthquake.

In a panic I jumped off the bed and put on my shoes with difficulty as the shaking became even more intense. I then threw my passport and other documents into my bag and ran from my room with the floor moving under my feet. Running along the hotel corridor at full speed with my heart pounding, I reached the stairs fearing that the building might collapse. I passed other people running down the stairs then reached the street feeling a great sense of relief but vigilant of falling debris from other buildings. By this time the tremor had stopped but worried looking people filled the streets in expectation of another more powerful shock. Fortunately, after a short time the people began drifting away and the danger appeared to be over.

I returned to my hotel room and turned on the radio. As I listened to a news report in Spanish I learned that the earthquake had occurred approximately 300 kilometres outside the city and had destroyed a complete village. Only miner damage was reported in Bogota although the following day El Tiempo reported that a man had been killed in the north of the city when a wall collapsed on him as a result of the earthquake.

Because of its location on a high plateau with a solid base Bogota was unlikely to experience an earthquake of devastating magnitude. Other parts of Colombia were not so lucky with earthquakes periodically causing catastrophe and taking many lives. The worst incident of modern times occured in 1972 when a devastating earthquake and resulting mudslide wiped out a town of 20,000 inhabitants in seconds. A combination of the tremor and torrential rain sent a river of mud sliding down the side of the mountain which overwhelmed everything in its path. The town situated at the foot of the mountain was completely buried and most of the inhabitants were killed in their sleep as the event occurred at night. The site is now a gigantic graveyard and and the town has never been rebuilt.

I felt relieved that my experience had not been worse and that I had escaped unharmed but it showed how unpredictable life can be in a country where natural disasters are likely to occur.

Travelling to Popayan, San Augustin and Villa de Leiva

On my way to San Augustin I visited Popayan which had suffered the effects of several earthquakes over the years and had to be rebuilt. I travelled there overnight by bus direct from Bogota.

Just south of Cali, Popayan is one of Colombia's oldest Spanish settlements. The earthquake of 1983 damaged much of the town centre  but it was quickly rebuilt in the same style. The town is well known for producing more Colombian presidents than any other city in the country. It has produced eleven presidents. 

I spent a day wandering around the town of gleaming white buildings in tree lined streets. People walked their dogs on the pavements while others went about their daily business. Popayan was a very peaceful town surrounded by mountains. The restored cathedral stood out from other buildings and an arched bridge named Puente del Humilladero which crossed the River Molino was flanked by gardens of colourful flowers. I only stayed there for a short time then I continued my journey to San Augustin.

Located in beautiful countryside of green rolling hills, narrow country lanes and colonial Spanish buildings, San Augustin seemed like a peaceful place and failed to live up to its reputation as a violent and dangerous area. I arrived during a mild and calm afternoon and found a small hotel to stay soon after exiting the bus. The hotel was a small building with basic rooms and windows with wooden shutters. The floor of my room was made of wood and an old metal bedstead stood in the middle. I had to share the bathroom with the resident family but I didn't mind because it was all part of the experience.

I spent the first day walking around the environs of the town taking photos. I met very few people along the winding and peaceful country lanes, only a few trucks periodically passed by and a herd of cattle driven past by two men on horseback wearing straw hats. One of the men beckoned me to get into the side of the road as he whistled at the cattle to keep them moving.

I learned that San Augustin had the largest collection of religious monuments and megalithic sculptures in South America. The sculptures which were made of stone depicted animals, birds and human figures dating from 100 to 1,200 A.D. Some of the figures were about four metres high and weighed several tons. Little is known about the people who produced these but many of the figures had been moved to an archeaological park called Parque de Archeological, a UNESCO site just outside the town. I visited the site on horseback with a Colombian guide who turned out to be reliable and honest compared with other guides I had met in other parts of the country. Trotting and cantering along rough tracks on horseback around the picturesque green hills and gorges, my horse was a little unpredictable but I remembered sufficient about horse riding not to fall off. Pedro, my guide, was about 25 years old and could only speak Spanish and told me that guerrillas had roamed the area in recent times but had since moved on to other parts. A friendly and talkative person, Pedro was just trying to earn a living. Jobs weren't easy to obtain in this part of the country so he had to be content with what he had. His ambition had been to set up his own tourist agency but he didn't have enough money to invest so he worked as a guide.

We rode to Parque Archeologico where Pedro took me to see the Mesitas, large vertical stone slabs standing in circular enclosures. I found the entire area incredibly tranquil and interesting set in beautiful surroundings.

When we reached the brow of a hill on our horses I saw the statues of El Tablon where five sculptures under a bamboo roof were located. We rode on to the site of La Pelota where two more sculptures were discovered in 1984. Nearby, I saw some unique stones with animals carved in relief known as Los Petroglifos. Finally, I saw Alto de Los Idolos, figures that guard a burial mound. One of these consisted of a rat totem but all the carvings were situated in a peaceful setting and were said to be alive with spiritual power. I didn't experience anything spiritual but the location was certainly very calm.

