Silicon City

I'm writing this in the city of Medellin, which has the above nickname due to the incredible amount of breast implants here. I'm told that the plastic surgeons in town are among the best and the cheapest in the world. I'm no expert on surgical enhancement, but as far as I can tell as a layman they do seem to be doing a terrific job. Well done them.

None of us were too sad to leave San Augustine, there seemed to be a bit of an edgy atmosphere to the place. Philipe told us that there was a lot of violence in the town. "They had an agricultural show last week and ten people were killed," he said. "It's always about women and they get their knives out very quickly. I have got very good at running away." He also said that crime is a real problem because the locals are legendary throughout Colombia for their laziness. "They would rather not work and live with nothing. But if ever they get the chance they will steal anything. They have to employ guards here when they are drying the coffee beans or they disappear."

There is a lot of tension between the locals and the growing band of hippies buying land in the area. The local vicar is particularly outspoken - he recently went to El Tiempo with his complaints about the long-haired, drug-taking, virgin-deflowering, property-buying rascals. He has also been known to stand in the bell tower of the church videoing the comings and goings of the hippies in the bars around the central square. In a way I can't blame him - hippies are a funny bunch. Philipe is a fair case in point. He is planning to become a self sufficient farmer, providing everything he needs to feed and water guests at a hostel he plans to build on his land. I asked why he didn't have any chickens. "I am a vegan," he said with a hint of pride. He also said that he bought his finca because of the "amazing energy" of the place. Every burial site in the area seemed to have a nest of hippies nearby, with coloured flags stuck to their fenceposts and childish posters extoling love and peace tacked to the walls. Some of them looked like cults - one finca sported a giant banner that claimed, bafflingly, that there is "one Earth, one people and one time". How do they account for yesterday or Tuesday week then? I still can't work out how this 'energy' business works. Particularly why the fact that a few blood-thirsty despots chose to be buried in the area can make people thousands of years later more happy and relaxed there. By this count folk would have conniptions of delight everytime they drove past Cheltenham Crematorium. Or perhaps they do.

The first stop out of San Augustine was Popayan, one of the most pristine colonial towns in Colombia. It's a staggeringly attractive place, with whitewashed buildings laid out in grids and fine churches on every block. Apparently it was nearly destroyed by an earthquake about twenty years ago, and has since been meticulously restored by skilled craftsmen. As with the Medellin surgeons, I appreciated their efforts - they've done a great job. Most of the houses are imposing two-storey buildings containing large, tranquil Moorish-style courtyards. Many of these are now elegant cafes, trendy bars and fashionable restaurants. Popayan must be a well-kept secret - I've never heard a Colombian recommend the place, even though it's just the sort of town you'd expect them to rave about.

Even though we all agreed that we could easily stay for at least a week there, we pressed on after only one night. The next stop was Cali, one of Colombia's largest cities and the national centre for salsa dancing. Other than wiggling bottoms and sequined tights, there isn't much to recommend the place. Also, it smelt unpleasantly of dead caterpillars. We decided to just change buses there, so my only experience of Cali was an uncomfortable half hour guarding our bags in the bus terminal while being circled by some of the least subtle would-be thieves I have ever seen. It reminded me of a playground game. Some strange combination of Fairy's Footsteps and What's the Time Mr Wolf, I think.

Thankfully the bus left on time and before too long we were in the charming coffee-growing town of Salento, which is famous for having the tallest palm trees in the world. We arrived at a hostel run by a strange Englishman, with tiny baby teeth barely visible through his straggling beard and a peculiar gurgling laugh. Even though he had a very dainty voice when speaking, whenever he said "um" or "er" it would turn into a giant foghorn. It was quite disconcerting. The place was full of the sort of travellers - hippies again!- that always lurk around cheap hostels. It seems they only ever venture out to do longer-treks-than-you or to get robbed on buses, and I think they only do these things to give them something to talk about while preparing their pasta bakes. One New Zealander was particularly annoying and, much to my chagrin, she told me her dream: "I want to open a cafe? In Barcelona? With a bookshop? But just selling, y'know, classics? Like Anne of Green Gables?" We retreated to a quiet corner away from the prattling and decided our only recourse was to use their vegan-only baking trays to cook a giant chicken with piles of lard-soaked roast potatoes.

