Each day we ran a gauntlet of street sellers hawking Panama hats, Cuban cigars and cheap jewellery; after dark, the same people offered us cocaína in a conspiratorial whisper...

I found myself wondering why we were all here. Was it to learn about an inspiring story of urban renewal, or was it for the thrill of being somewhere with a frisson of danger...?

The main square was surrounded by bars and cafés where men in cowboy hats and ponchos sat on brightly painted chairs, sipping aguardiente and playing dominos...

We scanned our surroundings nervously. Was there a threat from dissident guerrillas? Or maybe a high-level narco hiding out in the town?