Reaching the destination

When you go to bed at nine pm getting up in the grey light of pre-dawn is not much of a problem. I slept well, even though this time we didn't find any pillows in our mosquitonet-enclosed bunks. Again the lights came on at five, and the quiet 'Good Morning' was enough to rouse us. Soon everyone was gathered for breakfast, and by six we were ready to go. This time we all left our bigger packs at the camp: we'd pick it up when we would be back for lunch. What would we see between now and then?

From Camp 'Paraíso' – Paradise – it is only one kilometre to the Lost City. We were so close! The camp is at an altitude of 800 m and the morning's starting point for all the different tour companies, the only camp where so many people are gathered at once. Departure is staggered: a new group leaves every fifteen minutes or so to give everyone enough room to manoeuvre the stairs and spread out at the top.

Again, it was a beautiful morning, the sun still hidden behind the high hills, the air fresh and cool. We continued along the river, climbing along the rocky shore until we reached another river crossing point. This one didn't require us to take off our shoes: we could cross using big rocks and planks. For higher water a rope tied to a tree on each side could be used as a hand rail. As soon as we had crossed and entered the forest on the opposite side we found ourselves at the foot of the stone stairs. Twelve hundred steps – that sounds forbidding, especially taking into account that these steps are anything but even. They all have in common that they are short, in most cases not even a foot's length. Back down we'd have to sidestep to be safe.

Up, up we climbed, slowly, the steps sometimes flatter for a little while, then high and tiny when we walked around a bend, almost vertical at times. I didn't even attempt to count to see if it were really exactly 1200 (for a moment, at the beginning, I had been tempted to do this crazy thing); I was just glad to make progress, happy for the few opportunities to step out to the side and catch my breath. The stick, of course, was my faithful companion: on the way up I could lean on it when I stopped, on the way back it would be an absolutely necessary tool to get me down safely.

We were very surprised when, looking up, we could see our companions sitting on a wall – this had been much quicker than expected. I guess vertical stairs are a fast way to gain altitude. Of course, we hadn't mounted more than maybe about two thirds of the total steps; there were more levels to reach in the Ciudad Perdida itself.

Now we had entered this mystical place in the jungle, the place toward which we had been walking for the last two days. I felt thankful and humble, as always when we enter places like this. These stones had been placed here about 1200 years ago, 650 years earlier than Machu Picchu, by a civilization called the Tairona, much less known than the Inca, Maya or Azteks, yet able to build this and live here for fourteen hundred years – until the Spanish came.

Jorge explained that the whole city was about two square kilometres in size. Not all of it has been excavated, and further excavation has ceased upon the request of the indigenous population who consider this a sacred place and didn't want it to be disturbed any more. It is believed that the Ciudad Perdida was the political and manufacturing centre for a series of villages, and that it housed between 2,000 and 8,000 people.

While it is called 'lost', the city had been known to and visited by the local indigenous population long before it was 'discovered' in 1972 by a local fortune hunter and his family. He kept quiet about it, but when he started selling artifacts

and his increasing wealth showed, other people caught on. In 1976 the Colombian Anthropological Institute took over, and further looting was prevented. Gold and pottery finds are on display at the Museo d'Oro (or Tayrona museum) in Santa Marta which we will visit tomorrow to expand on what we learned during the hike. Reconstruction of the site lasted from 1976 to 1988; now, it is merely maintained in its current state, the site no longer disturbed further. Every year the trail to the Lost City, and the city itself, is closed for all of September, the worst of the rainy months. During this time the indigenous people in the area hold celebrations and rituals here, and the trails are protected from the destruction wrought by constant traffic of people and mules. I, myself, can't see the attraction of doing this hike in rainy season, which lasts through October and November. Judging by the state of the trails with even the little bit of rain we experienced they must be very difficult to traverse when there is real rain, not to mention the increased water level of the rivers and the onslaught of biting insects, somewhat of a nuisance even now.

