Medellín
Irish people like to think that we can spot other Irish when we're abroad just by looking at them (which is true, we can). I think after living two years in the Netherlands, I can now do the same for the Dutch. I've been using this skill a lot in Colombia, because there's a whole lotta Dutch here. I shared a taxi from the airport to the centre of Medellín with two meneers from Amsterdam and The Hague.
Yet another night time approach to a new place, but this one was the best yet. Medellín is located both in a valley surrounded by hills, and on the sides of the hills themselves. The airport is outside this urban basin, and the area where I was staying (Poblado, where most of the hostels and nice restaurants/bars are) is located on a mountainside south of the centre.
When I got to my hostel rooftop the view was incredible. I spent five minutes with a beer in hand just drinking it all in (along with Martin, my dorm roommate - Dutch of course). A really nice, modern hostel, an amazing view, and tasty local craft beer on tap - Medellín was starting to win me over already.
There was no messing about the next morning, with a four hour walking tour I had booked that had come highly recommended by other travellers. The tour was really interesting, well paced, and was a great way to get some context on this new place I occupied. The people from this region are called "paisas". They're intelligent, fiercely hard working, and think they're better than the rest of the country. Oh, and they really don't like people from the capital. Sound familiar? Yep, Medellín is the Cork of Colombia.
Besides this comforting insight, the walking tour was great for a whole load of other reasons. We learned why the metro system carraiges are spotless (no graffiti or rubbish) - it's because the paisas are proud of it, it helped change their city. We saw a former government palace that was now a shopping centre. We encountered retired locals, drunk in a park because they had nothing better to do, who were extremely welcoming and happy to have tourists in the city (because we only come when it's safe). Best of all, we saw prostitutes and hardcore porn next to churches, for convenience (do the deed then pop next door to confession and all is forgiven). If you visit Medellín, do this walking tour (realcitytours.com). It's free, if you're an asshole (tips are encouraged).
Back in the hostel, and after an afternoon dorm nap interrupted by some noisy Swedes, I ventured back up to the rooftop bar looking forward to some Friday-night craic on the hostel pub crawl. It kicked off with a shot of arguardiente, the local water of life. Everyone hated it. I loved it. Us collective pub crawlians, a mixture of Dutch (yep), Germans, Swiss and an Aussie bloke, were lead by a local to three bars in total. The first two were forgettable, but the last place was where it really kicked off. It was a salsa bar, with a singer in the corner belting out the songs, with percussion provided by a couple of lads hitting a cowbell-like instrument while sitting at the bar drinking away.
Seb the Aussie bloke and I both agreed that the nightclub-type setup on the top floor was nowhere near as good as the live music white hot salsa atmosphere downstairs, so we left the rest of the group to dance awkwardly amongst themselves. A local knocked over Seb's drink, and insisted on buying him a new one. It turned out he could speak English really well, as could his friend, so we ended up drinking with them for the rest of the night.
We quickly learned that one of them was on a drinking rampage - his wife had cheated on him after ten years of marriage. After a few shots of whatever the above is called, we even had the, ehm, pleasure of seeing pictures of the act. A bizarre twist to the night, but whatever, we were having the craic all the same. The night ended messily, with some bar tab trouble for our new Columbian friends, a random local rock bar, and a dodgy 4.30 am burrito for Seb and myself. Much later than I usually stay out these days, but worth it - a great night out.
The next day belonged to the Medellín derby, which is getting a blog post of its own, so I'll skip ahead to the "Don't say his name" tour I did the day after. The city, whilst strongly aware of its violent recent past, doesn't like to dwell on it, prefering to focus on the brighter future instead. During the walking tour, our guide didn't even refer to Pablo Escobar by name. I can understand why locals are not fullly comfortable with exploiting a tyrannic druglord for tourism purposes, but of course such tours do exist, and I arranged one with minimum fuss.
Within five minutes of meeting our guide I was impressed by his presence, his good English, and his knowledge of all things Escobar. Our first stop was his grave. He's buried with close members of his family, as well as his loyal driver, Limón. I could remember some of the names from Narcos. It was a little eerie to see the graves of the real characters, but fascinating at the same time.
If you've watched season two of Narcos you'll remember La Catédral, Escobar's maximum security "prison". When the heat was on, he made a deal with the government to turn himself in, with lots of conditions attached, one of which was to decide the location of his own prison. It had a nightclub, football pitch, gym, helipad, and other extravagances. Nowadays, instead of one of the richest men in the world, his family and cronies, it's filled with random old people - it's an old folks home. Madness. We couldn't see Escobar's actual living quarters because we would have disturbed some geriatrics having their mid-morning nap.
