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The day we arrived in Colombia was the warm-up to local election day. Shiny-chromed Chevrolets and battered old Dodges careered past with bunches of leafy twigs tied to their front bumpers, symbolising the sweeping out of the old regime to make way for the new- or was it more practically to clear the road of tacks scattered by opponents to burst their tyres? Buses, however, were less in evidence, and taxis were charging double for the one-and-a-half-hour ride from the border town of Ipiales to Pasto. Danger money. It was, judged our tour leader, too risky to travel that route today, since guerrillas were threatening to disrupt the elections. We would have to remain in Ipiales until they were over.

Leaving gentle Ecuador behind and entering this unpredictable land sent a chill of anticipation through me. Cocaine. Coffee. Cartels. That’s about all I knew about a country that has been deemed virtually off limits to travellers since ‘La Violencia’ in the 1940s, thanks to the grip of guerrilla forces and drugs cartels. Fielding’s ‘The World’s Most Dangerous Places’ gives Colombia the full five star rating (‘a place where the longer you stay, the shorter your existence on this planet will be’) along with Algeria, Somalia, Burundi and Sierra Leone. It is, opine the authors, ‘currently the most dangerous place in the Western Hemisphere, and perhaps the world because it is not considered a war zone.’

Frankly, if I’d believed that, I’d have stayed in Ecuador. But you can’t believe everything you read in print. Danger is relative. What you really want to know about Colombia is not that there are nine times more homicides than in the USA (the murder rate is 81 per 100,000 inhabitants) but how vulnerable you are as a tourist. I’d say, as long as you keep your wits sharpened and heed advice, you’ll be fine. Murder statistics apply mostly to young men known to their assailant. There are no-go areas that are easy to avoid. Colombia certainly has an edge, but, during a three-week trip from south to north, I saw no guerrillas, was offered no cocaine, and felt- with one notable exception- safe.

Unpredictability, in any case, is Colombia’s appeal. As we prepared for a day confined to barracks in Ipiales, the indomitable Nadia (half-English, half-Spanish, resident of Bogota for several years) sprang an idea upon us: a seven-mile hike to the neo-Gothic church of Las Lajas. “What about the guerrillas?” we asked nervously. She was dismissive. “They’re more interested in vehicles.”

We set out at a cracking pace and met only charabancs overloaded with defiant voters. It was a beautiful walk, reminiscent of Andalucia, with patchwork hills plunging into gorges, leading to the extraordinary white pinnacled toy-town church. (This was to prove moderate on the scale of extraordinariness when we later visited the Catedral de Sal at Zipaquira, a cavernous cathedral chiselled out of salt rock, 200 metres underground, at a cost of $140 million. Still under construction when we visited, after eight years, this sombre work of art is surely a contender for eighth modern wonder of the world.)

Election day over and adrenaline levels subdued, we moved on to the market town of Silvia, where Gumbiano Indians wear royal blue wraparound pencil skirts with fuchsia striped ponchos, fetching little bowler hats and ankle boots with dayglo laces. And that’s just the men. We hitched a ride on the roof of a chiva- one of the gaily painted local buses- before heading on to San Agustin, a sleepy little town of cobbled streets and shuttered houses, whose claim to fame is as Colombia’s prime archaeological site.

If you have seen the Mayan marvels that Mexico and Guatemala have to offer, it is hard to get worked up about the rather crude statuary here. The setting, however, is lovely, on the grassy slopes of the Rio Magdalena valley, between the Cordilleras Central and Oriental, which form the northern branches of the Andes. Our local guide, Marino, pointed out some of Colombia’s 1,745 varieties of bird, one of its 27 species of monkey (this one was tame and into guzzling beer from the bottle), two of its three types of coffee, and the one and only coca plant.

And what, I wondered, was giving off the pungent, peppery aroma?

“Pasto hidiondo,” he replied.

I looked at Nadia, questioningly. “Smelly grass,” she translated.

That afternoon, Marino took us riding. This is not really my forte. I am always convinced my horse is about to bolt, even when it turns out to be the old nag. And so I was none too happy at being designated the bay, Trueno (‘Lightning’). I managed to stay in the saddle as we bounced up and down treacherous paths at a fast trot, but on our final descent into town the horses got the whiff of home.

