Together with a friend we were visiting another English guy who was teaching there, escaping England. We arrived via the bus from Venezuela which was so over-air-conditioned – we were wearing T-shirts and shorts – that we had taken to tearing up the books we were each reading and stuffing it into the vents.

Cartagena bus station, not a soul in sight. All we had was our mate's telephone number, which we had been trying since we first arrived in South America some six weeks previous. Dialing from Caracas, Venezuela without a country code. Of course it didn't work. Took another couple of weeks before we realized we were in the wrong country... or our mate was! Surely he had said Venezuela!

That was all behind us now, we had taken four weeks off to get over it. A holiday within a holiday, we went to Trinidad and Tobago, where carnival was being held, and they spoke English!

Now we were in the right country, the right city, all we had to do was find a phone. The first person I saw in Cartagena, other than my fellow passengers, was Carlos Valderrama – the most famous football player in Columbia, if not South America. He's unmistakable, has a blond afro, and in front of me he was actually wearing the national strip. It was a cardboard cut out! Life-size mind, and it was seemingly closing on me very rapidly. Double-take brothers – it was being held by a football fanatic.

It all made sense. The deserted streets, Columbia was playing football tonight, and everyone was glued to a TV set. Except for this lunatic, they must have just scored. Carlos ran right by me and continued into a nearby bar. They are passionate for footy.

Found a phone and dialed. Contact, and with directions we jumped into a cab. Now, my friend was sharing an apartment with another English guy. Also a teacher, but he had been through the ranks. Had the diploma and relevant experience. Whereas my friend had slid into the job, sideways, no experience, no diploma. This rather riled his flatmate, to the petty point of making everyone coffee and leaving Keith out. The flat was cramped; there would be fireworks.

For now all that was forgotten. We were guests, had just arrived and were welcome in the flat – for tonight at least. The following night was Keith's birthday, good timing. Having been in Cartagena six months he knew the good spots, the bad and the downright ugly. Hence my first introduction to "La Tres Esquinas", The Three Corners Bar. So-called because the other buildings facing it created three corners, obvious. It was located in the old walled city of Cartagena, cobbled streets, many squares with overhanging balconies and shady patios. Quite a beautiful place.

Like an old Wild West saloon, it had two sets of double swing doors. It was actually darker inside than out, with a large ceiling fan, like the opening scene from Apocalypse Now, that whipped the napkin from under your beer each time you took a sip. The place was small, not much bigger than a single garage, I'm sure we were the only customers. Beer taps and spirit bottles filled the far end. Keith and his flatmate were obvious regulars by the reception the owner gave them:

"Welcome, welcome, what are you after? We got white pussy, we got brown pussy, we got yellow pussy."

Cheech inviting Tarrantino and Clooney into his bar in From Dusk 'till Dawn, you get the idea. Bottles of beer were cracked, and celebrations commenced.

Chilled cerveza wasn't the only thing on the menu. This was Columbia, home to Pablo Escabar after all, and for 1000 pesos – less than a dollar – you could order "Una bolsa por favor".

One of the two bar staff would disappear out the back, reappear, walk to the front of the bar, through one set of swing doors, check who was about outside. Then return, satisfied, and hand over a small bag with maybe three or four lines worth of cocaine in it. Etiquette was to take the cocaine in the toilet, then return the empty bag to the owner. Quite a place – we even got a bag gratis due to Keith's birthday. Everything was on a tab; you paid up, or presumably got shot when you left.

That night was some 10 months previous and I was back in Cartagena, having migrated as far south as Chiloe where the railway ends and the ferry starts in Chile. Like coming back to visit an old friend, I felt I knew the city well. Keith had long been booted out of his apartment, and was God knows where. I was holed up in one of the many hacienda flophouses on brothel street, where the Colombians would smoke the strongest grass I'd tasted and then try to sell you Emeralds. The evenings were passed in the juice bars by the port, where they had a blender and every sort of fresh fruit you could imagine, and some they just made up. We added our own bottle of rum to the mix and created cocktails; no one minded as long as we kept buying juices.

The street kids would hang out here too, some no more than 7 or 8 years old. They would sniff glue and ask for the cup our juice was in. Took a while before we realised they were using it to fill up with glue. As our deterrent, we would leave a little rum mix in the bottom. Their face was a picture, as they knocked it back. Only to spit it out again, throwing the cup away.

I was in Cartagena waiting for the ferry to Panama. Sitting at one of the juice bars the conversation turned to cocaine. I recalled "La Tres Esquinas" and felt sure I could locate it. Fuelled with alcohol, we set off to the old city. A few false starts, I knew it was on a square, be it a three-cornered square. After 10 months I saw the wild west saloon doors again. Three of us entered, it was exactly the same, with the exception of there being other customers. Only two, both Colombians. We sat down, "Tres cervezas por favor." After a few minutes our bottles were brought to us. I asked as subtly as I could: "Tres bolsa por favor." Out back he went, returned, walked right by us, through one set of swing doors, checked outside. Then came back and placed three bags on the table.

Like returning to an old friend.

Questions?
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