Day Two, Ciudad Perdida

Since I didn't bring my phone on the hike, and the battery of my wrist watch died the day after we arrived in Colombia I have no way of telling how late it is when I wake up the next morning. I can make out the contours of the beds and backpacks in the dim early light, however, and the energetic cry of a rooster indicates that it can't be too far away from the time when we have to rise. I rely on the fact that someone will have an alarm clock, or Jorge will find a way to rouse us in time for breakfast.

I had a good sleep after having some trouble settling down in the evening: soon after I shut off the laptop rain started falling, first slowly, then hard, water dripping off the edge of the tin roof, a few claps of thunder thrown in for good measure. I started envisioning what the trail would be like in the morning after all this rain, which was enough to keep me from sleeping for a while. Finally I decided I couldn't do anything about this, and it would just have to be okay.

I got up quietly after a few minutes, enough light now to see, but nobody else up yet as far as I could tell, and surveyed the sky. The moon, not long past full, had made its way past the few clouds still left, the Big Dipper and Orion were in clear view, and the valley at my feet slowly peeled out of the rising mist. More and more birds joined their voices with the intermittent calls of the rooster: a beautiful new day was in the making. I went back to bed and dozed off for a little while until movement started in the camp. Not long after the lights went on, and we were roused by a 'Buenos Día' – time to get up. From the kitchen area the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted over, and one by one we gathered at the tables. The guides, translators and cooks served us breakfast: eggs and toast with cheese, patacones, jam, a choice of coffee or hot chocolate, fresh pineapple, papaya and melon – enough to give us a good start to the hike.

Amazingly, everyone was ready to leave at six, enjoying the freshness of the morning. The rain hadn't done much to worsen the condition of the trail, thankfully; it seemed as if the rain had not fallen much beyond the camp. Again, we started climbing, for the first while still through farmland. It didn't take long for the others to be out of sight, Johann, Jorge and me bringing up the rear. We weren't upset to walk at our own pace: the breaks to catch our breath were well suited to ask questions and get some more information from Jorge. We passed a 'dairy': about twelve or fifteen cows and their calves fenced up in a small corral, a man milking by hand. He emptied the pail into plastic tanks that held about 20 litres. Jorge explained that they were taken down to the finca, the small farm we could see some distance away in the valley, to be turned into cheese and consumed locally,just like the other products grown in the area, like bananas, yucca, corn and beans and to a small degree coffee and cocoa.The farmers, he explained, had been engaged in growing coca and marihuana illegally – in the eighties and nineties, and it was a dangerous life for the people in the mountains. Now, peace has returned to the area, and people are starting to prosper somewhat, thanks in part to the growing tourist industry that provides employment for many.

For the next half hour or so the trail climbed and dipped, the jungle slowly closing in around us. We passed through a banana plantation, nothing like the ones along the highway with their even rows and signs warning about the spread of fusarium, but looking more like a natural banana tree forest with some coffee and cocoa plants in between. Some of the few farm buildings we saw were made of mud with the typical grass roof, others covered with metal. Blossoming vines and interesting leaf structures caught my eye, just like the multitude of butterflies in many colours and sizes in the more open areas where the sun had access. There were bright orange ones as big as my hand, long and narrow black ones with red bands, intense yellows and reds, but nothing quite as amazing as the brief appearances of a huge metallic blue butterfly. The 'Morpho Azul' or Blue Morpho glitters like a jewel in the sunshine with its slowly beating wings, but when at rest, with folded wings, it is indistinguishable from the leaves that surround it. It was quite clear to me that I wouldn't be able to take a single butterfly photo without staying put for a while, and there was no time for that. I just took their presence as a gift and was rewarded whenever sunlight crossed our path.

After about an hour's walk we reached a small open plain that afforded a great view of the surrounding steep hills. We descended for a short while before a long, steep climb, though not as long as the one on the first day. With our much slower pace we only caught up with our group at the stops for a short while, all of us appreciating the sweet pineapple, orange wedges or juicy watermelon that always seemed to come after a particularly challenging part of the trail.

 

We had to cover about fifteen kilometres altogether, divided about evenly between the morning and afternoon hikes. By late morning we arrived at a Kogui village. The Kogui, Arhuaco, Kankuamo and Wiwa tribes that comprise the indigenous population of the Sierra Nevada Santa Marta are descendants of the Tayrona, the civilization that settled this elevated coastal area and built the Lost City we were going to see the next day.

