A man with a moustache and worn face signalled to us as we walked uncertainly along a grim concrete corridor that was like a prison block. Moving towards him, we were relieved to see our names in bold felt-tip pen on the card he was holding. It was Captain Gua. He nodded to airport officials, shaking hands with some, placing a friendly hand on the shoulder of others as he hurried us through. We glided through passport control and reaching baggage reclaim, felt confident in the hands of our fixer. We needed a boost after the journey.

The re-routing had been bad enough – from Amsterdam to New York to Miami; after twenty hours of travelling and overnight in the Miami Hilton, we were now a day late. We had lost Allan's bags on the way, and he had bought a change of clothes that morning, a cowboy shirt was the best he could get. I had been looking forward to the Caribbean leg, hoping we would see some tropical islands; my son had just completed a school project about St. Lucia and would be thrilled to know I had flown over it. As we boarded a flight with Avensa Airlines, Allan picked up a copy of the Economist and we smiled at an article on airline safety. Apparently, when the US and European airlines have finished using their 727's, they sell them on to South American carriers. As we boarded, I consoled myself that at least it was a Boeing.

We knew something was wrong when the hostess, who had just laid out our breakfast things, returned and swiped away the napkins without explanation. A buzzer from the cockpit sounded and we looked at each other nervously. There was a commotion at the front of the aircraft as the cockpit door opened and closed. The hostess pottered, expressionless. An announcement in Spanish, then in English stated that due to safety regulations, we had to return to Miami since there was a problem with number two engine.

Fear is a sensation akin to excitement; a fluttering in the stomach like butterflies, but higher and tighter, more acute. My breathing became less regular and I inhaled deeply to counteract the shock that comes with being in danger. Then came the defence mechanisms; polite conversation to discount the predicament, self-denial that we were really in trouble; after all the jet was still in the air. We occupied ourselves reading, shuffling work papers, alert to every sound and movement of the aircraft. After an hour, we descended towards Miami and came in low over the highway against grey sky and lashing rain. Sweeping down the runway, we noticed numerous fire engines, ambulances, police cars and airport emergency vehicles lined up. We wondered what might have happened at the airport, when they turned and with sirens sounding and lights flashing, followed us.

We continued our vigil at baggage reclaim but the rollers were now empty. Captain Gua prompted us to record the loss and leave; he had experienced this before. I wished I too had bought a cowboy shirt in Miami. With virtually nothing except what we were wearing, some papers, and our laptop computers, we had arrived in Caracas.

The road wound up from the coast through interlocking hills of green resembling a child's picture. Their sides were steep and scared with red-brown earth. Small shacks crowded together spread up the hillsides like creeping ivy, only these were not green but of poorly mortared brick, wood and rusted tin. Many were positioned on near vertical slopes, piled one on top of another and looking as if, with the removal of a couple of wooden supports, the whole shanty would collapse. From where the dwellings stopped, rubbish cascaded down to the roadside; ghastly tributaries of tin cans, waste paper, plastic bottles, and muck.

The aeroplanes were not the only articles handed down to South America; the road was full of large US made cars - limousines and four-wheel drives, Cadillacs and Chevrolets - and all had seen better days. I was careful not to lean too heavily as we cornered on the winding road since the door of the taxi was hanging loose from its frame, and the window was cracked. As we queued to enter one of the tunnels through the mountain, the fumes from all these old gas guzzlers filled the car and made us cough.

The face of the secretary dropped as we mentioned Avensa Airlines. "They are not a serious airline" she said. She told us how she had once stayed an extra night to avoid flying with them, and she spoke with some knowledge since her husband was a pilot. I could not hide my concern that we were to leave Venezuela on another South American carrier.

***

The rooms were colourful - yellow and orange walls - but bare, despite the marbled foyer downstairs. I showered, then put my soiled clothes back on to sit in darkness for five minutes as the power went down. I felt alone in a strange city without even the familiarity of my own washing bag. Scruffy and dishevelled, we met by the pool in the dimly lit garden. Great hunks of meat, skewered on large wooden pikes over an open fire, sizzled and scented the evening air. It was reassuring to hear the background mumble of casual chatter, and we were suddenly glad of each other’s company. Having passed the point of annoyance - lost bags, unsafe aircraft, missed appointments - we eased ourselves into amused reflection of the journey as we enjoyed Mexican beer and Venezuelan beef. Then, amidst our resignation, Allan's bags turned up and we retired happy.

