For a variety of reasons I travelled on my own to the camp on the Coast this weekend.

The highlight of the journey was being called “patroncita” by the taxi driver on the last leg of the journey. This is pretty much untranslatable but if you know “patrona” means boss and the “ita” ending is a diminutive, you can maybe work it out.

Anyway, my plan was to travel back to Medellin by bus with my colleague Maria, who had bought her return ticket when she set off for the Coast on Thursday night. Someone “de confianza” (=trustworthy) was dispatched to buy my ticket on Saturday afternoon.

When we got to the bus station on Sunday afternoon we met one of our Children’s Club leaders, who was travelling to Medellin to sit an entrance exam at the public university here. He was from an indigenous background and this was the first time he had ever travelled outside his local area.

On my way to the bus station I had started to fret about our seats, would someone be kind enough to move seats so my colleague and I could sit together because what were the chances of our seats being near each other, right? (This may give you a bit of an insight into the way my mind works!)

“What number is your ticket?” I asked Maria.

“18. Yours?”

“17.”

Our indigenous friend’s, 16.

Oh, and the camp was great.