The final twist in the tour is one that every Escobar tour seemed to have - our guide knows one of Escobar's right-hand men personally. In our case, it was Popeye. As well as being a schoolmate of our guide, he was also responsible for over 250 murders, and released from prison a couple of years ago after serving the maximum possible jail sentence under Columbian law of 25 years. Our guide sent us the recent looking picture you see above of them together as proof. My gut tell me he's telling the truth.
That afternoon Medellín impressed me yet again. Joining forces with Martin, who I had been doing most things with the past few days, we took a ride on one of the city's cable cars. In Medellín, these aren't here for the tourists. They're a super-practible form of public transport, with various stops along the hillsides. The higher you go, the poorer the area. Looking down over steep-mountainside barrios in a ski-lift is not something you do every day, unless you live in one of these areas. For those people, it must have been life-changing when it was introduced.
This was the thing that impressed me most about Medellín. 25 years ago, when I was nine years old, it was a murderous, violent, bloody place. The city was coming apart at the seams. And now, it comes across as a determined, bright, characterful city, with a strong emphasis on the wellbeing of its citizens. The city planners know that when people are marginalised and excluded, people like Escobar can sway them. That's why the city has the only metro system in Columbia, one that's clean and works extremely well. That's why they built the cable car networks, so that the people on the top of the hillsides no longer feel like the leftovers on the fringes. That's why they planted libraries throughout the poorest neighbourhoods, to allow the people there to educate themselves to a better life.
There was no better example of the transformation that has come about here than in Comuna 13. Ten years ago, this was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in South America. Martin and I visited on a Sunday afternoon, to witness families and children out and about playing on the winding steep thoroughfare, backdropped by some awesome murals on the walls. Local artists have been encoraged by the government in recent years to spruce up the place via street art, and it seems to have worked. We felt perfectly safe strolling about.
Medellín is a special place. It has it all - western standard bars and restaurants in El Poblado, good cafes (with good coffee), decent craft beer, down-to-earth yet optimistic no bullshit locals, and some stunning mountainous greenery just outside the city. Whenever anyone asked me about Medellín after I left, I kept telling them the same thing: I could live there. I really could. As cities go, it's going to be hard to top.
More Medellín photos
Yet another night time approach to a new place, but this one was the best yet. Medellín is located both in a valley surrounded by hills, and on the sides of the hills themselves. The airport is outside this urban basin, and the area where I was staying (Poblado, where most of the hostels and nice restaurants/bars are) is located on a mountainside south of the centre.
When I got to my hostel rooftop the view was incredible. I spent five minutes with a beer in hand just drinking it all in (along with Martin, my dorm roommate - Dutch of course). A really nice, modern hostel, an amazing view, and tasty local craft beer on tap - Medellín was starting to win me over already.
There was no messing about the next morning, with a four hour walking tour I had booked that had come highly recommended by other travellers. The tour was really interesting, well paced, and was a great way to get some context on this new place I occupied. The people from this region are called "paisas". They're intelligent, fiercely hard working, and think they're better than the rest of the country. Oh, and they really don't like people from the capital. Sound familiar? Yep, Medellín is the Cork of Colombia.
Besides this comforting insight, the walking tour was great for a whole load of other reasons. We learned why the metro system carraiges are spotless (no graffiti or rubbish) - it's because the paisas are proud of it, it helped change their city. We saw a former government palace that was now a shopping centre. We encountered retired locals, drunk in a park because they had nothing better to do, who were extremely welcoming and happy to have tourists in the city (because we only come when it's safe). Best of all, we saw prostitutes and hardcore porn next to churches, for convenience (do the deed then pop next door to confession and all is forgiven). If you visit Medellín, do this walking tour (realcitytours.com). It's free, if you're an asshole (tips are encouraged).
Back in the hostel, and after an afternoon dorm nap interrupted by some noisy Swedes, I ventured back up to the rooftop bar looking forward to some Friday-night craic on the hostel pub crawl. It kicked off with a shot of arguardiente, the local water of life. Everyone hated it. I loved it. Us collective pub crawlians, a mixture of Dutch (yep), Germans, Swiss and an Aussie bloke, were lead by a local to three bars in total. The first two were forgettable, but the last place was where it really kicked off. It was a salsa bar, with a singer in the corner belting out the songs, with percussion provided by a couple of lads hitting a cowbell-like instrument while sitting at the bar drinking away.