In some of the San Augustin sculptures I saw a feline motif, a common feature with the figures showing part feline and part human characteristics. Some showed half jaguar and half man with a small body and head. Others had a woman's body with cat's eyes and stance with a fanged mouth. According to Paez Indian mythology a young Paez woman was attacked and raped by a jaguar in the San Augustin area which resulted in the birth of a thunder child. The child grew up into a man and became an important culture hero God who went into a lagoon where his spirit is said to have remained. Thunder is a theme running through all Paez Indian myths and is usually connected to the Jaguar spirit and to the concept of fertiliity. Paez mythology reveals that a thunder jaguar had many children with a combination of feline and human traits. These thunder children had female servants who were eventually killed and their blood drunk. The Indians near San Augustin also believed in childlike spirits who lived behind cascades and were converted into thunder and rain. These were said to persecute women when angry and could turn into jaguars and attack people and houses.

With darkness beginning to descend we quickly rode back to San Augustin past peasant shacks, barns and rural workers walking along the road wearing straw hats and carrying machetes. Some shouted out their greetings while others just glanced as we passed.

San Augustin was the most peaceful part of Colombia that I had visited and it was hard to believe that it had recently been the setting for raging battles between the government security forces and the guerrilla groups.

After visiting San Augustin I journeyed to Villa de Leiva, a small colonial town just a few hours from Bogota. Because the town was situated away from the main highway it had remained untouched over time and had retained its colonial appearance with picturesque surroundings. Originally founded in 1572 by Hernan Suarez de Villalobos, the town had a huge cobbled plaza, thought to be the largest in South America. With its cobblestone streets the whole town was almost entirely made up of white walled colonial houses with orange tiled roofs. Many of the houses had balconies decorated with flowers or plants and had big front doors with carvings but the most famous feature was the big plaza in the centre of the town.

I found Villa de Leiva very quiet without much public entertainment apart from a handful of small cafes and restaurants. I spent most of my time wandering around the surroundings of the town taking photos and getting exercise. With an open landscape dotted with farms and mountains in the background, very few people inhabited the area with the exception of farm workers who toiled in the fields. I walked the narrow country lanes and visited the only significant building known as Monasterio de Las Carmelitos Descalzas situated several miles outside Villa de Leiva. This monastery had some of the best religious art I had seen in Colombia. The location was uninhabited but very beautiful in a Latin design with wall frescos and Catholic style ornamentation. I spent several hours wandering in the grounds of this religious building in an attractive setting with colourful flowers and plants.

I stayed in a clean and small bed and breakfast residence in Villa de Leiva run by a young and beautiful dark skinned Colombian woman with black hair and a big and welcoming smile. I stayed there for four days and walked to the main plaza early each morning for some exercise and watched rural workers congregating at the bus stop waiting to be transported to their work location. The men wore ponchos and wide brimmed hats while the women wore taditional Indian clothes consisting of a wide skirt and trilby hat. Some carried sacks of farm produce over their shoulders.

Although Villa de Leiva had a colonial appearance and a restful atmosphere it had become a popular tourist destination with groups of tourists coming to visit the location but it had retained many elements of its colonial past and was an interesting place to visit and relax in.

After returning to work in Bogota for several months the Easter period of Semana Santa soon arrived so I decided to head for Venezuala and visit the Islands of Morrocoy for a holiday. Travelling by bus through familiar rural terrain, I headed farther north to Cucuta where there is a border crossing to Venezuala. The northern part of Santander which you pass through before reaching Cucuta is open and undulating farming country but the area is also infamous for guerrilla activity. I kept looking out for groups of guerrillas from the bus window and had even hidden my cash in my shoe as a precaution if the bus was attacked and the passengers robbed but as in most cases when you imagine the worst nothing happened.

Barely 16 kilometres from the Venezualan border lies Cucuta, a fairly small city with elegant tree lined streets and without a serious security problem. The most famous fact about Cucuta is that it is the only city in the world with a street grid system beginning with 0.

I arrived in Cucuta at about midday after a long and tiring journey from Bogota. Amazingly, just seconds after I had got off the bus somebody shouted in Spanish. "Hey amigo, remember me?"

I looked closely at a middle aged man dressed in grey trousers and a white open necked shirt who had a pick up truck piled high with empty plastic petrol cans. He said that he remembered me from the Hotel Italia in Bogota where he had stayed while on business in the capital. He explained to me in Spanish that he was on his way to Venezuala.

"I can fill up the plastic containers with cheap petrol then return to Colombia where I can sell it for a profit. Many small Colombian business people do this because it is an opportunity to make some quick money. It's good business."

