We flew into Medellín and headed toward Guatapé.

Getting there was a little more complicated than we expected.

One taxi could only take us so far, so we had to meet another driver for the rest of the trip.

Looking back, it was probably a little sketchy.

At the time, we just got in.

The second car was tiny.

Our driver was an older gentleman who was recovering from a cold, and within minutes Juan and he were talking about life.

Not small talk.

They were trading stories.

I was in the back seat, getting carsick.

Again.

We were winding up and down the mountains.

And our driver was eating mango from a little cup with a toothpick.

He’d take his glasses off to stab a piece of mango.

Put his glasses back on so he could drive.

Then we’d come around a corner and he’d see a statue of the Virgin.

His hands would come off the steering wheel.

He’d cross himself.

Say a blessing.

Put his hands back on the wheel.

The brakes would shake the car.

I’d wonder if we were actually going to arrive.

And Juan and the driver were laughing and telling stories like nothing unusual was happening.

Eventually Juan turned around to check on me.

I must have looked a little concerned.

He said,

“You’ve got to hear this.”

The driver had been married for almost forty years.

He had children.

Grandchildren.

And he said it had been wonderful because forty years had only felt like forty minutes.

Under the water.

I couldn’t believe it.

I laughed.

And somehow, for the first time that entire drive, I forgot I was carsick.

Eventually we made it to Guatapé.

Our driver couldn’t get up the driveway to our lodging because the hill was too steep.

So we got out.

Pulled our suitcases out.

And walked the rest of the way.

If we’d had one of those little trucks we would see later in town, we probably would have made it just fine.

😂

Our lodging was made up of little independent fincas—tiny houses where you had your own space but everything you needed was right there.

No kitchen.

No need for one.

If you wanted to go into town, a little truck that looked almost like a miniature chiva would take you down the hills.

Those things could climb anything.

Guatapé itself was completely different from anywhere we’d been before.

Colour everywhere.

The town sits beside a huge winding reservoir created by a dam, with water reaching around the hills and valleys.

And then there were the zócalos.

Decorative panels running along the lower part of the buildings, telling stories about the people who lived there, their families, their work or their businesses.

You could walk down the street and realize the buildings were telling you things.

There was a little square unlike any we’d seen before, with brightly coloured steps where people sat and watched the town go by.

There were artisan shops.

Restaurants.

People everywhere.

And then there was The Rock.

El Peñol.

About 220 metres of granite rising out of the landscape.

And about 740 steps built directly into it.

The steps are enormous.

And they go straight up.

Children make it look easy.

I did not.

By the time we reached the top, my legs were shaking and I was completely out of breath.

But then you look around.

360 degrees.

Water.

Mountains.

Little pieces of land stretching in every direction.

Everything suddenly looks very small.

It is incredible.

And then you remember:

You have to go back down.

It’s exactly the moment when you wish you’d trained for this trip.

We also took a boat onto the reservoir and went through the remains of the old town that had been submerged when the reservoir was created.

It was strange and beautiful at the same time.

And then there was the town itself.

Cooler than some of the places we’d been.

Easy to walk around.

Colourful.

Friendly.

The kind of place where you find yourself thinking,

Maybe we could stay another day.

And I think that’s what keeps happening to us in Colombia.

We arrive somewhere for a reason.

And then the place gives us something we weren’t expecting.