The view from the Eurobuilding Hotel had downtown Caracas secure in a valley, made more secure by the military helicopters on the runway below. Clouds bisected the view as if suspended from the tops of the surrounding mountains. Modern sky scrapers dominated the foreground, shanties the background, gathered as if waiting to creep down the hill. Apart from the trip to the office, this was all I saw of Venezuela’s first city.

***

A boy of about eleven years old brushed our shoes, warning away other would-be entrepreneurs as we sat in the bar. Clutching his Bolivars, I wondered what he was thinking as he watched over Allan's shoulder the laptop sparkling with coloured maps and spreadsheets, text and pictures. His world scraping a precarious living from polishing Western leather, ours reduced to a twelve by six inch screen that we carried across continents as if to check that they really existed.

It was a long wait since we had arrived early; having a business class ticket was no guarantee of getting on a flight if someone else was willing to pay more. I left the depressing interior to stroll along the veranda overlooking the runway. Tatty aircraft taxied, the type you see in a museum in the UK, only a recently arrived Lufthansa jet gleamed. I could see the Caribbean but it didn't look like paradise. I tried the front of the airport, crossing the car park as close as I could get to the shanty that ran up the hillside opposite. I was told you dared not enter; you would be robbed or worse. When flooding occurred some of the shacks were swept away. Apparently many of them got their electricity by tapping into overhead power lines. Why did so many people have to live like this in a country rich with oil?

They called the Havana flight for the third time and still no passengers turned up. An airline assistant strode across the lounge impatiently as if this might induce some custom. Couldn't they accept that no-one wanted to go to Cuba? We struggled up the steps with our luggage - trying to make it look as small as possible - and double checked it was the correct flight. Pensive, we watched as an air hostess repeatedly slammed the overhead locker in an effort to secure it. There was a delay, but once we were airborne, the flight seemed smooth enough and we sat back to enjoy more Venezuelan steak. Bang! A sharp crack had us both jolting upright. The overhead locker had sprung loose and nearly scared us out of our skins.

***

South American gold lined the walls – face masks, bracelets, earrings – artefacts from a pre-Colombian age. Today Colombia has black gold, but it is better known for an export more lucrative and more lethal; crack cocaine. We made our way towards passport control. I knew Colombia was dangerous. It has a history of political upheaval, fired by Latin emotion and a proliferation of guns. But its culture is also grounded in a proud and stylish Spanish tradition and steeped in the vibrancy of South America. We were intercepted by three dark suited men wielding walkie-talkies. They moved with purpose, checking back and forth, and they didn't let us out of their sight until we were locked into a waiting car and on our way. The driver radioed at regular intervals until we had arrived at the Hotel Royal, Bogota.

It was as good a hotel I've stayed in: bell boys taking care of the luggage on sparkling brass trolleys, the smell of recently polished leather in the padded lift, thick carpets, rooms complete with lounge area, mini-bar and fax. And in a pleasant district with the office and restaurants nearby. It would have been hard to know you were in Colombia, except for the occasional street child begging in the side street, and the armed guards patrolling with their Rottweilers.

A picture of a helmeted soldier painted on the wall across the road from the hotel and inscribed EL HOMBRE AL SERVICIO DE LA PATRIA, BATTALION MAC denoted the army barracks. Later in the week, I awoke to bands playing and soldiers marching. An officer on a horse and rows of armoured vehicles turned out to complete the parade. We passed other barracks driving around the city, and there was a strong army presence on the roads leading out into the countryside. At one junction, a soldier shouldered a large machine gun, and an armoured car just behind him had its turret gun pointing down the road as if to say; On this road at least, there will be no nonsense.

