The Legendary District 13
The irony of comparing today’s bustling scene to the era when drug lords ruled the streets is almost palpable.
Now thronged with tourists, hawkers selling cheap trinkets, and selfie-seekers perched on every corner for that perfect shot, it’s hard to imagine that the same mountain once belonged to drug kingpins.
Those powerful figures probably never foresaw their stronghold evolving into a place where Instagram-famous popsicles priced at 8,000 Colombian pesos would become the main attraction.
Why do cities leave me feeling so disheartened? It’s because of these so-called internet-famous photo spots—places where people blindly snap pictures without understanding what they’re capturing. I’ve pressed the shutter mindlessly too many times, turning myself into one of those faceless tourists.
Wandering into the quieter residential areas higher up the mountain, far from the tourist crowds, paints a different picture altogether. Here, there are no souvenir stalls or staged backdrops—just young men hauling bricks down narrow streets, a man wearing mismatched socks as if they were the latest fashion statement, and a convenience store owner sporting a striking Chinese tattoo.
I sat down to eat an internet-famous popsicle, half the price of its counterpart sold downhill, and struck up a halting conversation with the shopkeeper in broken Spanish. Only then did this place start to feel real, grounded, and human.
In Medellín, street performances are a spectacle unto themselves. The performers, often drenched in sweat under the scorching sun, don’t beg for tips like their counterparts in Mexico. Instead, they lose themselves completely in their craft, pouring heart and soul into every note or movement. Even the homeless stop to watch, occasionally digging through their belongings to find something—a coin, a token—to offer as thanks for a performance they truly enjoyed.
In this city, my preconceived notions about humanity were shattered, piece by piece.
At the heart of Medellín, the scent of stale urine lingers in the air, a grim reminder of the struggles faced here. Homeless individuals sit cross-legged on sidewalks, greeting passersby with wry humor: “Welcome to my living room.” A young father walks alongside his son, peddling five bright red lollipops. Is he simply surviving, or finding joy amidst hardship? It’s a question I can’t answer, but one that haunts me nonetheless.
This city is raw, unfiltered reality. So brutally honest that it leaves me paralyzed, unwilling to probe too deeply into the lives of its people. Yet, it’s precisely this authenticity that makes Medellín unforgettable.
