When I was dumped in a rough neighbourhood in what only ten years ago was considered one of the world's most dangerous cities, I suddenly discovered that my language skills are better than I thought. I asked the bus driver where on earth he thought I wanted to go when I had asked if he was going to the main bus terminal. Consequently I managed to land a free ride back in the right direction in the cab of another bus, the driver turning to ask me if the streets in England are like this when a man filling a pot-hole shook his tin at the window. The locals are repairing the roads themselves, their only payment coming from these donations. The bus also passed through an area where women and transvestites wearing only lingerie and high heels were standing outside doorways. Between them were garages where mechanics changed tyres and worked under car bonnets. It was a surreal sight, and I later found out that this is the "tolerance zone", where prostitution is legal. There would have been some interesting photos to be had, but this isn't Amsterdam and I could sense that wandering around there with or without a camera might not be a good idea.

Meanwhile in the old colonial district of La Candelaria a familiar story has unfolded over the last decade. After the artisans and artists moved into this run-down district painting the houses in garish colours, they were followed by the students, and then by the cafes and the restaurants, breathing new life into a city that desperately needed it. Wandering these streets now I soon come to the conclusion that the people are making these changes for themselves, and not for the benefit of the tourists who are starting to re-discover their country too. A Friday night spent in La Candelaria is unforgettable. The streets are filled with jugglers and musicians; and the Bohemian bars are filled with students, travellers, businessmen and youths who think they have just invented punk rock. Only the gun-wielding soldiers on the street corners serve as a reminder that the civil war which has been going on for most of my life is not officially over, but it certainly feels like it is.

A visit to the huge gold museum shows why the Spaniards were so keen on getting their hands on this area. Before their arrival the tribes possessed huge quantities of gold, which they used not only as decoration but in ritual ceremonies by shaman. The story of El Dorado was thought by the Spanish to be a legend, whereby a tribal leader was covered in wax and gold dust then washed clean on a gilded raft in the middle of a lagoon. When the actual raft was found and they realized that this was a true story, they attempted unsuccessfully to drain the lake. The huge amount of gold that has survived to make it into the five floors of the museum shows just how much more must have been melted down and shipped to Spain.

Arriving in Bogotá was quite easy; but getting out again is not so easy. The bus journey that went wrong was an attempt to buy an advance ticket to San Agustín. There appears to be no way of doing this in Colombia other than going to the terminal, and whilst the city residents are proud of their new mass rapid transport system, it actually goes nowhere near the places that travellers might want, like the bus terminal or the airport. I guess Colombians themselves are only just starting to travel around the country again, so the long distance transport system still has a long way to go. And so in fact do I...

Posted from Ipiales, 15th May 2012