[I survived the jungle, but I don´t have pictures to prove it. Unfortunately, the business of taking pictures was left to a deranged Dutchman, who advised me to leave my SLR at the hostel. The trek is notorious for sudden bouts of rainfall which drench your clothing and backpack, and so I decided to rely on his digital camera for pictures. He has yet to send them to me, but my hope of retaining pictorial evidence has not diminished.]
"Welcome to inferno verde," our guide Carlos, says, grinning beneath his brilliantined mustache. He glances back at our group of thirteen travelers, and, with the air of Virgil leading Dante on a happy traipse into the inferno, adds, "Are you ready for a journey into Green Hell?"
Lonely Planet warned me about this, I think. Sure, it's no Mount Kilimanjaro, but the trek to Ciudad Peridida (the Lost City) is notoriously difficult. Bloodthirsty mosquitos. Knee-deep sludge. Impossibly steep mountains. Rock climbing the face of a slick mountain wall. Sleep-inducing heat. What could be better?
The trek began at the mouth of the Rio Grande, a river which I was to grow deeply acquainted with over the forthcoming days. Our group was comprised of an increasingly unprepared-looking group of travelers, our sombrero-bedecked guide, Carlos, and Johnathan, the camp cook, who sprinted ahead of us each day at a pace which I found alarming in its alacrity.
During the first hour, we crisscrossed the Rio Grande three times, trudging forth with sopping wet shoes into the unrelenting heat. At first, the journey was pleasantly level, a fact that incited some nervousness within our group. "It can only get worse," a gargantuan Australian confided to me, fearfully.
He was right. Not long after, we began to climb. For more than four hours, we hiked uphill, deep into the rugged terrain of the Sierra Nevadas. Soon, it began to rain, and the thick red earth grew slick and muddy. Every step forward was a struggle as we slid backwards into the implacable clay. Just as we reached the summit, the sun set, plunging our small group deep into the unremitting darkness of the jungle. Guided only by the slim beam of our flashlights, we waded through yet another river and finally arrived at our campsite, exhausted and hungry.
Carlos urged us to keep our valuables close. Several years ago, the jungles were infested with guerrillas who wouldn't hesitate to claim your life for the pesos in your pocket. Now, the trek is purportedly safer. While guerrilla presence goes by relatively unnoticed by hikers, there have been stories of theft deep within the mountains.
The next day, we awoke at dawn, and began to walk. And walk. And walk. And climb. And walk. And climb. And walk.During the next few hours, we passed several small villages of thatched houses, home to the Wiwa Indians. While the adults eyed us with unwavering irritation, the children ran forward with hands outstretched, asking for candy. Several of the girls, who looked no more than thirteen years old, carried their babies in cloth backpacks slung across their backs.
The third day was interminable. A member of our group hurt her knee and had to hire a donkey in order to complete the trek. We stopped in a small enclosure for lunch and I immediately fell asleep on the wooden bench. After my slight siesta, we continued forth into the implausible afternoon heat. Soon our group was fragrant with perspiration and DEET.
I was impressed by the variety of the landscape: we trudged through open pastures, past swinging vines, and deeper into the inescapable red sludge of the jungle. Clouds of blue morphos traced our path as we made our way through several streams.
By the eighth hour of walking, I was exhausted. Everything hurt. After a while, the path became monotonously hypnotic and I grew dizzy from staring out at the ground ahead. I sat down to rest, and for a moment I considered sitting there forever and refusing to walk a step further. However, the moment passed, and I tightened my backpack and continued forth.
As the sun set behind the mountains, the path ended in front of a slight waterfall. "We go up, now," Carlos told us, with a confident smile, pointing towards the waterfall. And so we climbed, clinging to the slippery cliff as water splashed down over our heads.At the top, we were met with our campsite, which was dubbed deceptively, "Paraíso"-- Paradise.
The next day, we woke, bandaged our blisters, and hiked for another hour. Finally, we reached the 1200 stone steps leading to Ciudad Perdida. Panting in the early morning light, we arrived at a plateau encircled by several trees. I was struck by the city´s enormity, which had once been home to over 2000 Tayrona families. Hundreds of corridors wound deep within the jungle, each one leading to a clearing of stone foundations.
Finally we reached the main square, the city´s highest point. Against the vast, impossibly verdant backdrop of the Sierras, Carlos told us the fascinating story of Ciudad Perdida's discovery.