The area where we arrived after climbing the stone stairs was likely part of the living area for the Tayrona here. Many stone circles of maybe four to six metres in diametre indicate the area where families lived in round wooden structures much like the ones used by the indigenous people of Sierra Nevada now. Interestingly, the dead were buried right in the centre of the circles, arranged in the fetal position because the journey they embarked on after their death was considered to be the birth into a new life. All their possessions were buried with them, including gold jewellery: gold represented the sun, one of their main deities. Once a person was buried the site was abandoned until the body had decomposed, then, the bones were dug up and re-buried in an urn elsewhere. The location of this second burial is still not quite clear. New circles were constructed on top of old ones, creating new living space. The Tayrona, just like their descendants who live here now, were semi-nomadic and didn't stay in one place for the whole year, circulating between sites every few months to not exploit one place too much. 

Rocks were used as mortar and pestle to grind grain, most importantly corn, but also leaves and other things used for pigments for colouring the woven baskets and pottery. We saw several of these tools at the site. One can only imagine how long the women would have had to work at their grinding to hollow out the rock like that. 

Here, the purple pigment from leaves is visible in the left mortar stone. We got to crush some leaves between our hands to see the intensity of colour

 The circles at the bottom of the Ciudad Perida are the smallest. Ascending more stairs to the next levels we could see that the circles increased in size, suggesting that the importance of the inhabitants grew the higher in the city they lived. We stopped at a tall, flat rock with lines carved into it, which is believed to be a map of the area, including rivers and trails. 

We were now standing at the foot of a very straight set of stairs with wide steps, the centre of each a bit elevated compared to either side. These stairs led up to yet another level, the one believed to be the one for the highest (spiritual) leaders and important ceremonies. The centre of the stairs supposedly was used by the members of highest standing, the physical elevation suggesting the status. Now, the circles were much larger yet.

 

We had about half an hour to explore on our own, which most of us used to climb up to the highest possible levels with a magnificent view of the whole city. There was ample space to wander, and even though six groups must have been up there at the same time for sure it was not noticeable; the area is that vast.

I sat in the shade on one of the stone circles for a bit and let the view of the mountains and valleys above and below work on me, trying to imagine what it must have been like here when this place was in its prime.   

 

 

When we gathered at the appointed place by the largest circle Jorge and Daniel had prepared a beautifully laid out platter of snacks: our reward for persevering, if we needed one beyond the fact that we were at this amazing place.

We had reached the highest place of the Lost City, and it was time to turn back. We still had a couple of stops ahead in the refines of the city, however. At the first, we got to meet 'Mama Romaldo', the leader of the Kogui who lived in the vicinity. Each group had the chance to ask him a few questions. 

 

We found him near his house, where he lives by himself, as is the custom with the Kogui. Males and females don't share the same living quarters.

The Mama is a small, slight man in his sixties (my guess is later confirmed by Jorge; it is really hard to tell). He has fine features, small, slightly slanted eyes, and the chocolate brown skin is drawn tight over his cheekbones. Like all the Kogui we have seen on the trails he is clad in purely white garments. We can see a loom in his house: he makes all his clothing himself from cotton. On his head he has a hat with a pointed tip, a head covering which is only worn by the Mamas. Mama Romaldo holds a bunch of strings with different coloured beads knotted into them. We are encouraged to come up to him and let him tie one around our wrists. Each colour has spiritual significance.

With the next group waiting behind us already it is time for us to move on. 

While I didn't dare to take a picture of the Mama I did take one of this little girl in front of a neighbouring house

 

There is much information about the Kogui (or Kogi), and of course we got only part of it, plus I'm not sure if I got it all right. Here is a link I found useful and very interesting, if someone wants to find out more: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kogi_people

On our way to the stone stairs we pass through yet another area of the Lost City, this one believed to be a manufacturing centre for the city because of the items that have been discovered here. At the Tayrona museum we are going to visit tomorrow morning is more information about the Ciudad Perdida, including a model of the whole city. It might have been a good idea to visit before the hike, had we known about it, but I'm hoping we can learn a few things now, too.

