‘Ten miles to the top, with 4000 feet of ascent,’ pronounced John, as we huddled in the mess tent. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day,’ he added ominously, before toppling backwards off his campstool, kicking over the table and tipping a bowl of tuna pasta into my lap.
This was my third trip to Colombia, the home of magical realism, where the unexpected generally happens. On my first visit, in 1990 as a banker, my Bogotá presentation was interrupted when the windows imploded. Though bombings were mundane and my audience was unfazed, I fled to the airport and fortuitously caught an earlier flight home, since my scheduled plane ran out of fuel circling JFK and crashed, killing 73 of the 158 passengers. On my next trip, climbing Colombia’s fifth-highest peak, we got down to find our high camp had been stolen. And since then, attempts to organise an expedition to Colombia’s highest mountain had been thwarted by hostile natives, who inadvertently spared me from climbing the wrong one.