Ciudad Perdida, day four

I woke up from the usual early morning sounds: insects, birds, frogs, the latter here more than in any other camp. Hikers were starting to get up around me. The swishing sound of mosquito nets being pushed aside, zippers opened and closed, the flicker of a head lamp, clearing of a throat, short conversations in low voices. How strange it was to lie quietly on my bunk and listen to all this. Some sounds I could correlate with the person making them. Seven of us were going to go for breakfast now, shoulder their packs and leave in the still muted light of early morning, and it felt wrong, somehow, to not go with them. Since we knew we wouldn't be able to sleep through the morning's activities we had postponed our good-byes until the morning, but now it was time. With hugs and promises to exchange photos via dropbox Johann, Lucy, Cierán and I sent the others off on their strenuous day of hiking. Our breakfast would be at 7:30, so we went back to bed, even slept a bit more. We'd be leaving at twelve-thirty, accompanied by Joel, the cook.; Jorge and Daniel had both left with the four-day group. Jorge would rejoin us at Camp 1 in the evening.

Eating area

Showers

 Bunks

With the morning stretching ahead we had time to do things – or maybe not do? That's what it almost felt like more. We were a little at a loss with so much time at our hands. Johann, Lucy and Cierán went back to playing cards while I decided to hike back down a bit along the trail we'd come down the day before. Maybe I'd see something interesting, either plant or bird. It was very quiet. I passed the houses of the Kogui living right beside the camp. Nobody but a little girl was around here, and she didn't look at me. 

Once down by the river I sat on a log for a while and watched the swirls and eddies of the water around the big rocks, the lianas hanging from the giant trees across the river, almost touching the water glittering in the sun. A deep peace took hold of me as my breathing matched the breathing of the forest. Now I was glad I could sit here quietly instead of being on the trail, breathing hard, sweat pouring down my back already.  

A voice took me out of my reverie: one of the guides or cooks from another company wondering if I was lost. I assured him I was fine, but the spell was broken and I soon got up and walked back to camp to join the others in their card game.

After lunch we were on our way, the four of us, Joel and the manager of the camp where we had spent the night: he was going to visit his novia, his girlfriend. 

I haven't mentioned Joel up to now, yet he was just as important as Jorge and Daniel. All the delicious, filling meals we got to eat on the hike were his doing. The cooks are employed by the tour companies and hike between camps just like the hiking groups, which means getting things cleaned up after one meal and be at the next camp well in time to prepare another. It all works very smoothly, and I really admire what they do.  

It was nice hiking with these two; they were easygoing and used the breaks I needed to catch my breath to point out plants and trees along the way. Once, the manager (I didn't catch his name) broke off one of the beak-like flower parts of the Bird of Paradise plant and showed us how, moving the two parts of the 'beak' apart and together quickly, one can produce a kind of rasping sound: 'Toucan!' he said, grinning.

At the top of a long, sustained climb where we had had a fruit stop on the way a couple of days earlier Joel brought a container with thick-cut watermelon pieces, a refreshment we had not expected at this point. It totally hit the spot, and gratefully we dug into the juicy treat. 

As the day progressed clouds drew close and it threatened rain for the first time since the first night in camp one. It didn't take long for the skies to open, but we weren't so far away from camp anymore, the rain not heavy enough to warrant a full-fledged rain protection campaign, and anyway: it was a warm rain. After a while it slowed down to a drizzle and then quit, making only the last descent before the camp slippery, again enough to show us what rainy season would be like. 

Passiflora vitifolia (passion fruit)

We arrived early in the afternoon and made use of the fact that we were the only ones in camp for a while, taking a shower, claiming our 'territory': each group gets assigned a section of the bunks. Ours, this time, was right next to the dining area. Even with the relatively short hike we were happy to have arrived; leaving at noon definitely was a disadvantage as far as the temperature was concerned. 