It's been a long post already, and Day Three is not yet done, so I will close it up for tonight and simply say

To be continued ...

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.

Ciudad Perdida, Day One

Expotour's checklist for things to bring made some decisions easier: warm hoodie and fleece jacket obviously weren't needed even at night, which eliminated some weight already. Against my better judgment Johann insisted I take my small laptop so that I could keep the blog writing updated, and we both took our books: we were bound to have long evenings. Other than that we travelled light. Still, even four shirts, a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, four pairs of socks and underwear plus toiletries each add up to some weight, especially since I was not carrying anything. Johann's backpack, while not as heavy as for back-country hikes at home, was big enough.

When we had finished our lunch in El Mamey Jorge laid out the plan for the next few days for us. We would reach our first camp sometime before dark (which means by six or shortly after here) after an eight kilometre hike, with a couple of stops for water or fruit in between. It sounded completely doable.

The other table in the small restaurant was occupied by a group that had just returned, with a few stragglers coming in while we ate. They were in a celebratory mood. When we were lined up and ready to go one of them came up to me and handed me a walking stick cut from a branch. 'Take it,' he said, 'it'll be your best friend on this hike.' I'm not much used to walking with a stick, but I took it. There would have been more sticks to be taken over, but nobody else felt the need – maybe nobody else was approached with such conviction either – and Johann, too, didn't think he needed one.

As I said, Johann had insisted to carry my notebook, so I had no choice of using it, did I? That first evening I actually managed, but unfortunately that was the only time. It is quite different to write from the immediate experience rather than looking back. Here, then, is what I wrote the first night.

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bunks

and the hammocks, overflow beds and almost always used by the guides

It's 8:30 in the evening here in our first camp on the trek to the lost city, and I'm in my bed already. People are starting to brush teeth and get ready for bed all around me, though a group of more fit hikers is still playing dice, another is talking.

The insect concert is in full swing, and here and there the croak of a frog is thrown in. In the wash area, close to where my bed is, an army of black-winged insects has taken residence around the light, and two huge moths, as big as my hand at least, are fascinating to watch. One of them I found on its back in the sink, obviously lured by the water; not a very fortunate position for a moth at all. I hope my turning it over and setting it in a place to dry its wings helped to restore it to flying condition.

We reached the camp close to six o'clock, me being the 'weakest link' by far, though Johann is staying with me – and so has been Jorge, our guide, patient and encouraging. It was tough, very tough in fact, mostly because I have such trouble catching my breath on the uphill of which there was quite a bit this afternoon already, even though, I suspect, it was nothing compared to what expects us tomorrow. Will I make it? I have the full intention, but I'm not sure I will. It'll be taxing me to the maximum of my ability.

But it's beautiful here! Today, we hiked through farmland, still relatively open, mostly consisting of cow pastures. The small Brahma (?) cattle with their huge drooping ears and large eyes look shiny and sleek, white, brown and grey, some black, some spotted. At one of the stops we got watermelon to eat, and a beautiful white bull was waiting at the fence, obviously well aware that he'd get the watermelon rinds. The juice was running out of his mouth while he chewed, enjoying the juicy treat as much as we did.

Much of the first hour and a half was uphill, though not too steep, and even there I had trouble catching my breath already. Then came a short respite before the next climb, which took us to 620 m from about 200 m– not much, I would have said before, but the humidity and heat make it tougher. In no time at all we were soaked with sweat, and my face had turned an interesting shade of red. 

 

Red-faced and happy for the break: Lucy and me

We reached the 'Mirador' – outlook – after what seemed an interminable climb, rounding one bend after the other on the steep, dried-mud trail. The view was indeed amazing. The green flanks of steep hills stretched far into the distance. Next followed a steep downhill, narrow and winding with a washed-out channel down the middle; this would be pure torture if it was raining. I'm not sure how we'd have managed; it's bound to become as slippery as soap if it rains. Hikers share the trail with a few motorbikes and many mules. The latter are used to transport everything to the camps and back, from food for the hikers, propane for cooking and anything else that is needed to huge bags of empty bottles and other things returning to El Mamey. The mules and motorbikes don't make the trails any better, of course. I'm trying not to think about the way back up ...