He recommended a suitable hotel for me to stay, conversed with me about all kinds of things then later during the evening he joined me at a roadside bar where we drank Leona beer straight from the bottle. We were joined by a crazy young woman in her twenties who told me her life story in less than thirty minutes before departing then a group of three musicians arrived and played Vallenato music after asking permission. After each tune they expected to be paid a few pesos which I willingly gave because I enjoyed their music. They played many well known tunes which included 'La Reina' by Diomedes Diaz and the more I drank the more I enjoyed it and became intoxicated by both the music and the beer. My mind got lost in it so much that I just wanted it to continue for ever. The musicians finally departed when I briefly fell asleep, happy after making some good money from me.

The following morning at the border crossing between Cucuta and the Venezualan city of San Antonio, a huge traffic jam of cars and buses clogged the road and a huge number of people walked over the narrow crossing which divided the two cities. I considered walking straight across but a man warned me that if I did this I would be sent straight back by the Venezualan border officials. I needed to obtain a tourist visa from the Colombian DAS building nearby. As is usually the case in official Colombian government buildings the office was packed with applicants for visas. Without any sense of queuing, hoards of applicants pushed and shoved each other in an effort to reach the front, waving their documents and shouting at the officials seated behind the counter who worked in slow motion, unbothered by all the chaos. I had to wait at least an hour before I could register, pay my fee and hand over my passport for collection the following day. Although this hassle is common in everyday Colombian life I dreaded it and felt very happy when I finally collected my passport and visa the following day.

After crossing over the border into San Antonio ready to begin an adventure in Venezuala. I entered the bus terminal where I boarded a mini bus and headed for the Islands of Morrocoy on the Caribbean coast.

Robbed in Santa Marta

The night had been a long one as the journey from Bogota had taken fifteen hours, shorter than my previous trips due to a new route being opened but I still experienced the wild swerving of the bus on the treacherous and winding Andean mountain roads. This had made sleep almost impossible but I had survived, arrived safely in Santa Marta and went directly to the Telecom building in the centre of town to meet my old acquaintance Gabriel but when I reached the building he wasn't there. I asked several people in the locality of his whereabouts but they couldn't help. The only information I obtained was that he usually began work at 9 a.m. and it was now 6-30 a.m.

I began my one week vacation during the holy week of Semana Santa which takes place over the Easter period by having breakfast at a local cafe then I sought out Gabriel again at Telecom. There he was, standing at the top of the steps with his familiar bag of coins. Gabriel had arrived to begin work still dressed in the dark blue shirt and blue jeans that he had worn when I had first met him ten years previously in 1987. Gabriel asked me where I was going to stay and I told him that I would try to find a cheap hotel room.

"A friend of mine has taken a vacation and has asked me to look after his apartment", he said. "I can take you there right now and you can decide if you want to take it."

We walked to the building situated about forty yards from Telecom. It was quite old and stairs led up from the main entrance. We entered the apartment situated on the third floor and I was surprised by the amount of space available with a large lounge, two bedrooms, kitchen and two bathrooms.

"I'll take it", I told Gabriel. "I need it for about a week."

I put my bag into the cupboard and bolted the door.

"How about spending some time on the beach?", I asked Gabriel.

"Yeah, why not?" replied Gabriel. "I can take a little time off and we can relax and talk. Irene can come too."

Irene, Gabriel's long term girlfriend, was short and thin with black hair and brown skin with lighter blotches on her cheeks. She still looked after Gabriel and assisted him with his work but their relationship remained turbulent and they frequently had loud arguments but they got along in their own way and managed to stay together.

After locking the bedroom door and the main apartment door I saw a woman wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts standing on the landing looking nervous and edgy. She had been listening to our conversation. She apprehensively acknowledged Gabriel as we passed then slowly went upstairs to the next level, glancing back at us periodically. I had a bad feeling about this and sensed a problem.

Once outside the building we took a taxi to El-Rodadero beach, predictably crowded on a hot day and I was happy relaxing and talking to Gabriel about old times. Irene departed to do a few chores in Santa Marta while I continued to enjoy my time on the beach. About one hour later as I lounged on the sand talking to Gabriel, Irene emerged out of the distance walking quickly towards us with a serious look on her face.

Visibly very worried she spoke to Gabriel and I quickly realized that there was a problem concerning the apartment.

"The apartment has been robbed", said Gabriel. "Somebody has broken in, stolen the TV and gotten to your bag."

In a panic we returned to the apartment as quickly as possible by taxi and rushed upstairs to the second floor of the building to find the front door of the apartment ajar with the lock completely broken. After going inside we also found the bedroom door open with the lock broken. I immediately went to the cupboard where I had put my bag to find it wide open then I noticed my bag on the bed with the contents scattered everywhere. My cash which totalled about $500 dollars was gone and my passport was also missing. Fortunately, my return bus ticket to Bogota remained.