In the late 60s, an impoverished father and son from the neighboring town of Minca, scaled the mountains. Their purpose remains unclear; from Carlos's account, they were searching for land that was ripe for vegetation. other stories say that the two men were attempting to find ground to plant marijuana, while Lonely Planet suggests that the men were already practiced grave robbers, searching for buried treasure in the jungle. Whatever their purpose, they discovered the steps leading to the Ciudad Perdida. Tales of gold hidden deep within the mountain emboldened the two men to journey deeper into the overgrown brush. Aided only by machetes, they cut away at the dense jungle fauna for nearly three years, before they finally discovered a grave. They exhumed the tomb's contents and aside from a few skeletons, discovered heaps upon heaps of...gold.
In celebration of their riches, they returned to Santa Marta to display, with great indiscretion, the accumulation of their sudden wealth. Together, they drank the finest wine and bought the most beautiful prostitutes the town could offer (the beauty of the prostitutes was repeatedly emphasized by Carlos, who, with gleaming eyes, reiterated this fact several times).The locals, suspicious of the mens' sudden good fortune, questioned them about the origins of their wealth.The men let them in on the secret and struck an agreement: in exchange for their services clearing the ground they would receive a portion of the riches.
This arrangement lasted only a few months, when it was determined that the father was pilfering more than his fair share. His son, along with several other men, conspired to kill him, and he was machine gunned down one night in the very place he had discovered. After three years of searching for the buried treasure, he enjoyed his wealth for only three short months.
The project was then passed down to his son. The son too, was killed by the same men he had employed (it was then shyly related by Carlos that he had at one time worked for the son, which led to speculation among our group of Carlos's own involvement in the son's death) and the cycle of bloodshed continued through each subsequent successor. When the government intervened in 1976, the police force and military stepped in.
There is believed to be another city, not some 400 meters away, which has yet to be discovered.
It is rumored that the Wiwas alone know its exact location. However, despite the promise of unforetold riches, it is illegal to clear the jungle land which is regarded as sacred by the tribes.
Despite the trek´s ardour, it was by far one of the best things I've ever done while traveling and I´m eager to find another trek within the Amazon.
I could barely walk after I finished the trek, but I regained my strength while resting poolside at a hostel in Santa Marta. I figure I got my exercise in for a while.
"Welcome to inferno verde," our guide Carlos, says, grinning beneath his brilliantined mustache. He glances back at our group of thirteen travelers, and, with the air of Virgil leading Dante on a happy traipse into the inferno, adds, "Are you ready for a journey into Green Hell?"
Lonely Planet warned me about this, I think. Sure, it's no Mount Kilimanjaro, but the trek to Ciudad Peridida (the Lost City) is notoriously difficult. Bloodthirsty mosquitos. Knee-deep sludge. Impossibly steep mountains. Rock climbing the face of a slick mountain wall. Sleep-inducing heat. What could be better?
The trek began at the mouth of the Rio Grande, a river which I was to grow deeply acquainted with over the forthcoming days. Our group was comprised of an increasingly unprepared-looking group of travelers, our sombrero-bedecked guide, Carlos, and Johnathan, the camp cook, who sprinted ahead of us each day at a pace which I found alarming in its alacrity.
During the first hour, we crisscrossed the Rio Grande three times, trudging forth with sopping wet shoes into the unrelenting heat. At first, the journey was pleasantly level, a fact that incited some nervousness within our group. "It can only get worse," a gargantuan Australian confided to me, fearfully.
He was right. Not long after, we began to climb. For more than four hours, we hiked uphill, deep into the rugged terrain of the Sierra Nevadas. Soon, it began to rain, and the thick red earth grew slick and muddy. Every step forward was a struggle as we slid backwards into the implacable clay. Just as we reached the summit, the sun set, plunging our small group deep into the unremitting darkness of the jungle. Guided only by the slim beam of our flashlights, we waded through yet another river and finally arrived at our campsite, exhausted and hungry.
Carlos urged us to keep our valuables close. Several years ago, the jungles were infested with guerrillas who wouldn't hesitate to claim your life for the pesos in your pocket. Now, the trek is purportedly safer. While guerrilla presence goes by relatively unnoticed by hikers, there have been stories of theft deep within the mountains.