                Other groups arrived, exhausted from the climb of the first day. They didn't know what lay ahead for the next one, and we didn't tell them, just marvelled at the group of French hikers smoking one cigarette after the other and adding vodka shots to the beer. They might be in for an unpleasant surprise. We were playing cards after supper when Jorge appeared, as promised. To our relief he didn't have to walk back from El Mamey as we had feared, but had taken the motorcycle as far as possible, with only the last part of the way on foot. He played 'Thirty-one' with us, thankfully not needing detailed instructions which we would have been unable to give in Spanish; his way to shuffle proved that he must be an experienced card player, likely used to more demanding games than this.

Back to the Ciudad Perdida: day three, continued

It's been two weeks since we reached the Ciudad Perdida, and we are back in Cartagena where our Colombia adventure started. Here, in these urban surroundings, the jungle feels far away, but it only takes a short while of looking at the pictures to bring it back. 
Besides the visits to Palomino and Minca we also spent a couple of days in Santa Marta. There, we visited the Tayrona museum, also called 'Museo d'Oro' – gold museum – where we found a lot of information about the indigenous people of this area. I will try to relate some of it later. For now, it is time to leave the Ciudad Perdida and start the way back to El Mamey. 

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

As predicted, the way back down the stairs required careful attention because of the small size and unevenness of the steps, but it didn't take very long at all, and, of course, was less strenuous than the way up. 
We arrived at Camp Paraíso in time for an early lunch, gathered the packs we had left behind for the visit of the Lost City and were on our way back to the camp where we had had dinner the day before.
 

Kogui man unloading mules

This is where we'd spend the third night, and also where our group would split: it was the last night for the people doing the hike in four days – the majority of the group – while Lucy, Ciarán, Johann and I would slow things down and spend another night in the first camp.

 

Daniel took over from Jorge now to walk with us, which meant we were able to ask questions in English instead of Spanish, though Daniel didn't have as much information ready as Jorge, of course. 

 
It was easier walking than on the way up the day before, and we especially marvelled how long the climb had been that we did in the afternoon. So soon things are forgotten ... Of course, it always looks different coming down, too, and on the way up there was no time or energy left to concentrate on anything beyond taking the next step.

Now, we could admire the magnificent views, and I even had time to take a few photos of the plants along the way. 

 
Like the previous night we played cards for a while, but after supper Jorge called us all together: we had a visitor from a Kogui village close by, Firmin, who was going to tell us a bit about the Poporro, the item that all Kogui men (maybe the men of other indigenous tribes of the area as well?) are carrying with them wherever they go. Firmin spoke Spanish, and I understood more than I usually do because of his deliberate way of speaking, the way he obviously had given thought to everything he said. Daniel translated, of course, so we could be sure to understand.

 

Poporo, as seen in the Tayrona museum.

Shells used for making the 'lima'

To the eye of the outsider, the poporo simply looks like a small gourd with a light coloured substance wrapped like a ring around its neck and a stick inserted. This gourd, however, is of the highest importance in a man's life. It is given to a young man by the mamo of the tribe when he deems him to be ready to enter the adult word and will, from then on, accompany him constantly. The gourd contains lime that is derived from small shells that are placed between reed mats and burned until they turn to dust. Roasted coca leaves are the other item the Kogui men carry with them at all times in a small pouch carried over the shoulder; these are chewed to give strength, endurance and for meditative purposes. While they chew the coca leaves they also suck on the stick – which has been dipped in the powder in the gourd – from time to time. From this, a substance forms on the stick that is then transferred to the neck of the gourd where it slowly builds up and is shaped to form a thickening ring. Firmin explained that this ring contains all the thoughts and dreams of the man to whom the poporo belongs; he entrusts these to no-one else. After an amount of time has passed that he determines to be right he gives the poporo back to the mamo who now is the only one to decipher all of the 'substance' of the man contained in it. The same poporo isn't used again; the mamo will hand out a new one when the old one is finished.
Asked what his people think of the outsiders walking through their land to the Ciudad Perdida, Firmin told us that the indigenous people consider themselves to be the 'Elder Brother' (and all the other inhabitants of the earth the 'younger brother'), and that through this contact they can share their beliefs about the earth and its importance for everyone and teach the younger brother.
(I found that two documentaries have been made regarding about this, but haven't watched them yet. I found that they are available on Youtube. Here are the links:
https://www.google.com/search?q=the+heart+of+the+world+elder+brother%27s+warning&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&client=firefox-b&gfe_rd=cr&dcr=0&ei=8gSxWurSJKuB8QfdjLko
\The second one is actually a movie called 'Aluna' made by the Kogi themselves about ten years after the first documentary. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aluna). 
 