At the bottom of the steep ravine with its high mud walls the view opened up, and the tin roofs of the camp lay below us in a sea of yellow and red flowers, maybe five or ten minutes away. What a welcome sight! We crossed a small river via a plank bridge – and were waved on by Jorge.

 Oh no – this wasn't our camp yet! He promised that it wasn't much further, another fifteen or twenty minutes, but what a disappointment. Our legs were sooo tired. To keep going after we thought we were done for the day was as much a mental as a physical effort, maybe more. On top of it we were faced with another hill to climb. How good to finally arrive at our destination, not far away, as promised. The others were largely finished taking their showers, cold water only, of course, as everywhere here along the coast. It is refreshing in this climate, but I still don't like washing my hair with cold water very much. Thankfully we found two bottom bunks – even the thought of climbing the four rungs of a ladder was too much at this stage. The beds were all fitted with mosquito nets, a sure sign for the presence of these pesky creatures, but there is no concern regarding malaria here at least.

Tomorrow we'll be hiking 15 km, and much of it will be uphill. We'll do it in two parts, with about a two hour break in between to swim, eat, and visit an indigenous village. That should be interesting – IF I make it.

We have a very nice group, and everybody is very supportive of us 'oldies'. There are Tobias from Germany, closest in age to us but still twenty years our junior, Patrick from Holland, Lucy and Ciarán from Ireland, Sylvain and Sebastian from France, Theresa, Christiane and Ronja, also from Germany, all of them young enough to be our children, almost our grandchildren, and Johann and me, plus, most importantly, Jorge and the translator, Daniel, an artist who supplements his income with the translator job. Jorge has been staying with us, waiting patiently when I catch my breath, telling me to take small, slow, even steps (joining Johann in that advice). 'Tranquillo', he tells me time and again: take your time, don't worry, you'll make it.

I do feel bad for Johann who carries the extra heavy backpack, and I berate myself for not having insisted that the notebook stay back. Too late now. He doesn't have to pace himself to stay with Jorge and me; the weight slows him down to about my pace. By now I'm convinced that we'll need every piece of clothing we brought: my shirt was so soaking wet that I cannot imagine that it dries before morning, maybe not even before the end of the trip. It is very humid even now, and I expect we'll take all of our clothes and towels that now hang to dry off the lines as wet as they are now.

The dining hall

These fish are fried whole to a brown crisp. We got them a few times during the trip - very tasty!

There is beer for sale here, and almost all of us took advantage of it – did it ever taste good! The food was wonderful, but the portions way too big for me both for lunch and dinner. At dinner – here – we got a whole fried fish, rice, a patacone (fried plantain), salad, and a chocolate bar for dessert. If I don't make it it won't be for lack of food! Time to close this down: it is ten to nine, and the night will be over at five.

There is a TV running in the dining hall!! The people running it were watching soccer, and in between the kids were watching The Little Mermaid. Hard to believe, here.

Ready to go!

Santa Marta with its narrow streets and small core of beautiful colonial houses is no longer a quiet place: tourists from all over the world have discovered its charms, it seems, and there is music and good food everywhere. For us, however, its only importance at the moment was the fact that it is the starting point for hiking tours to the Lost City, La Ciudad Perdida, high up in the jungle. Johann had read about it and was really intrigued, and once I saw pictures I was hooked as well – though with more reservations. Would I be able to do it? I knew I'd have difficulty on the steep sections, having to catch my breath often, and a recent attack of sciatica was another concern. Since walking/moving usually took care of the pain, however, and I felt I could handle the hike as long as I didn't have to rush, plus Johann decided he could carry the bigger backpack with both of our things I agreed to go ahead with the booking. We'd only have to bring clothes – not too many since it is warm – and toiletries, after all; food and bedding would be provided by the tour agency. We have carried much heavier packs in our backcountry hikes in the Rockies, after all.

