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The crystal waves of the Caribbean Sea lapped tentatively at the shore of Tayrona Bay. Formidable palm trees, Colombia's natural skyscrapers, caught the wind and released a weary sigh through the Cocora Valley. The dock at Capurgana was silent now dusk had replaced the bustle of fishermen's daily trade. It was silent bar the rhythmic sloshing of water against the boats. Even the emerald traders of Bogotá, famed for their exquisite eye for quality, had returned home with their sparkling haul. The stillness reflected the concerted effort of Colombians to move past their violent history of drug-fuelled civil war into peace and freedom. I felt this same stillness now I had ventured to Medellín, though this silence was not one of peace, but anticipation. The calm before the storm. I too held my breath as I stood in the football stadium amongst the hordes of fans, watching and waiting. Their bare chests were proudly tattooed with the badge of their club, a symbol of their passion and brotherhood, and their shoulders were cloaked in huge red flags. Then came the roar. ¡Golazo hermoso! Beautiful goal! The celebratory cries masked by the cacophony of derogatory expletives. The clamour surged through the crowd inside the stadium. The red flags danced through the air, taunting the opposition like bulls, provoking them. The Deportivo Independiente footballers have sported a red and blue kit since the club was formed over a hundred years ago. Their fierce rivalry with fellow Medellín team Atlético Nacional echoed uncomfortably the rivalries between drug cartels which once shook Colombia, with Medellín at the epicentre. These painful memories of the 1980s, a source of anger the fans had suppressed for decades. But here they found their outlet. Under the guise of innocent sport, their rage could flow. As the opposition scored, the fans’ expletives gained frequency. The entire front third of the stand turned their back on the match to face their peers, whipping them into a furious frenzy. The animalistic football chants strayed into political territory. Fans stamped and jumped together, united in pain and anguish. Drums and trumpets blared from the centre of the mob. Others joined the ensemble, hammering wildly against the corrugated iron which penned us in. The incessant beat of their monosyllabic chants reverberated through me. I had to escape - this wasn't a safe place for a tourist, not least a young blonde woman. I had been labelled Barbie since I first set foot in Colombia. At first a playful compliment, now an involuntary spotlight. I tried to weave my way back through the rows and rows of chaos. But another goal sparked a stampede. They charged forward, knocking my small frame to the side. I froze with fear and braced myself for further impact. Then I felt a pair of weathered hands grip my sides. They lifted me up and cradled me. I screwed my eyes tight shut, but I could feel the movement as he walked. I heard the shouting fade into the distance and opened my eyes as my feet were reunited with the ground outside the stadium. My rescuer’s words came soft but firm. "My country is full of beautiful treasures from the crystal waters to the emeralds in Bogotá. But our past is not so beautiful. Our wounds from grief and violence still throb and leak. We love our visitors and we welcome you all wholeheartedly, but we need our space as well to release our pain so we can heal."