Jorge had told us that it sometimes is possible to meet with people from the village, but it would be impossible if they had one of their many days of rituals. Then, people from the mountains would come down and meet with their spiritual leaders, and any outside contact was prohibited, including taking photos. This was the case today: we saw a group of white-clad people stand in a circle further inside the village and had to stay on our trail, which hugged the perimeter of the small village. Only a group of four or five young children made its way to where we were gathered to hear about some of the Kogui traditions and their way of life. They were a bit shy, but obviously used to visitors; they got bolder and interacted with us after a few minutes.

This village is obviously quite exposed to contact from the outside, and we have seen several of the men in their white cotton clothing accompanying hiking groups as native guides or leading one of the mule treks, but most of the indigenous population is higher up in the Sierra Nevada, much more remote, largely undisturbed by modern civilization. This village, too, is keeping many of the traditions. Jorge explained that the children don't have to go to a regular Colombian school but that the government allows the indigenous population to teach in their traditional way. The elders watch for young kids that show a certain inclination or ability and choose some who are sent to be educated elsewhere and gather knowledge that will improve their lives. There are medical clinics, for instance, that are manned by men or women who were sent away to train as doctors. The money comes from the government, and the elders decide in which manner it is best used , be it in the form of training or things like buying metal for roofs or rubber boots, for instance.

I'm not going to talk too much more about what we learned at that time because it ties in with things we heard the next day when we were at the Ciudad Perdida. I also want to get some more information when we visit the Tayrona museum once we are back in Santa Marta.

We were on our way again shortly, with only about 20 minutes left before we reached the half-way point for the day, the camp where we would spend the third night. Here, another hearty meal awaited us after freshening up in the river with its clear, cool water.

The two-hour break restored our spirits, and at 12:30 we were on our way again, facing the hard, long climb up from the river which would take up most of the afternoon's hike. It's either up or down steep hills; there is very little gentle in-between, which is what made it so challenging. Yet the magnificent landscape, the lushness of vegetation with its huge trees hugged by climbing vines, the grand views are an unforgettable experience. 'You'll be so proud of yourself when you have made it up,' Johann said whenever I started to question if I could go on. By that time, by the way, that was no longer a serious question: I knew I would, even though it would tax me to the maximum; I'd just take my time.

That climb, too, ended, about two hours later, and once again we were rewarded with a fruit break. Mopping the sweat off my face – my shirt, which had dried in the short time in the camp by the river where the sun and breeze had access – was sopping wet again, but looking around I saw that mine was by far not the only one. Somebody spotted a toucan high up in a nearby tree, too far away for my camera to capture, but great to watch.

Jorge

And on we went, now downhill again until we reached the Buritaca river, a point that had caused me some concern. before we started the hike. I had heard that there were river crossings, but only when I read something about 'waist-deep water' I started to be really worried. By now it had become clear even to me that this could only apply during the rainy season; now, with conditions being quite dry, I would have no problem – and if I did, there was always Jorge to help me. More than once he had extended his hand when a part of the trail was difficult to negotiate, and he always made sure I was safe. The river looked very peaceful, and after the long, hot hike the cool water and smooth rocks felt wonderful, the water reaching no higher than my knees. The stick, or rather sticks – Johann had taken over mine soon on the first day on a challenging downhill, and Jorge had cut me a new one with his machete, even peeling off the bark – were helpful here as well. How glad I was to have it! The bottom was frayed by now from the many times I had used it for support on steep downhill or challenging rocky portions of the trail.

While we put our shoes back on a mule train reached the river. I expected the mules to stop for a drink, but rather than that one of them spread its hind legs and peed. Now we could see for ourselves why the water, clear as it was, would not be suitable for drinking. Jorge had advised us that he would not even feel it safe for us to drink water coming straight out of the rock along the way. Asked, he replied, 'seguro para mí, pero no para ti' – 'safe for me, but not for you.' The camps provided enough water for everybody, but I was curious. On hikes in the Rockies we wouldn't have hesitated.

Now the end of the day's hike was close. The trail hugged the river, so that we had to scramble over big rocks and roots, climbing slowly further, but it was fun to do so, and the river below gave at least the illusion of some coolness. Shortly after four we reached camp 'Paraíso' and, after a much needed shower, joined the others for a beer and some card games. Johann had left some of the heavy items at the camp where we had lunch: this would be where we'd spend the third night, so there was no need to carry up more than we absolutely had to. 

I wouldn't have had the mental stamina to write a blog entry anyway, so the lack of the laptop – and the books, for that matter – were of no consequence. Card games in a big group, however, were a different matter, and we had fun getting to know each other more. The games went on for a bit after supper, but we were all pretty wiped, and the next day would be challenging again with its climb of the 1200 stone steps to the highest part of the Lost City. By 9 pm the lights were out, and a multitude of frogs sang us our lullaby.