The Lonely Planet listed three or four tour companies who organize hikes, and after our arrival in Santa Marta Friday afternoon we checked out the first one, Expotour. What we found out was encouraging: it certainly seemed possible for us to do the hike, and there still was room on the tour starting Sunday. We decided to check out another company or two the next morning and make our decision after that.

Magic Tours and Guias y Baquianos were the other two companies we checked out, all companies charging the same price – 950,000.00 COP, roughly CAD 430 for either the four or five day hike - but in the end we decided to stick with Expotour. We had hoped to find a six day tour, but at the moment none of the tour companies had that option, so we booked the five days. No use to rush too much: we were there for the hiking and jungle experience itself as much as for the destination (or, true to the motto of the blog: 'Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home'). We were advised to come to the agency office, only a few steps from our hostel, at 8:30 the next morning. 

We joined a group of about twenty or twenty-five young people the next morning, sitting in the small air conditioned office or on the sidewalk outside, bags labelled, ready for action and waiting for further instructions. Finally our names were called up, and we were divided into two groups of eleven, assigned to a tour guide and translator for each group. We hitched our packs and followed Jorge, the guide, and Daniel, the translator, to a parking enclosure around the corner where the 'Expotour' Landcruisers were waiting for us. The bags were stowed on the roof and we climbed into the back of the vehicles with two benches facing each other, the taller guys trying to find a comfortable position for their legs for the trip to the little town of El Mamey, the starting point of the hike. After about an hour and a half we turned off the highway onto a very bumpy dirt road which we followed for about forty-five minutes more. Slowly but steadily we climbed. The vegetation became ever more lush, though a thick layer of white dust on the trees lining the road betrayed the fact that it hasn't rained a whole lot here in the last while. From time to time we were afforded a view of the magnificent hills stretching below, at one point of the ocean as well.

Glad to be able to stretch our legs we climbed down in El Mamey in front of a small restaurant, the gathering point from where we would leave after a lunch and instructions from our guide. The meal, tasty and generous in size, left us a bit sluggish in the midday heat, but Jorge didn't give us time to even contemplate a short siesta. It was time to go!

The start of a new adventure:La Ciudad Perdida, Colombia

 

On our way to Santa Marta

A week ago we arrived in Santa Marta after a four-hour tour in a small (airconditioned!) bus. It feels like a whole world away.

I'm sitting on the bed in our bright room at the Casa Kai hostal in Palomino, another hour and forty minutes north, trying to put some order into my recollection of the most challenging, but also one of the most rewarding hikes we ever did. We spent the last five days hiking through the jungle to the Ciudad Perdida, the Lost City.

It will take me a while to write about it all, so I'll do it in stages, otherwise it'll take forever for a single posting.

Day 1: Casa Vargas hotel, Cartagena

Cartagena, Colombia

 Casa Vargas Airport Hotel, 11 am

Here we are, feeling at home as if there hadn't been a break from South American travels for more than two years, sitting in the tiled courtyard of our hotel, shaded by huge trees and a net to catch dropped leaves.

We arrived here at the end of a long day. Carl picked us up at five am yesterday and took us to the airport in time for our 7:35 am departure. After a two-hour stopover in Toronto we boarded the plane to Bogotá, from where Avianca was to take us to Cartagena for our one am arrival. All seemed well until we saw the line at immigration: hundreds of people waited to be processed by about ten different immigration officers. It seemed impossible to make it in the scant hour that remained. Slowly, slowly we moved ahead. There was no way. I slipped under the enclosure to try and get help from the lady at the Avianca check-in desk, who printed out another set of boarding passes for us, stoically told me the plane was on time so far, and we either would make it - or mañana. The prospect of spending the night at the airport in Bogotá was enough to propel us into serious action. With many 'excuse me's' and mention of a flight in forty minutes we cut through at least four lines and finally were close to the immigration booths. No difficulty there, but there still were customs to go through, hand luggage to be x-rayed, and what felt like a kilometre of airport to traverse before we arrived at gate 83 with five minutes to spare. Whew! Johann noted that I hadn't even noticed the altitude ...

