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It’d been four months since I’d met my beach nymph while on a ‘visa run’ between countries. A whirlwind two days together on the stifling shores of Panama had clearly left a lasting impression on us both. And now here I was, waiting anxiously in Rionegro airport to greet the boy on his return home, back for the first time in eleven years. To know one’s country better than they do themselves is an injustice that shouldn’t be taken for granted. The drive down into Medellin from the airport feels like a plane landing all over again, moreso when you take into account the bus driver’s foolhardy driving. As the road snakes downwards, the flickering lights of the city intensify and the toy cars magnify. We dive deeper, between shimmering mountains that compete with the starry sky, and into the metropolitan valley that lies below. I tentatively offer chewing gum to the boy I hardly know who sits next to me, holding my hand. He relaxes a little as he looks out the window taking it all in. With over a year under my belt living in this wonderous city, I felt confident enough acting as tour guide to newcomers. However nothing prepared me for showing a local around their own city. I didn’t think doing the typical touristy things necessary nor appropriate, but equally felt I somewhat owed something to him and his city. Besides what right did I have taking claim over a space that wasn’t mine? Morning breaks and we are woken by the sound of a woman chanting aguacate as she passes down below, pushing a cart brimming with avocados. We decide to go the the botanical gardens to see the giant iguanas. This haven rests in the midst of hectic downtown, but as you enter, the sounds of the city dissolve behind you. We wander the shady lanes lined with bamboo and palm trees, passing innumerable tropical birds and the odd distracted couple. Everything feels a little more at ease and it’s hard to imagine the gardens rife with crime and at risk of demolition as they once were not too long ago. Well, for me that is. We’re dazedly walking away from the restaurant we ate at, toward some bars where we plan to meet the evening, when he stops abruptly. Our bellies are full of rice, beans and chicharron and the sun is pounding on our heads. He looks down at the scrumpled notes and coins he still holds in his hand then looks up, wounded. “I gave the lady a 50,000 note thinking it was only 5000 pesos. They short-changed me those pesky Colombians.” Pity in its purest form rises inside me and I flinch when he insults his estranged fellow citizens. As I spread the notes on the bar table to show him how the currency works, the irony doesn’t escape me. Here we are, a local and a foreigner and the roles are reversed. I should be the one being scammed. It’s not fair. Evening turns to night and we find ourselves in the cramped underground salsa bar I love so much. Sweat slides down the walls, damp skin touches damp skin and blurry bodies whirl in circles to the clamorous music. Feet slip and slide into the early hours of the morning. We stumble out of the salsa bar, panting and ready to finish the tour. It’s been an interesting 24 hours. A group of traditional vallenato musicians are playing merrily on the street corner and as we approach, he starts to hum along. As we get closer the humming turns into singing and it becomes evident he knows every single word. A small crowd gathers, and he stands at the front, a bottle of aguardiente in hand, singing his heart out and stamping his feet. He couldn't be more Colombian if he tried.