The next day, we awoke at dawn, and began to walk. And walk. And walk. And climb. And walk. And climb. And walk.During the next few hours, we passed several small villages of thatched houses, home to the Wiwa Indians. While the adults eyed us with unwavering irritation, the children ran forward with hands outstretched, asking for candy. Several of the girls, who looked no more than thirteen years old, carried their babies in cloth backpacks slung across their backs.
The third day was interminable. A member of our group hurt her knee and had to hire a donkey in order to complete the trek. We stopped in a small enclosure for lunch and I immediately fell asleep on the wooden bench. After my slight siesta, we continued forth into the implausible afternoon heat. Soon our group was fragrant with perspiration and DEET.
I was impressed by the variety of the landscape: we trudged through open pastures, past swinging vines, and deeper into the inescapable red sludge of the jungle. Clouds of blue morphos traced our path as we made our way through several streams.
By the eighth hour of walking, I was exhausted. Everything hurt. After a while, the path became monotonously hypnotic and I grew dizzy from staring out at the ground ahead. I sat down to rest, and for a moment I considered sitting there forever and refusing to walk a step further. However, the moment passed, and I tightened my backpack and continued forth.
As the sun set behind the mountains, the path ended in front of a slight waterfall. "We go up, now," Carlos told us, with a confident smile, pointing towards the waterfall. And so we climbed, clinging to the slippery cliff as water splashed down over our heads.At the top, we were met with our campsite, which was dubbed deceptively, "Paraíso"-- Paradise.
The next day, we woke, bandaged our blisters, and hiked for another hour. Finally, we reached the 1200 stone steps leading to Ciudad Perdida. Panting in the early morning light, we arrived at a plateau encircled by several trees. I was struck by the city´s enormity, which had once been home to over 2000 Tayrona families. Hundreds of corridors wound deep within the jungle, each one leading to a clearing of stone foundations.
Finally we reached the main square, the city´s highest point. Against the vast, impossibly verdant backdrop of the Sierras, Carlos told us the fascinating story of Ciudad Perdida's discovery.
In the late 60s, an impoverished father and son from the neighboring town of Minca, scaled the mountains. Their purpose remains unclear; from Carlos's account, they were searching for land that was ripe for vegetation. other stories say that the two men were attempting to find ground to plant marijuana, while Lonely Planet suggests that the men were already practiced grave robbers, searching for buried treasure in the jungle. Whatever their purpose, they discovered the steps leading to the Ciudad Perdida. Tales of gold hidden deep within the mountain emboldened the two men to journey deeper into the overgrown brush. Aided only by machetes, they cut away at the dense jungle fauna for nearly three years, before they finally discovered a grave. They exhumed the tomb's contents and aside from a few skeletons, discovered heaps upon heaps of...gold.
In celebration of their riches, they returned to Santa Marta to display, with great indiscretion, the accumulation of their sudden wealth. Together, they drank the finest wine and bought the most beautiful prostitutes the town could offer (the beauty of the prostitutes was repeatedly emphasized by Carlos, who, with gleaming eyes, reiterated this fact several times).The locals, suspicious of the mens' sudden good fortune, questioned them about the origins of their wealth.The men let them in on the secret and struck an agreement: in exchange for their services clearing the ground they would receive a portion of the riches.
This arrangement lasted only a few months, when it was determined that the father was pilfering more than his fair share. His son, along with several other men, conspired to kill him, and he was machine gunned down one night in the very place he had discovered. After three years of searching for the buried treasure, he enjoyed his wealth for only three short months.
The project was then passed down to his son. The son too, was killed by the same men he had employed (it was then shyly related by Carlos that he had at one time worked for the son, which led to speculation among our group of Carlos's own involvement in the son's death) and the cycle of bloodshed continued through each subsequent successor. When the government intervened in 1976, the police force and military stepped in.
There is believed to be another city, not some 400 meters away, which has yet to be discovered.
It is rumored that the Wiwas alone know its exact location. However, despite the promise of unforetold riches, it is illegal to clear the jungle land which is regarded as sacred by the tribes.
Despite the trek´s ardour, it was by far one of the best things I've ever done while traveling and I´m eager to find another trek within the Amazon.
I could barely walk after I finished the trek, but I regained my strength while resting poolside at a hostel in Santa Marta. I figure I got my exercise in for a while.
Wow! Quite a journey!
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