Guatapé

All week, I've been discussing with Sebás, as well as Nadine and Beate, about going to Guatapé, a destination about two hours from Medellín or La Ceja. Unfortunately, our plans for a joint trip fell through, as everyone else ended up being busy. Sebás' parents encouraged me to make the trip alone, and they took me to the highway exit where I could catch a direct bus. However, I planned to make the return journey by myself, with several transfers.

I arrived at the Rock of Peñol, a granite inselberg that resembles Rio's Sugarloaf Mountain. I bravely climbed the path to the entrance of this attraction and then the 700 steps to the top, which was more challenging than usual due to the 2,000-meter altitude. At the summit, a panoramic view opened up, revealing a wide, hilly landscape with a large, intricately branched reservoir. I decided to explore it on a boat tour, where I met two American women. I translated the guide's explanations for them, pointing out which lake villas belonged to reggaeton artists like Maluma and which ones had been owned by Pablo Escobar and his associates. The two returned the favor by offering me a ride in their taxi to the colorful village of Guatapé, where they treated me to a meal.

Well-fed, we decided to head back, and I took the opportunity to save myself a transfer by catching another ride. However, Alex, the taxi driver, only wanted to take me as far as the Autopista and dropped me off there. It wasn’t the most ideal spot, as I soon realized. I tried to stop an approaching bus, but it didn’t pick me up—likely because of the man who also wanted to board. I spoke to him, and it turned out that he was also heading to Rionegro. He asked if I wanted a beer, which I declined. He said it was dangerous for me here. He flagged down the next bus, and we got on. During the ride, he chatted with me, asking if I could help him find work as a truck driver in Germany. He casually mentioned that he had been in prison and was visiting his ex-wife and kids today. It was only then that I noticed a small swastika tattoo on his knuckle. After we got off in Rionegro, he accompanied me to the ticket counter. Noticing my discomfort, he assured me that he wouldn’t rob me. Relieved that everything turned out fine, I boarded the next bus and swore never to put myself in such a risky situation again.