So far it seems that the Kogui and other tribes are still mostly keeping to themselves and don't as a rule seek much contact on their own. How long will this last? In at least one of the camps – the one where we slept the night after the return from Ciudad Perdida – we saw not only men who were working with the mules, as guides, or in other functions in the camp, but also a woman with her children who definitely knew that visitors meant gifts. 'Dulce, dulce (candy)', the kids kept repeating, but also eyeing necklaces and other things, their mother hanging back just a little but watching closely. It is difficult to keep the two worlds apart, probably impossible in the long run. So far the mamos have immense influence still, but that is bound to crumble eventually. Yet, for us to get even a glimpse of the life of a civilization so different from our own was fascinating, and I am thankful for the opportunity presented through both 'Mamo Romaldo' and Firmin.


Saying goodnight that evening was a little strange: the next morning seven of us would get up at five and leave by six, as usual, to finish the hike by the afternoon, while only Lucy, Cierán and I would stay back to spread it out over two days. Part of me wished we could finish with the rest: we had become a small family, and it was good to share this experience. On the other hand it would be nice to be able to take a little more time, look at plants and birds and the landscape more at leisure.

Leaving the jungle

Hotel Casa d'Antonio, Minca

It is six-thirty in the morning, and I've been listening to the morning sounds of this little jungle village for a while. Insect and bird songs were joined by crowing roosters – not nearly as many as in Palomino, however – and the rumbling of a truck on the road leading by the house was the sign that traffic, too, was about to commence. Now, more and more motos – motorcycles – are part of the soundscape, and it is getting more difficult to hear all the bird voices.

It is our last morning here in the jungle, which is only now sinking in, and I am a little sad. Besides the highlight of the trip, the hike to the Ciudad Perdida, this was my favourite place. Part of the reason might be the climate: it is, at least at night, cooler than at the coast, and I can tolerate this much better. It is, in fact, so 'cool' that both hotels we stayed at had hot showers – something we hadn't encountered anywhere else. When it is +25 at night and +32 during the day, a hot shower is, admittedly, not something you crave. Here, however, it felt quite nice, and I appreciated it especially for washing my hair. Another sign of the lower temperature is the fact that I found blankets in the closet in our room: sheets alone might not be warm enough for everyone.

But it wasn't the more moderate climate alone, of course, what endeared me to Minca. Part of it were the surroundings: the lushness of the jungle, the many shades of green, the amazing leaves in so many forms and textures (I love the tightly rolled shiny leaves, almost like cigars, in their different stages of opening to the perfectly ribbed, firm, bright green leaf itself), the fern groves that look like a forest dinosaurs could have foraged in, the blossoms so perfectly suited to the tiny beaks of hummingbirds. I love the huge trees, their branches reaching for many metres to all sides, and the shady forest floors mottled with filtered sunlight.

Pablo Neruda describes it perfectly in his 'Ode to Enchanted Light': 

Under the trees light
has dropped from the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches,
shining
on every leaf,
drifting down like clean
white sand.

A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.

The world is
a glass overflowing
with water.

What will stay in my mind, too, is the incredible volume of the song of the chicharras – cicadas – that puzzled me for the first night up at the Casa del Pozo Azul, when I was ready to attribute it to something like a heavy-duty sprinkler in the neighbouring garden, until the sound accompanied us to where no sprinkler could possibly be running anymore.. The clue to what kind of insect causes this noise came later on our hike down from the coffee farm when we started finding huge-bodied insects, three or four centimetres in length that looked like short little cigars, on their backs on the dusty road. A strange rattling sound first alerted me to their presence: the sound of their translucent wings beating frantically, propelling the insect so that it spun like a top, or a whirling dervish, locked into some strange kind of ritual. My attempt to turn it over with the help of a stick was without success; as soon as its strong claws had grabbed on to the stick and I turned it over it flipped back to the original position. That evening we watched many more, some already lying on the road doing their spinning, others flying in at high speed, almost hurling themselves at the road and immediately starting the whirling process, others already dead, having exhausted whatever strength they had at their disposal to do this.