The next morning we hired horses to go and explore some coffee fincas in the surrounding countryside, which was equally as beautiful as that around San Augustine. The horses this time were a sorry bunch. Chappy's had a festering hole where it's left eye should have been, Nicole's was a vicious biter with a nervous twitch, John's was terrified of other horses and mine, I think, had asthma. With the exception of John, whose cowardly mount was forever fleeing for the hills, we made very slow progress. The finca we visited was a little family-run place with just a couple of acres. Grandad showed us the whole coffee-making process from berry to cup while grandma got the fire going to brew us up what must be the freshest coffee I've ever had. There was also a daughter at the farm with four children. Three were, as you'd expect, olive skinned and dark eyed, but one was blue-eyed and blonde. We had to wonder what the husband thought about this strange accident of genetics, and whether he ever regretted the decision to let foreign visitors come poking round the farm.

The village of Salento was a lovely rural place, with a large central square that served as a meeting place for farmers and an open air auction house. The shops were all brimming with field-fresh produce and countrymen went about their inscrutable business on well-groomed ponies. Many of these trotted about 'paso fino' style - an odd gait that is unique to Colombia. The horses move their legs very quickly taking tiny steps, which means that the back remains perfectly still and provides a very comfortable ride. If you think of how Tina Turner dances to Nutbush City Limits you'll get an idea of how it looks.

After a couple of days enjoying the fresh air and cooking enormous meat-laden meals we headed off to Medellin in the company of a couple of girls, a Swede and Australian, who felt the same way as us about hostel-lurking hippies and had added rice puddings and chocolate cakes to our culinary repertoire.

Medellin is also known as The City of Eternal Springtime, because it's altitude and position among soaring mountains ensure a perfectly pleasant climate all year round. It also revels in its reputation of having the most beautiful women in Colombia, who really are lovely, with or without giant plastic boobies. It is also renowned for its nightlife, quite rightly, as I discovered on my first night.

I got an inkling that the club was going to be unusual when I saw the nativity scene at the front door. They they all were, Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men and the baby Jesus, all played by dwarfs. And drunk dwarfs at that. When you see the baby Jesus pull a bottle of rum out of his nappy, wiggle his stubby legs and fall out of his manger squeaking obscenities, then you know you're in for an odd evening. The club, called Mangos, was the most remarkable place I've ever been to. It was about the size of an aircraft hangar, but with every square inch covered in cowboy film memorabilia. There were dancers on stages in every direction, clothed mainly in glitter. The waiting staff were all stunning girls dressed in saucy Santa costumes. The bouncers were mainly amputees and dressed as psychadelic Magi. There was also a headless man, who waltzed around the place under an umbrella bumping into tables. I was dumbstruck for much of the evening, particularly when more dwarfs appeared dressed as bulls and matadors and started beating each other up on stage.

I think we're all still recovering from this introduction to Medellin, and have been wandering around in a daze for the few days since. Today we finally mustered the courage to go out again, and took the city's incredibly clean and efficient metro system out to a cable car that runs over one of the city's poorest slums. It was strange to be buzzing along in a swanky new cable car looking down on such deprivation - but even from that height it was obvious just how happy everyone was. They were all out on the streets in their Sunday best, eating ice-creams, taking turns in hand-cranked ferris wheels and generally laughing a lot and looking beautiful. We had a wander around for a while and the happy atmosphere was contagious. I kept thinking of home where we all have so much, but shuffle around in drab grey clothes moaning about councils, dog turds and immigrants. We must be doing something terribly wrong somewhere. Perhaps more fake tits about the place would help cheer everybody up.