Again we were the only ones who didn’t have to get up for
the sunrise departure. This time, however, it was much easier to stay in bed:
the hikers leaving now were strangers to us, and we could just turn over and
ignore their preparations. Cigarette smoke drifting over from the dining area
before breakfast already made me realize how fortunate we had been with our
group in that respect, too. I don’t think it would have even occurred to me
that anybody could smoke on this trail.
We’d be leaving at eight this time, and our little cluster
was gathered for breakfast at 7:30. We compared notes about a strange thing that
had happened in the middle of the night, none of us quite certain what to make
of it. I woke briefly to see two cows walking, like specters, between the
benches and tables through the dining area, silhouetted against the star-bright
sky, heading towards the kitchen, which was on the way out. Surely I must have
been dreaming! But no, Lucy, too, had watched them on their silent march, like
me questioning if it was for real. Johann told me he had been up in the middle
of the night and found one of the sinks in pieces on the ground, yet we had not
heard a thing. We checked the muddy ground around the compound, and sure
enough: cleft foot prints led right up to the dining area, and when we looked a
bit closer in the vicinity of the washroom we found mud clods and more prints.
The cows must have got out of their fence during the night, come up the hill
behind the washrooms and, trying to squeeze between the first row of bunks and
the sinks, knocked one down.
I
remembered quite well the last stretch of the trail before we arrived at the
camp the first night, the long, steep descent through a gully with high mud
walls. Then, I had seriously wondered if I would be able to make it all the way
to the Ciudad Perdida – a worry which Jorge had put to rest and, as I knew now,
was unfounded – and already imagined how I’d ever get up that steep hill again
without the aid of a mule. That was before the other long ascents and descents,
of course, and while this was still one of the hard ones I knew it would be
achievable in the same manner as the others: by taking small, slow steps and,
whenever necessary, just stopping and catching my breath. Still, the thought of
starting out with this in the morning was daunting. Once we had made it up,
however, there would be no more climbing: it would go downhill all the way
until the last five minutes into El Mamey. A good thought!
The short rests always offered opportunity to turn around
and take in the magnificent landscape behind us, the forested steep hills of
the Sierra Nevada, the jungle we had traversed to reach the Ciudad Perdida.
Johann, too, was working hard on this last uphill slope, his
pack as heavy as when we started out, so he didn’t have to make any effort to pace himself to stay
with me. Lucy and Cierán were in better shape, but they waited for us when we
got too far behind. The steep ascent turned into a moderate one, and after a
while we passed a farm with mules and cows. Along the way we had seen several
motorbikes; from El Mamey to here they were part of the transportation system, along with
the mules that were the only means of getting loads up and down the
mountain further on. The sound of an engine always prompted us to step to the
side, just like the call, ‘mula, mula!’ at the approach of a mule train.
 |
| Not a great picture of a mule train, but the only one I have |
Almost
at the point where the road turned downhill Joel passed us on a motorbike – and
stopped. Did Johann want to send his pack with him? What a question! The
backpack was tied, Joel waved, grinned, and was gone. Sadly, we didn’t know
that he’d just drop off the backpack in El Mamey, so we didn’t get a chance to
say goodbye to him.
It was approaching noon, and we were getting quite close to
our destination, hot, sweaty, yet not in the mood for a short swim in the river
we crossed using some stepping stones. We just couldn’t be bothered to take off
anything we’d have to put back on, no matter how welcome a cool down would have
been. A little further on Jorge stopped us and listened, and sure enough: the
rustle in the grass beside the trail was caused by a lizard. Often enough I had
heard them but only managed to catch a brief glimpse, but this time we were
really lucky: a brilliant green one was in the process of eating its dinner, a
grasshopper as big as its head at least. It was so intent on its meal that it ignored
us, and we all got a good shot of it.
And so the circle closed. Shortly before noon we were back
at the little restaurant in El Mamey where we had started five days before.
While we waited for our dinner Jorge showed us where he lived: right across the
street, which surely must be very convenient for him and much better than
having to return to Santa Marta after every hike. The guides have three or four
days of rest before they start out on the next trek. For Jorge, it also means he
can spend time with his five year old daughter, Emily, whom he proudly
introduced to us.
It was time to say goodbye to our friendly guide who had
been so patient and reassuring and had encouraged me to practice my Spanish, no
matter how I was struggling to find the right words so that it often was
guesswork for him to try and figure out what I wanted to know. But we managed,
and I think I learned a thing or two along the way. We heaved our gear onto the
roof of ‘Expotur’s’ four-wheel drive vehicle, climbed in, and were on our way
back towards Santa Marta.
Without much fanfare our visit to a magical place, a
place so far away from noise, commotion and life as we knew it had come to an end.
After forty-five minutes on the deeply rutted, bumpy road we
arrived at the highway. The driver let the four of us out at the corner: we
were going right to Palomino from here for a few days of total relaxation, a
well-earned break for our tired feet and sore muscles. We had made sure we knew
how much the bus ride would cost: 7,000 COP, about $3.20, and the buses were
going every fifteen or twenty minutes. Sure enough, though, an enterprising
local man flagged down an alternative transportation for us, a gleaming
four-wheel drive pickup. ‘Mas confortable!
– much nicer, more comfortable – he tried to persuade us. ‘Solamente COP 50,000’. Back to real
life … We held firm, however, the pickup driver turned around, likely not
impressed, and within minutes the bus stopped to take us along for the price we
had been told.
After a half hour drive along banana plantations and the
ocean we reached Palomino and parted ways with Lucy and Cierán who were booked
into a different hostel. This, at least, thankfully was not yet good-bye: we’d meet up somewhere for a beer or supper during our
stay.
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