I asked Kenny, our host at Casa del Pozo Azul, about these strange insects. Chicharras, he said, cicadas. He explained that now, during dry season, they were at the end of their life cycle. What a feast they must provide for all the hungry predators!

I loved, too, the early morning visit to Pozo Azul, the waterfall close to our first hotel after which it is named. It is, as I said before, a popular spot to swim and hang out for tourists and locals alike, but when we got there it lay perfectly still, sunlight slanting in through the branches of the trees, misty water vapour particles dancing in the rays.

In a way, Casa Pozo Azul was perfect, and it was very tempting to stay, but its distance from the village was a bit of a disadvantage, too. We wanted to join 'Jungle Joe', the local bird expert, on an early morning bird watching walk, for instance, and to be there by six would have been a bit more difficult. As it turned out, this bird watching tour didn't come to pass anyway: when we checked with his office yesterday morning he told us he had already cancelled yesterday's hike because he wasn't feeling good, and it was questionable if he was up to it for today. Last night he sent word to our hotel that, regretfully, he had to cancel again. Too bad: I would have loved to find out more about the birds we heard and saw – and there are many! The toucan would probably have been the most coveted bird to see, but there are also several kinds of hummingbirds here, and one small bird that caught my eye several times because it sparkles like a metallic-blue jewel in the foliage, joined by what I assume is the female in metallic-green. These birds were not very shy, so that I got a good look at them a few times.

Our second hotel ... yes, that is another thing I liked here. In our search for a suitable place online I had encountered it a few times, but since it is only 70m from town it seemed too close, the possibility of it being noisy too great. In the 'bus' on our way to Minca from Santa Marta we talked to a young American couple who didn't have accommodation for the first night of their stay, and we mentioned the Casa d'Antonio as a place that might be suitable for a night and be close enough so that they didn't have to search for too long. The hotel is on the way to our first hotel, so we walked together, and they were going to inquire, but before they even had a chance to look for someone an older woman came out onto the step and invited us all in: we, too, were welcome to use the garden and the private swimming spot down in the river, she said. We didn't have time to take her up on this generous offer, but our American friends stayed here for the night, and we left thinking that it could well have been a nice place to stay after all.

Once we had made up our minds to stay another two nights, and had decided that it might be better to be closer to town, the Casa d'Antonio was our first choice – if they had room. We walked in with our backpacks, and the same friendly woman greeted us and immediately started showing the rooms. It didn't take us any time at all to make the decision, and we didn't regret it for a minute.

Not only are the owners very friendly, welcoming people, but the whole place is very clean, the garden, leading all the way down to the river, a feast for the eyes with its many colourful blossoms and darting hummingbirds, but the food at Antonio's restaurant is delicious. We first sampled it with our American friends the night before last; they had tried it before and were very impressed. The owner and his wife immigrated from Castilia, Spain eleven years ago and have had this place for the past eight. The cuisine is exclusively from that region – Antonio makes sure everybody understands how proud he is of his roots – so they offer great paellas, and the 'Shrimp a Pimpil' I had last night were the juiciest, spiciest shrimp I've ever eaten.

We'll take with us the memories of this little town where locals and tourists mix in the few narrow streets, where mototaxis are the main form of transportation and employment for young (and some older) men, a place that feels 'right'. 

We'll also take with us, for a day or so, a certain soreness in our bodies from yesterday's long and strenuous hike that took us straight up and later straight down the winding road through the jungle. We had chosen the other way out of town which leads by the Arimaka waterfalls – bigger than Pozo Azul, so that you have to pay an entrance fee – and up for several kilometres towards the outlook Los Pinos, which, however, is most often shrouded in cloud. We had said from the beginning that we'd just walk as long as we felt like it, hoping, of course, to make it all the way to the top. About six kilometres of constant, partly strenuous climbing, however, in increasing heat since the sun had moved around the mountain, we gave in: we were tired and hot, and we had seen all we wanted to see, enjoyed all I described earlier. There was no need to prove anything to ourselves.