Raul told me of the importance to Colombians of the Spanish language and I wished I had learnt a few words before my trip. Hola (hello) and por favor (thank you) were all I picked up. He outlined the close but competitive relationship between Colombia and Venezuela, and seemed vindicated that our company had chosen Bogota as its regional centre. (On a subsequent visit I spent a delightful evening with Kenneth and Mariella in the revolving restaurant overlooking Bogota; they were Venezuelans and although they liked Bogota, they spoke of Colombia with the knowing and superior smiles that a Scot reserves for the English). Raul introduced me to Junita, a student who would be joining the company later that year. She spoke good English. Her dark hair and bronzed complexion reminded me of Mediterranean sun and the people of Southern Europe. The dress code in the office was smart, and Dean told me that the formality of the Spanish culture ran deep; taking presents prior to a wedding for example was an important event for which one dressed up. I was glad my bags had reappeared just before leaving Caracas and I had some clean shirts.

After a plate full of large sausages of various varieties, strong and spicy, each as thick as your wrist, the real meat arrived. Mine was a conservative portion; three steaks, each the size that Beefeater would serve as a main course at home. Our host Alan told us of a friend who had been in this restaurant when a supposed drug baron, surrounded by his aides, had been dining. They had worn snappy suites and dark glasses as if living up to their caricatures. There had been a raid and the police had arrested them. I looked around but most of the diners were couples or family groups. As I remained alert for suspects, the waiters moved to one side and lined up. They struck up, singing with enthusiasm and practised harmony, jiving to Latin rhythm. We suspended our gorging to enjoy the singing waiters. Outside, we nodded to the person we had paid to watch the car, and made to leave. I surveyed the road - restaurants, places to go dancing, nice cars parked, people enjoying a night out - it seemed safe enough. But this was Colombia and a security guard stood in a booth nursing a single action shot gun.

Alan told us it was a great place to live and work; from the inside of the company's offices, it could have been London. We had coffee at his house - enclosed by a high iron fence with electronic gates - and heard what life was like for his wife. She worked at a school and had to cope with corruption that was endemic, sort out the bank account when the cash machines took your card but gave you no money, and brave the traffic police who would create incidents to extract fines but were scarce if you were about to be shot.

***

The path zigzagged up the mountain, our target the white church on top appearing tantalisingly every now and then. Downtown Bogota looked modern and pleasant from this height, its suburbs spreading across the valley towards the hazy backdrop of mountains. I recalled the map shown me in the security briefing; most of the areas I could see were dangerous to enter, and even the central zone around the presidential palace was unsafe at night and prone to pick-pockets during the day. Passing through a series of shacks, the smell of meat cooking polluted the clean air. People were stopping for a snack on route creating a constriction in the constant flow of pilgrims that snaked upwards. I could feel my shirt becoming sticky and my breathing harder as we climbed. Nearer the top, there were vendors on each side selling rosary beads, gaudy plastics pictures, crucifixes and other religious ornaments. A women with high cheek bones and long black hair - features I associated with Indian lineage - and wearing a poncho, turned away as I lifted my camera. From the steps of the church, we could hear the mass booming out on load speakers as if even at this altitude they feared that their prayers wouldn't be heard.

We followed the crowds filing through a narrow avenue of souvenir shops and stalls selling food. My passport and money was zipped in my rucksack and I kept my hand on it as we pushed through the bustle. For days afterwards, I could remember the sickly smell of long black sausages and whole chickens, bright yellow in the sauce that dripped from them, sizzling and filling the air with fatty smoke. At the highest point, views of the rugged terrain were refreshing after the crowds. There were some soldiers in neatly pressed green uniforms with yellow neckerchiefs and wide rimmed hats, chatting and laughing and holding the leashes of two Alsatians. Dean told me that despite their presence just about everywhere, the army were not taken seriously. They paraded and displayed their tanks and weapons, but were not very successful in defeating guerrillas and drug gangs who plagued the countryside and occasionally kidnapped Western businessmen, especially oil executives.