The flight to Cartagena was just a short hop of a little over an hour. Stepping out of the plane we were enveloped by the moist, warm, fragrant air of the tropics. Bromeliads with big fuchsia blossoms lined the way along the tarmac to the terminal building where we were greeted by a blast of almost icy air-conditioned air. Wonder of wonders, our backpack had made it here, too.

Given the late arrival we had decided not to make our way into Cartagena's old town and had booked the closest hotel we could find, Casa Vargas. It is not what most people would consider to be an 'airport hotel': no shuttle, no big neon signs, no overstuffed furniture in the lobby, – no wonder the immigration officer in Bogotá looked at us a little askance when we told him the address of our place to stay in Cartagena. He didn't seem to have heard of it before. For us, it seemed perfect: about a five minute walk, 24-hour reception, and checkout at two pm so that we'd have time to sleep in the morning.

We waved off the taxi drivers and luggage carriers and started walking. A few places were still open this late, a few people still hung about, and police – mostly on bicycles – kept an eye on things. One, who obviously had an idea where we were going, waited at the entrance to the hotel until we were safely inside. 

 

The guy at the reception spoke no English, and my feeble Spanish seemed to have disappeared completely by now, but we managed anyway. Because of the hectic conditions at the Bogotá airport we hadn't managed to draw money from the ATM, and credit cards, he explained, we'd only be able to use from six in the morning. It was no problem, however; obviously we weren't going anywhere. He led us through a tiled hallway and the courtyard to our room, small, but neat enough and equipped with air conditioning, wifi and a tv. The tap of the bathroom sink moves in its moorings when you turn on the water, and, the climate being what it is, there seems to be no need for a hot water tap in the shower either. It all felt immediately familiar, and, thankful to have arrived, we slipped under the thin sheet and were soon asleep. If there were planes starting or landing during the rest of the night we didn't notice.

We awoke to the screech of parakeets and some blue-jay like bird calls shortly before eight (Colombia is two hours ahead of Edmonton). First we needed to get some money, which was no problem with the airport being so close. Now, there was an English speaking receptionist (the owner?), a very friendly lady in her fifties or sixties who told us we could have breakfast at the hotel whenever we desired: huevos con tomate y sebolla, café o chocolate con leche, y pan tostado – scrambled eggs with tomato and onion, toast and coffee or hot chocolate – for three dollars per person. The Colombian currency will take a bit of getting used to: one Canadian dollar is about 2,200 COP, which makes for very large numbers. You quickly learn to cross off those extra zeros. Slowly, slowly my bit of Spanish is starting to come back, and things sound more familiar than last night again. People are patient and always happy if someone makes the effort. 

Here, everything is as it should be early in the morning: women calling to each other with loud, happy voices, sweeping leaves off sidewalks, a door opening to a hand emptying a bowl of water on the tiles of an entrance, bags with garbage stacked in front of houses (not bad at all here), holes in sidewalks to watch for if one doesn't want to sprain an ankle, the intermittent bark of a little dog, a goat bleating close by - no idea where in this suburbia. Pots with palms and other tropical plants along the perimeter of the courtyard, the beautiful wooden bench in the small reception area beside the worn red couch, a small table with three plastic lawn chairs, the 'breakfast nook'. There is hardly an indication that this is a place for foreign, just the way we like it."This is what I was homesick for, and I didn't know it", said Johann this morning.

  

We decided to stay right here for another night and leave the visit to Cartagena proper for the later part of our Colombia trip. There are places along the coast we would like to explore where favourable weather might be desirable, so we plan to leave for Santa Marta tomorrow. 

Welcome to Colombia! (found in a block of coral on the beach)