 Our hike was made more special by our little companion, one of the many dogs that seem to belong to everyone and attach themselves to people walking for a morning or a whole day. 'Pero' (dog) looked a little interesting, admittedly, with his almost hound-like face and beautiful colour on short and sturdy legs, his tail curving up. He had chosen us on the way out of town, and he faithfully stayed with us until we decided to turn around. When we stopped, he stopped, lying on a shady part of the road or burrowing in some dry leaves behind us, unconcerned about any mototaxis or four-wheel drive vehicles: they knew better than to run him over, and, unlike us, he was in no hurry to make room for them. He found a different set of humans when we turned around, and I missed him on the way down.

Now, however, it will soon be time to check out and move on to city life again. We'll have breakfast in a little while looking out on the beautiful garden, and I'm sure no rooftop terrace in our hostel in Cartagena will come close to this. 

So now it is time to say good-bye to the jungle, and yet again to a place where we most likely will not ever find ourselves again. As so often I am a bit wistful at that thought, but then, it proves that where I have been has meant something to me, that my life is richer for having been here. What more could I ask for?

 

A visit to a coffee farm

The 'Casa del Pozo Azul' takes its name from the nearby waterfall, one of the main destinations for hikes in the area, the pools above it also well used as a swimming hole for tourists and locals alike: thus the amount of motorcycle traffic even on the very bumpy part of the road leading down to and by our hotel. It is only ten minutes away from the hotel, so we decided to postpone a visit and do a longer hike instead yesterday.

Another point of interest on the Minca map was La Victoria coffee farm, an organic farm that has produced coffee here since the late 19^th century. A German couple we met at the hotel told us it was well worthwhile, and since we were halfway there from Minca already we decided on this hike as the day's destination. 

Kenny, our friendly host who speaks English well, suggested we'd take the shortcut through the Faunal, the nature reserve that starts a short walk above the hotel. The road coming from Minca would have been the alternative, but the shortcut, though much steeper, would also be more enticing. With his directions we easily found the turnoff from the waterfall road. After the first short, steep climb we arrived at a small cafe where we paid an entrance fee, hopefully used to maintain the nature reserve and its trails, maybe to make it possible to keep it as a place not to be developed. The trail, very narrow and steep, led steadily upwards in tight turns through dense vegetation. We had to look out for roots, climbed over a couple of fallen trees, and – were hot and sweaty within minutes, of course. The strange loud noise that had caused us to wonder about its origin accompanied us for the first while, ebbing and swelling, so shrill that it almost hurt our ears. In the evening I had ascribed it to some kind of man-made device, wondered if it had possibly to do with the sprinkler system in the neighbouring garden, but now it seemed possible that it was caused by some kind of insect. The higher we got the less intense it became, swallowed up into the general insect cacophony. As everywhere here on the coast biting insects had a feast; the assumption that relative immunity against mosquito bites at home might translate into a reduced susceptibility here proved totally false. We suffered right with the rest of the visitors, probably some of the locals as well.

The dense vegetation opened up from time to time to  grand views of the hills across the valley, revealing the steep flanks dropping off below us. Whenever the sun had a little more access there was the usual multitude of butterflies, though I didn't again see a Morpho Azul.

After maybe forty minutes or so the nature reserve ended in a barbed wire fence; we now rejoined the dusty road leading up from Minca. It was easier walking, however, not as steep, and of course we didn't have to watch so carefully where we put our feet. Also, we could now enjoy the open view to our left continuously. Across the valley some dots of intense lemon yellow had caught my eye; they looked like they might be blooming trees. Rounding a bend I gasped: there was one of these trees right in front of me, stunning in its brightness, the scent sweet like vanilla. What a gorgeous specimen! Trees seem to be in several different seasonal stages, some with mature leaves, others partly bare, others yet in the tender light green of early spring, with foamy pink blossoms, long dry pods still suspended from the branches: a legume of some sort, obviously.

We hiked for another half hour until a sign to the left showed us that we had to turn off to La Victoria coffee farm. From now on it was downhill again, the road shaded by huge bamboo groves, which made for a very pleasant walk. It still took about twenty minutes more until we saw the farm nestled into the jungle vegetation, a pleasant location beside a small river.

