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One big gulp in my throat and the butterflies start forming in my stomach as I pick up my big purple backpack and haul it onto my back. This is the day. I have just had the worst night sleep in a budget motel - which I booked as an ‘upgrade’ for one night as a treat to myself after the multiple hostel bunk beds I’d been staying in. Complete with its pink floral-patterned paper-thin walls, shiny golden duvet cover and cheap perfume smell, it felt like the type of establishment that is booked by the hour, rather than the night. It is 7am on a fresh September morning in Ipiales, Colombia and the sun is just starting to rise. I am grateful it’s not raining. I have already been travelling for 6 months; the longest I have ever travelled solo and Colombia was my first stop in South America. Upon arrival to Cartagena, I was nervous and anxious enough on that leap into the unknown; yet somehow, this was different. In my first three months of travel through Europe, I crossed many borders by bus between beautiful Countries like Spain, Switzerland, Germany, Hungary and Austria. This morning however, I am going from Colombia to Ecuador - on foot. Prior to this moment, I had met a British couple who told me their story about how it took them a grueling eight hours to get through; along with the two guys from the States who had been mugged not long after being on the Ecuador side. I didn’t have $350 USD to fly, so this was the only option to take. And solo. After what seemed like only a few minutes in the cab, my taxi driver drops me off and I get in line with everyone else. It’s a small brown building, that resembles a bus ticketing kiosk and the waiting area is outside. It's standing room only with concrete flooring and a very basic cover overhead for shelter. There are stainless-steel bars separating the queues, that anyone could easily go under or over and bits of rubbish scattered on the ground. It smells like cigarettes and feels dirty. I stand out like a sore thumb. I am blonde and the only ‘gringo’ as far as the eye can see. My Spanish is very beginner and I am trying not to look nervous. 'No worries, you've got this! Just keep a hold of your bags and keep your wits about you'. I go up to the next available counter marked ‘EXIT’ and an older Colombian woman with a worn face sternly says: “Pasaporte”. My mind goes into overdrive. 'Do I have to pay an exit fee? What if she asks me a complicated question and I don't understand what she is saying?'... I hand over my passport, she stamps it and hands it back. I look at her as if to say, ‘that’s it?’, but instead simply say “Gracias” and turn towards the direction where others before me are heading. Multiple people approach abruptly yelling “American dollars” in broken English. I had been warned of this – it’s the best and cheapest way to swap your Colombian peso before you cross, however you also need to do your calculations beforehand and make sure you don’t get ripped off. A lady with a baby wrapped in a multi-coloured sling across her front, is the third person to approach me. She asks me with her kind eyes where I am from and offers me a decent rate. We smile, agree and make the exchange. I can’t help but wonder how long she spends there each day just to make ends meet. I take a deep breath and look towards my next step – the crossing of the bridge...