The climb had felt like altitude training; the city set in the Sabana de Bogota bordered by the Cordillera Oriental, is itself at 2,600 metres. It was cooler on the top, but in the sunshine we were comfortable in our t-shirts. Later, I found out from a guide book that Monserrate was at 3,190 metres. I also read ‘If you want to do the trip on foot... do it only on Sunday, when crowds of pilgrims go: on weekdays, take it for granted that you will be robbed.’

As we queued, a local man told us how he had learned English working in the United States. But he preferred Bogota and had been glad to return. His young daughter clinging to him, eyed us inquisitively as we boarded the cable car. Above my head I spotted the manufacturer's label - Swiss made - but when? We swung out from the top station and felt the tug of the breeze as we trundled over the first, and only pylon at the top of the mountain. Close to the tree tops, the drooping line of cable stretched below us and my stomach lifted as we dropped like a stone.

Children stroked the lamas - like walking rugs, long necked and friendly looking - and nagged their parents for a ride. It reminded me of donkeys on Margate beach. People enjoyed treats and relaxed in the afternoon sunshine. Dean led the way on foot to the city centre. Chugging busses past us, but not the colourful ones sold in the souvenir shops that were bedecked with people, vegetables, animals and luggage; you have to go up country to see these. The buildings were classical, like those in the old world many thousands of miles away that had inspired them. We circled the palace where soldiers patrolled and photographs were not allowed, and I wondered how safe the president felt. Reading Conrad's Nostromo, set in an unnamed South American country remarkably like Colombia except centuries earlier, I was struck by the similarities that still existed: a rugged and beautiful country, the chasm between rich and poor, people proud of their roots, political instability, the lure of mineral wealth, guns and violence.

***

Looking down the length of the lake with its backdrop of rounded hills, I thought of Scotland. The valley had been flooded as part of a hydroelectricity scheme, and the village of Guatavita, rebuilt on the side of the hill. It was complete with church, piazza and bull ring, but the stone so new that it felt like a holiday village. Horses were tethered nearby, and as we walked up the hill, riders passed us. From the market stalls and shop fronts hung vividly coloured woven mats, decorated with Aztec-like motifs, or country scenes, they were dazzling. In one door way, a shy girl and her poncho clad mother slid back inside as we approached. The piazza flew the yellow, blue, and red of the Colombian flag - yellow for a land boasting Caribbean and Pacific coastlines, snow-capped peaks, grassy prairies, historical cities and Amazon jungle. Blue for the sea between the new and old worlds, red the blood spilt in the struggle for independence.

In the bull ring there were no bulls but some young people enjoying a game of volley ball. A middle-aged American tourist wearing a baseball cap asked us where to pick up the bus. He seemed a little absent minded and Dean was concerned for his safety. But he was content to make his own way and soon wandered off. On the way back, we stopped at a village that had not been rebuilt to design. It boasted an old double-spired church of weathered stone, a busy square, dowdy side streets, bumpy roads and was altogether more scruffy, but also more 'lived in'. It was like a Mexican town in a Western movie and I expected the Magnificent Seven to arrive any minute.

***

Jogging around the hotel area, there were large houses with high walls and spiked fences. One had Dobermans loose on its roof. As I went past an office block a security officer carrying an Uzi machine pistol came out; I tried to look harmless. Dean's flat was in a quiet residential area on the side of the hill. There was a guard post entering the district and armed guards patrolling the tree lined streets. Someone else looked after the garages beneath the flats. It took a while for Dean to unlock all the bolts to his front door; even here expatriates had been burgled. The veranda hosted a one hundred and eighty degree panorama of the city, framed in the foreground by colourful flowers, trees and attractive properties, and stretching through the haze to hills in the distance.

***

We joked about the scene created when one of the senior managers arrived at a party; motorbike outriders, bullet proof car, a four wheel drive loaded with armed guards. But it had its drawbacks; being followed everywhere by minders, even when moving between floors within the office. The ribs arrived and I realised this meat culture had me beat. Smothered in red-brown sauce, the enticing aroma filled my nostrils, and the sticky, pork taste made my mouth water. The ribs filled a wide platter, and equipped with plastic gloves we began the feast. The mistiness in my head increased as the level of margarita in my glass went down. Then the waiter brought another tray of margaritas because this was happy hour.