We were invited to sample the coffee while we waited for a few more people to arrive to make up a group for the guided tour. This coffee, while dark, lacked any hint of bitterness; it was by far the best coffee I have had here in Colombia. Why this is so we found out a little later.

A tall young Colombian woman (a rarity in a country where people tend to be on the shorter side) gave us a very informative tour. 

 

This finca – farm – started in 1882 when a couple from London, England bought 1200 ha of land here from the Colombian government which, of course, had taken it for free from the indigenous people who lived here and forced them higher up into the hills. The English couple planted 300 ha of coffee right away, which was later expanded to 700 ha, the area that is still in use now. They brought almost all of the necessary machinery to process the beans from England, some from New York as well. All of the buildings, all of these machines are used the way they were when the farm was established in 1892. The coffee is produced organically, is hand-picked – bean by bean or, more correctly, cherry by cherry, the proper name for coffee before it has undergone fermentation – from October to the end of January. There are 22 permanent employees here, and about 120 pickers, migrating workers who move from one coffee area in Colombia to the next. The work must be gruelling: the slopes are so steep that it would be difficult to find a foothold, the plants close together, the heat oppressive, and, in the early months of picking, still in rainy season. The pickers fill baskets that are then emptied into big bags that hold 40kg, which in turn are dumped into huge funnels from where they are washed down to the plant with water from the river. 

Pressurized water coming from the hill is used for all of the transporting of coffee during the cleaning process, from the hills, and in the plant as well, and also to produce power. I won't go into too much detail, because there was a lot of information to remember, but a few things are worth mentioning.

Mostly due to a small beetle that bores into the coffee fruits and hollows them out, something that cannot be controlled on an organic farm, about 40% of the harvested beans are of lesser and low quality. To separate them from the undamaged ones water is used again, making use of the fact that the undamaged beans are heaviest while the ones hollowed out completely will float on top. All of the harvested coffee is used, but only first-quality beans are used for export. The 'La Victoria' coffee farm sells 70% of its number one crop for export and keeps the other 30% for roasting at the farm; this will be sold to visitors and used in their restaurant. The lower quality coffee is sold as well, and this is what is used almost exclusively in the country – thus the much superior taste of the coffee at the farm. Our guide explained that additives are used to improve the taste of the lower grade coffees to make them more palatable.

She also explained the roasting process: at the farm, they roast medium dark (French) coffee. This produces a mellower taste while leaving a higher caffeine content. The darker the roast, she said, the more bitter, of course, and the less caffeine. Caffeine-free coffee has undergone the longest roasting process.

After another free sampling of coffee we had the opportunity to buy the 500g packages, either whole bean or ground, and we all took advantage of it, of course: we knew exactly what we were getting, after all. One interesting fact I didn't know: our guide told us that coffee is best stored in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator. As long as it is in its original package with the little breathing hole and kept closed at the top it will keep its freshness for nine months, unaffected by the taste or smell of anything else it is stored with.

It was an interesting, informative tour, and I left with a renewed appreciation of what goes into the making of good coffee.

By now it was early afternoon, so Johann and I had a snack down by the little river before we embarked on the hike back to our hotel. We had decided to not take the shortcut this time but the road; traffic didn't seem to be too heavy, and it would be easier walking, requiring less attention – plus we'd have the grandiose view the whole time.

I was amazed at the multitude of flowers growing along the way now that I had time to keep my eyes open and look at leisure. From poinsettias to verbenas to many other vaguely familiar looking blossoms which I couldn't name, however, not to mention the many coffee plants we only now realized were growing along the road. We hadn't noticed them on the way up. 

Unfortunately a little blurry: coffee blossom on a plant along the road, thus the dusty leaves

 

 

Dusty, hot and tired we arrived back at the hotel late in the afternoon after this beautiful day. The beer tasted great!

In the meantime

In the meantime ...

Banana seller in Santa Marta

Six days have passed since the end of the Lost City hike, and it is not quite as much in the forefront of our talks anymore. It is still very present, however, and three days of doing nothing in the beach village of Palomino didn't leave much of an impression at all. After what we had just experienced a place with dusty streets, a multitude of watering holes and eating places and filled with people in flip-flops and bikinis didn't have much allure, especially since the beach is not suitable for swimming because of strong undercurrents. Maybe we just weren't ready to appreciate Palomino yet.

