In This Guide
The rain hit Comuna 13 at about four in the afternoon, the way it always does in Medellín between April and November — sudden, theatrical, gone within the hour. I was standing under the awning of a tienda on Calle 32B eating a salchipapa that cost me 8,000 COP, watching the water sheet down a three-story mural of a hummingbird, and I noticed something I hadn't expected: the bird's throat was bleeding color. Fuchsia streaks ran down the concrete in little rivers, pooling at the base of the outdoor escalators.
That's the thing nobody talks about when they talk about Comuna 13's street art. Rain destroys it. Constantly. The murals you saw on someone's Instagram six months ago may already be half-dissolved, patched over, or repainted entirely by a loose network of artists who show up at dusk with rollers and spray cans and work until they lose the light. I went looking for them.
1. Who fixes a mural nobody commissioned?
The short answer is: the same people who painted it, or their friends, or sometimes strangers who just care enough to show up with a bucket of exterior latex. The longer answer involves a man named Jeihhco — born Jhon Osorio — who co-founded Casa Kolacho, the hip-hop and graffiti collective that turned Comuna 13's escalator corridor into an open-air gallery starting around 2012. Casa Kolacho still runs the most reputable graffiti tours in the neighborhood, departing from the base of the escalators on Calle 32B most mornings at 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. (40,000 COP per person as of early 2024).
But the restoration work happens off-schedule. After a heavy rain, a few artists from the collective and some independent muralists walk the corridor checking for damage — peeling, fading, water infiltration behind the paint layer. They tend to start around 5:30 p.m. when the concrete has dried but the sun has dropped low enough to stop baking wet paint.
I tagged along with two of them one Tuesday evening. One carried a backpack full of Montana spray cans; the other had a plastic bag from Éxito with three cans of tinted house paint and a roller. They didn't want their names published. They weren't being paid.
Pro tip: If you want to see the restorers in action, go after a rainy afternoon — not on a weekend. The corridor is too packed with tour groups on Saturdays for anyone to set up scaffolding or rollers comfortably.
2. Skip the midday graffiti tour
I know this is borderline heresy. The graffiti tours are the entire reason most travelers come to Comuna 13, and yes, Casa Kolacho's guides are knowledgeable and the money goes back into the community. I'm not telling you to skip the tour altogether.
But the noon slot? Skip it. The corridor between the first and third escalators becomes so dense with tour groups between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. that you can't actually stop and look at anything for more than ten seconds before someone's selfie stick enters your peripheral vision. The light is harsh, the colors wash out in photos, and every food stall is running a line four deep. Take the 9 a.m. tour if you can, or better yet, the 2 p.m. one and then stay through dusk when the crowds dissolve and the murals start looking the way they were meant to look — in soft, angled light.
The empanadas from the stand at the top of the second escalator are better at five o'clock anyway, when the oil is fresh for the evening rush. Empanada de queso, 2,500 COP.
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Expedia →3. What the paint is actually fighting
Medellín's climate is the enemy. Humidity hovers around 70 percent year-round, and the Aburrá Valley traps moisture in ways that make exterior paint engineers weep. Most of the murals in Comuna 13 are done with a combination of spray paint and acrylics, neither of which is rated for the kind of UV exposure they get on south- and west-facing concrete walls.
One of the artists I walked with estimated she retouches the same three-meter section of a mural on Carrera 109 every six to eight weeks. She uses a clear acrylic varnish she buys at Homecenter on Calle 30 that extends the life of the paint by maybe a month. Maybe. The varnish costs about 45,000 COP per liter, and she pays for it herself.
There's a quiet frustration among the restorers that the neighborhood's fame hasn't translated into a dedicated conservation fund. Tour revenue flows, merchandise sells, but the paint budget for maintaining existing work is essentially zero at the institutional level. New murals get sponsorship. Old ones just fade.
Pro tip: If you want to support the artists directly rather than through tour fees, ask your guide at the end of the tour who painted which mural. Several of the artists sell prints and smaller works from their homes or Instagram accounts, and the guides will point you to the right handles.
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Expedia →4. Dusk on the escalators, no audience
By 6:30 p.m. on a weekday, the outdoor escalators are almost empty. The souvenir vendors have packed up their tables. The reggaeton that soundtracks every daytime tour is replaced by whatever's coming out of apartment windows — vallenato, mostly, some salsa, someone's telenovela turned up too loud.
This is when the neighborhood stops performing and just exists. I sat on the steps near the top of the third escalator and watched one of the artists spray a clean magenta line along the edge of a flower petal, freehand, no stencil, no sketch. It took her about forty-five seconds. She stepped back, looked at it, nodded once, moved to the next section.
No audience. No content being created. Just maintenance — the quiet, repetitive, unpaid labor of keeping something beautiful from disappearing.
I bought a mango biche with salt and lime from a woman closing up her cart near the Mirador. 3,000 COP. Walked back down the escalators in near-darkness, the murals reduced to shapes and shadows, the wet concrete still faintly pink where the hummingbird had bled that afternoon.
5. What to skip entirely
The merchandise tables lining the lower escalator corridor. Dozens of vendors sell identical screen-printed tote bags, fridge magnets, and phone cases stamped with the same three or four mural images. None of it is made by the artists whose work is reproduced on it, and none of the money reaches them. If you want a souvenir, buy a print directly from an artist — your guide can connect you — or just take a photo. The magnets are junk.
Essential tips
Take the Metro to San Javier station (Line B), then catch a feeder bus or walk about 15 minutes uphill to the base of the escalators. Taxis from El Poblado run about 18,000–22,000 COP on InDriver; Uber quotes higher but is less reliable in this zone.
Rain in Medellín almost always comes between 3 and 5 p.m. during the wet season (April–November). Carry a light rain jacket, not an umbrella — the escalator corridor is narrow and you'll poke someone.
Wear shoes with actual grip. The painted concrete around the escalators gets slick after rain, and the side streets leading to the Mirador are steep, uneven, and sometimes muddy.
If you photograph the artists working, ask first. Some are fine with it; others are restoring murals semi-anonymously and prefer not to be on camera. A nod and a gesture toward your phone takes two seconds.
Eat before or after the main corridor. The food stalls along the escalators mark up for tourists — a better meal is the bandeja paisa at Restaurante Doña Flor on Carrera 109, about a three-minute walk downhill from the second escalator. Around 18,000 COP for a plate that could feed two moderate humans.
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