My heart sank. I had only been in Santa Marta for three hours and had been robbed. I couldn't believe it. What was I going to do? Luckily I had about 500 pesos in my pocket and I had taken my camera to the beach so the thieves didn't get that but the missing passport was the biggest problem as it contained my work visa. I needed it to leave the country at the end of my work contract.

I suspected that the woman on the stairs knew something about the robbery as she had appeared edgy and nervous when I saw her immediately before my departure to the beach. Gabriel and Irene questioned all the residents of the building but nobody had seen or heard anything which I found difficult to believe with all the apartments occupied on the first day of Semana Santa. I saw the woman who had been standing on the stairs several times during the following days but she sheepisly avoided eye contact whenever I came into her sight. Her guilty looks betrayed her but I could prove nothing.

Gabriel called the police but they refused to come as they said they were too busy and understaffed because it was Semana Santa and many were on leave. They advised me to return to their office the following week to make out a report. I did what they suggested and received a copy of a written report to take to the immigration office in Bogota. The police made no attempt to investigate the crime in Santa Marta.

Gabriel offered to help by allowing me to stay in the apartment free of charge. I had enough money to survive for about a week. I had been unlucky as I had been robbed at a point where the thieves got almost everything I had right at the beginning of my holiday.

I felt depressed, unhappy and angry during the following days and it was impossible to relax or be cheerful as I could only afford to buy basics to survive, not the way I had intended to spend my holiday.

As the days passed and I neared my point of departure I made the most of the sunshine and spent most of my time on the beach during the day and wandered along the sea front at night. I did experience several good days on the beach in some hot sunshine. The cafes played live Vallenato music while the palm trees on the seafront swayed in the warm wind that blew off the Caribbean, all very pleasant but because of my lack of money to do things I felt like one of those dirty street urchins who inhabited the area begging for food and coins from tourists.

On the evening before my departure as I stood on the steps of Telecom talking to Gabriel I noticed a large truck being loaded with goods from the apartment block. Sofas, chairs, beds and other items were piled high on the vehicle. I looked closer and saw the woman who I suspected of robbing my apartment. She was placing furniture on the truck. This continued for about thirty minutes then a man climbed into the driver's seat while the woman opened the door on the passenger side. The woman noticed me and looked hard for several moments. She then climbed into the vehicle which started up and slowly departed. I felt like pursuing the truck and pulling the two people from the vehicle but I could only stand helplessly and watch. The suspects disappeared into the night never to be seen again. Perhaps they had decided to begin a new life. I would never know the truth.

Conclusion

My time in Colombia came to an end in 1997 because I had become tired of the insecurity and after getting robbed in Santa Marta I decided that I needed to work in a more tranquil and more secure location. Secondly, the economic situation had worsened in Colombia where business became difficult, work less and the currency weakened. Therefore, I decided to leave Colombia for good and experience a new culture and working environment. This led me to the Arabian Gulf for over a decade while I continued to work part time in the family farm business.

I had some interesting experiences in Colombia which had a very vibrant culture and wide range of people. I made a lot of friends, had a good time, did interesting and fulfilling work and experienced South American culture. I also had some bad experiences with the murder of my business partner resulting in the end of our fruit export business, six street muggings and the sadness of seeing so many people suffering injustices at the hands of different ruthless and self interested groups. Overall, the experience was worthwhile. I didn't find El-Dorado in terms of material wealth but I found elements of it in the rich experiences that I had and the places I visited.

After heavy financial investment, assistance from abroad and a serious effort to bring the war with the guerrilla groups to an end, the overall economic and security situation in Colombia has improved since the 1990s and Bogota has become a better and safer city. With new pedestrian zones, better road infrastructure, bicycle lanes and revitalised parks the face of Bogota has changed over the past decade. Furthermore, with the introduction of the Transmilenio rapid bus transit system with bus lanes and permanent stops road congestion has been reduced and travelling in the city has become easier. Water and electricity has been supplied to many poor neighbourhoods, there has been a 42% reduction in violent deaths and a 30% increase in children attending school. City mayors Antanus Mockus and Enrique Penalosa helped to change the mentality of people with the creation of a culture of citizenship and they transformed the city from being unsafe and chaotic into a model of urban development.

The armed conflict with the guerrilla groups continues and parts of the country like the Sierra Nevada mountains, San Augustin and the border areas with Venezuala remain very dangerous. Indiscriminate terrorist attacks still take place against government buildings, public places and public transport but the situation is much improved compared with the 1990s.  Colombia remains a very beautiful and diverse country with warm and friendly people and I have no regrets about spending ten years of my life there with an element of danger always present.
The End


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Website created in December 2011

David Wood