We had planned to spend a night in Santa Marta, visit the Museo d'Oro in the morning to get some more information about the Ciudad Perdida and its inhabitants, and then move on to Minca, a village about 40 minutes from the bus station in Santa Marta a bit higher in elevation, thus hopefully a bit cooler at least. When we checked the opening hours of the museum the evening of our arrival we found out that it was closed on Mondays, contrary to the other information we had read – we should have known; Monday is the official day of rest for museums. Since we travel without much of a schedule we quickly booked our room at the Park Hotel – right across from the beach, on a busy road but very nice – for another night and postponed Minca: the museum was important enough to do so.

We didn't regret it. The Museo d'Oro, also called Tayrona Museum, gave us a wealth of information not only about the pre-Hispanic population, their art and customs, but also about their descendants, the indigenous people who still live in the Sierra Nevada. There were sections, too, about the Hispanic settlement of the area and Simon Bolívar – though by the time we got to them we couldn't take in much more.

A taxi took us from our hotel to the bus station, which seems somewhat of a misnomer for a few vehicles parked at the curb of a busy street. Our 'bus' was a four-wheel drive vehicle of the kind that had taken us to the trailhead for the Ciudad Perdida hike, with two long benches facing each other in the back of the car. Once there were enough people to warrant the drive - eight, we were herded inside, but the back door was still open: there was room for another two men since the young girl travelling with her grandmother didn't need very much space. All the luggage was stowed on the roof, and off we went. The longer part of the trip, which took about forty minutes for the fifteen or twenty kilometres, was in city traffic, the rest led up into the hills on a very curvy road. The aircondition masked the fact that conditions outside hadn't changed all that much on this climb: when we got out in Minca we were greeted by air as humid and warm as a steam bath. A light rain shower just at that moment did nothing to diminish the effect, of course.

The 'bus station' looked like a gathering point; Minca has become quite popular with tourists from all over the world, though with a totally different feel than Palomino where things are still very much in a state of construction and unfinished-ness. We were approached by a middle-aged man immediately who asked us where we were going, ready to connect us with one of the moto-taxi drivers or, if we wished so, with the driver of a four-wheel drive vehicle. The hotel we had chosen is about 2.5 km out of town, so the price of 10,000 COP (about $4.70) per person for a moto-taxi (motorbikes with a driver where you just hop on, which would not have been an option with Johann's heavy backpack), or – even worse – almost $30 for the four-wheel drive vehicle seemed ludicrous. We would walk! The man was unfazed and showed us the road we had to take to get there. I guess he wasn't a hustler but just someone to direct arriving visitors after all.

This time Johann carried the full pack, all we were carrying with us during this trip, while I had my smaller backpack, our hiking boots strung over my shoulder since they were still too dirty from the trail to carry them anywhere else. There was no gentle easing-into the walk: the road climbed right from the start, and the heat was oppressive. We walked by another hotel we had briefly considered, this one only 70 m out of town, and wondered if we had really made the right decision. No matter, we had to move on; we were committed. Moto-taxis passed us frequently on the road, either going up or coming down the hill, once in a while a car as well, and every time we were left in a small cloud of dust and exhaust fumes for a moment. Otherwise it wasn't so bad to walk; we could take our time, after all, and didn't have any other plans for the day. Soon my shirt was as soaking wet as every day on the long hike; it seems unavoidable in these weather conditions. We passed more hotels and hostels we had seen while looking online, but still no sign for Casa del Pozo Azul. The man had told us to expect the sign after about forty-five minutes, and sure enough, there it was: 600m turning downhill to the hotel. Now, the road became even bumpier, with bigger rocks sticking out, and the moto-taxis passed us at very low speed, the drivers obviously careful not to fall. Just when we thought we might never get there another sign appeared, and after a short while we arrived at a beautiful house in the middle of a lush garden. 

'Welcome to Paradise', said a sign on the front wall – and that's what it felt like. The choice had been the right one after all.