CAUTIOUS CARGO ↑ This way up ↑: Colombia: Popayan to Capurgana, May

As we headed north along the coast from Mompiche in Ecuador towards Colombia, the people became more colourful, the bus rides became more like parties, the music became louder and more jubilant, people helping one another here and there, the bus runners were an art form of their own, running inbetween moving buses, taking money, producing tickets and change, controlling the schedule - we were not at the border but we could tell we were close. We spent a night in Ibarra to break up the journey, an absolute steal hotel room and street food skewered meats, up nice and early the next morning for our journey to civilized Popayan, a temperate colonial town and our first proper taste of Colombia. By the time we arrived it was dark and we were welcomed to a hostel by a Jewish man and his son who saw us walking around town looking for a road sign or two. After a day of llapingachos (fried mashed potato filled with butter, cheese, maybe some ham and pineapple, lovely) and breakfast at a vegetarian restaurant, we moved on to San Cipriano, an Afro-Colombian settlement accessible only via the old railway tracks and a motorcycle/wooden cart local invention, with the back wheel powering the cart and everyone and everything on it nice and nippy! An exhilarating way to arrive somewhere.

On inflatable inner tubes we floated (always a fun day) with our guide Henry, down the crystal clear, pebble strewn river that ran alongside town. Matt jumped off cliffs made of slippery clay. Ended up at the tiny town rivershore where everyone was. About eight men swam out and capsized a man's bamboo raft, the crowd was loving it, raft man had to jump ship, later there was a stampede of people as something was spotted in the water, never discovered what. Nearby some men played football in wellies. Rainstorm at night. Henry was able to tell Matt exactly how many people lived in the village and then added, 'but one of them's pregnant'.

Onto Salento in Colombia's coffee region, a colourful and immaculate town where we camped for three nights in a hostel garden, eating the best menu del dia at the same place every night, just off the town square. We'd met Aussie Jordie on the minibus into town and one day the three of us caught a jeep to the Valle de Corcora, and hiked up into the wax palm forest mists accompanied by the best guide dog, as usual, passing the occasional llanero and horse en route. One of the local dogs ran alongside our jeep almost all the way back into town, a good 30-40 minute run. Bought Mum some coffee in Colombia which was impossible to post until several countries later, that bag of coffee really got around.

After Salento we didn't stop until we arrived at the Caribbean coast, spending a few days in Cartagena's colonial walled city and fortress. It was hot. Had a cool mezzanine level double above a two-person dorm, odd but nice. Ate more llapingachos, bought some cheap supplies from the $1, $2 and $5 stores, burnt a CD, mended some jeans, lunched on raw veggies for much-needed vitamins etc. Cartagena's drunks came out at night in a big way. With a brothel- and pirate-filled history, it remains a bit raucous. Some backpackers get trapped here for months.

We moved east to Santa Marta later on the basis of a great-sounding hostel there, which absolutely did not disappoint. We spent three days in the pool and on the roof terrace in this pretty luxurious hostel (by our standards), surrounded by great street food at night and highlighted by the poshest backpackers I've ever met, some young men from Chelsea, one declared he was going downstairs to get some 'delicious internet' and was later overheard introducing his 'friend, Hugo'. Told us that we absolutely MUST go to the national park nearby which alas, we could not. We were Panama-bound, and were heading to truly Caribbean Capurgana on its border.

The journey to Capurgana involved a stopover in Turbo. The last leg of the journey before arriving in Turbo was us, sitting in the back seat of an open utility truck, driving along dark, pot-holed rural roads in the middle of the night, hot and oily with the canvas pulled over us and our backpacks, mine by this time was wet and stinking of fried beef inherited from the previous bus somehow, and became forever known as my 'beefpack' (the long and sweaty cleaning task ran over several ensuing weeks but without hot water or washing machine the beefpack would never return to its former glory). Not much else to report form Turbo other than the enormous dry fish head of considerable age I received for breakfast and the local man we befriended who just wanted to chill and eat our breakfast - apart from the enormous fish head.....

(See Colombia: Capurgana)