I nearly missed my flight to South America. I arrived at Panama City airport with barely 1 hour to go, but was fortunately allowed to check in. It helped that my backpack could go as hand luggage. My excuse (to myself) was that it took a whole lot longer to get to the airport than I’d expected.

After travelling for a month on dilapidated Central American buses, the 757 of COPA airlines seemed staggeringly modern and luxurious. They gave me what seemed (after all the rice and beans) like a first class gourmet lunch, even though the flying time was barely an hour (the distance is only 500 km).

As the plane descended into Medellin I peered down at the lush green hills wondering if I was over an area controlled by the government, the Medellin Drug Cartel, or the FARC rebels. I was somewhat nervous about Colombia, and had already decided to place maximum emphasis on safety and not on seeing any attractions or even talking to too many people.

However, my initial impression on arriving in Medellin was of a civilised and incredibly friendly country. From the moment I stepped off the plane people would see me and ask where I was from and if I needed help. Someone took me to the COPA office in the terminal where I cashed in the onward ticket that I’d had to buy in San Jose. Apparently Colombian immigration often ask to see an onward ticket as a condition of entry, but they were happy to stamp me into the country without one.

Getting myself to the centre of town was easy, and I checked into a safe and recommended hotel where I did some letter and postcard writing before heading out to get a pizza.

In the morning (5th December) I was up early and headed to the main bus terminal which looked brand new and had some serious security checks on the way in – like an airport. I got a ticket to Cali, and after a short wait my impressions of this country reached new heights when the most luxurious bus I had been on all trip (including the USA buses) pulled in to the bay, and I climbed aboard. The journey through the mountains was spectacular – winding roads through lush vegetation, with small villages clinging to the steep slopes. After the lunch stop the scenery became flatter. I got chatting with some friendly people from Medellin who were on their way to Ecuador, and on arrival at Cali terminal I had a meal with them. I didn’t want to stray too far from the terminal (I’d picked out a nearby hotel): the only reason I had heard of Cali was in connection with drug cartels, and eating in the terminal with other local travellers seemed a nice safe option.

I have been noticing some subtle evidence around me that I’ve arrived in a new continent. Colombians seem generally taller and perhaps more “European-looking” than the Central Americans, and seem to dress more elegantly. The music is different – the people from Medellin told me that Cali is known for its “salsa” music, and this was apparently what was coming out of the speakers in the terminal cafeteria while we ate. For someone trained only in European classical music, the complexity of the syncopated rhythms of salsa is quite eyepopping :

Eventually I said goodbye to my fellow travellers and walked the short distance to the hotel.

In the morning (6th December) I finally decided to heed Rann’s advice and modify my valuables pouch from a “neck-hanging” to a “belt hanging” type. It required a bit of work with a needle and thread, which I of course had with me. The modification felt a little strange at first, since I had become used to the comforting feel of my passport banging against my chest everywhere I went. I checked out and headed back to the terminal and got a ticket to the city of Popayan.

While doing this some backpackers with German accents came up and asked if I could help them get their tickets since they didn’t speak Spanish. I obliged, suddenly feeling an unusual linguistic superiority, since it’s the case that Germans (like many Northern Europeans) often speak English better than we British do, thereby reminding us how helplessly inept most of us are regarding fluency in foreign languages.

Three hours in a somewhat smaller bus than yesterday got me to Popayan. Reaching the centre of town, I checked into the Hotel El Viajero, and headed out to get some late lunch. I didn’t see any other backpackers around, and was starting to feel a very long way from home. However, a surprise was in store. While eating, an elderly gentleman suddenly came up and asked me in perfect English where I was from, and I told him. He lives in Popayan, but is originally from the village of Wing, which is about 4 km from my sister’s house in Bedfordshire, from where this whole circumnavigation started. This meeting seemed utterly bizarre.

Popayan felt somewhat safer than the big cities further north and I plucked up the courage to go for a wander, seeing the colonial architecture, a curious bridge, and the city’s attractive white-domed cathedral.