Dusk had fallen and the brightest stars were glimmering through the moody clouds. By now I couldn’t see the road ahead and had to rely on my steed. A thunderous crescendo of trotting hooves grew from behind us, and all of a sudden we were swept up in a group of some 40 riders. My anxiety gave way to invigoration as I gave up trying to control Trueno and let him join the stampede into town, sparks flying from hooves as we clattered over the cobbles.

Our next stop signalled the more publicized terrors of Colombia: Bogota, city of 7 million people, one of whom is killed every hour. The bus journey through the southern part of town ranked with the lowest of fume-ridden, horn-blaring, chaotic Third World experiences. But there is a silver lining to every hellhole, and the old colonial district of La Candeleria is Bogota’s. I strolled along the streets of gaily painted, terracotta-tiled houses, furtively taking photos, but nobody was interested in me. I soon relaxed and ventured into the city centre alone. I lived.

This was just a prelude to Colombia’s more sophisticated colonial towns. We didn’t get to the infamous Cali or Medellin, centres of the most powerful drug cartels, yet, according to Nadia, both are vibrant, attractive cities. We did go to Villa de Leyva, a charming little town where smart Bogotanos arrive for the weekend in air-conditioned land cruisers, parade the polished cobbled streets, browse the arty-crafty shops and stay at the tranquil Hosteria del Molino La Mesopotamia, with its courtyard gardens, fountains and natural swimming pool.

We wound up, as any trip should, on the Caribbean coast. Even here the contrasts are sharp. One night we trekked into Tayrona National Park and slept in hammocks, slung in thatched huts. The next, we were ensconced in Cartagena, the Spanish gateway to South America founded in 1533 and, right now, just like a film set. It wasn’t just because of the candy pink and ochre domes, set against unfeasibly blue skies, nor the sparkling seas dotted with the tiny Islas del Rosario, strung like beads on a rosary. It was the cast of exotic extras.

It was carnival time, in the riotous lead-up to the crowning of Miss Colombia. We walked out of our hotel in the rather seedy district of Getsemani, to the beat of salsa blaring from every doorway. Tables had been carted outside and men sat around playing cards and drinking beer. Within the old city walls, at the chic and expensively renovated heart of Cartegena, life was concentrated on the plazas, most enticingly at Plaza Santo Domingo, where restaurants take over the square at night.

It reminded me of the Piazza Navona in Rome, where the beautiful people dine, surrounded by every type of cabaret act and vendor. Guitarist duos offered to serenade us, a mime artist, fire juggler and diablo supremo competed for attention, artists thrust mawkish paintings before us, cocky boys waved cigars and Chiclets, the hat-man’s sales demo was a bravura performance in itself, but the act that drew every gaze was El Hombre Elastico, who could wind his leg behind his head and smoke a cigarette held between his toes.

Next morning, the children of Getsemani took to the streets in their own carnival procession, the pint-sized junior Miss Colombias wiggling their tummies, while red devils, skeletons and bewhiskered rats pranced behind. The grown-up event was altogether more scary, however. Even to get near the processional path required a daredevil dodge between youths smeared in black grease and wielding batons, and others flinging water bombs and blue powder paint. Overnight, Cartagena seemed to have turned into a Most Dangerous Place.

Three times I attempted to enter the fray, and three times I chickened out. Finally I returned to my hotel, jettisoned my camera and anything else that moved, and joined the owner and his family and friends who were just setting forth breezily for the carnival arena. This was not such a hot idea. The hotelier found it amusing to let off firecrackers at my ankles which only encouraged my screams and scowls, while the whole group thought it part of the fun to soak me in water and multi-coloured dye. All of a sudden, the proprietress’s earrings and sunglasses were swiped, and someone shouted, ‘armas!’ A man flashed by with a revolver. We surged forward, hearts thumping, ducking to avoid water bombs and grasping hands, until we were disgorged at an open green beneath the city walls.

Upon the wall sat a row of mean looking guys, kept in detention by the military. As we danced and drank firewater away from the crush, thug after thug was hauled out of the crowd, some spattered with blood, others merely loaded to the gunwales with stolen booty. I was mightily relieved when my wayward escorts decided to head home. It was hardly a family outing as we know it in Britain. But at least I’d had a taste of Colombia’s front line.

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