Seb the Aussie bloke and I both agreed that the nightclub-type setup on the top floor was nowhere near as good as the live music white hot salsa atmosphere downstairs, so we left the rest of the group to dance awkwardly amongst themselves. A local knocked over Seb's drink, and insisted on buying him a new one. It turned out he could speak English really well, as could his friend, so we ended up drinking with them for the rest of the night.
We quickly learned that one of them was on a drinking rampage - his wife had cheated on him after ten years of marriage. After a few shots of whatever the above is called, we even had the, ehm, pleasure of seeing pictures of the act. A bizarre twist to the night, but whatever, we were having the craic all the same. The night ended messily, with some bar tab trouble for our new Columbian friends, a random local rock bar, and a dodgy 4.30 am burrito for Seb and myself. Much later than I usually stay out these days, but worth it - a great night out.
The next day belonged to the Medellín derby, which is getting a blog post of its own, so I'll skip ahead to the "Don't say his name" tour I did the day after. The city, whilst strongly aware of its violent recent past, doesn't like to dwell on it, prefering to focus on the brighter future instead. During the walking tour, our guide didn't even refer to Pablo Escobar by name. I can understand why locals are not fullly comfortable with exploiting a tyrannic druglord for tourism purposes, but of course such tours do exist, and I arranged one with minimum fuss.
Within five minutes of meeting our guide I was impressed by his presence, his good English, and his knowledge of all things Escobar. Our first stop was his grave. He's buried with close members of his family, as well as his loyal driver, Limón. I could remember some of the names from Narcos. It was a little eerie to see the graves of the real characters, but fascinating at the same time.
If you've watched season two of Narcos you'll remember La Catédral, Escobar's maximum security "prison". When the heat was on, he made a deal with the government to turn himself in, with lots of conditions attached, one of which was to decide the location of his own prison. It had a nightclub, football pitch, gym, helipad, and other extravagances. Nowadays, instead of one of the richest men in the world, his family and cronies, it's filled with random old people - it's an old folks home. Madness. We couldn't see Escobar's actual living quarters because we would have disturbed some geriatrics having their mid-morning nap.
 |
| Murderer of 250 people, left, our guide, right |
The final twist in the tour is one that every Escobar tour seemed to have - our guide knows one of Escobar's right-hand men personally. In our case, it was Popeye. As well as being a schoolmate of our guide, he was also responsible for over 250 murders, and released from prison a couple of years ago after serving the maximum possible jail sentence under Columbian law of 25 years. Our guide sent us the recent looking picture you see above of them together as proof. My gut tell me he's telling the truth.
That afternoon Medellín impressed me yet again. Joining forces with Martin, who I had been doing most things with the past few days, we took a ride on one of the city's cable cars. In Medellín, these aren't here for the tourists. They're a super-practible form of public transport, with various stops along the hillsides. The higher you go, the poorer the area. Looking down over steep-mountainside barrios in a ski-lift is not something you do every day, unless you live in one of these areas. For those people, it must have been life-changing when it was introduced.
This was the thing that impressed me most about Medellín. 25 years ago, when I was nine years old, it was a murderous, violent, bloody place. The city was coming apart at the seams. And now, it comes across as a determined, bright, characterful city, with a strong emphasis on the wellbeing of its citizens. The city planners know that when people are marginalised and excluded, people like Escobar can sway them. That's why the city has the only metro system in Columbia, one that's clean and works extremely well. That's why they built the cable car networks, so that the people on the top of the hillsides no longer feel like the leftovers on the fringes. That's why they planted libraries throughout the poorest neighbourhoods, to allow the people there to educate themselves to a better life.
There was no better example of the transformation that has come about here than in Comuna 13. Ten years ago, this was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in South America. Martin and I visited on a Sunday afternoon, to witness families and children out and about playing on the winding steep thoroughfare, backdropped by some awesome murals on the walls. Local artists have been encoraged by the government in recent years to spruce up the place via street art, and it seems to have worked. We felt perfectly safe strolling about.
Medellín is a special place. It has it all - western standard bars and restaurants in El Poblado, good cafes (with good coffee), decent craft beer, down-to-earth yet optimistic no bullshit locals, and some stunning mountainous greenery just outside the city. Whenever anyone asked me about Medellín after I left, I kept telling them the same thing: I could live there. I really could. As cities go, it's going to be hard to top.
More Medellín photos
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