Where, oh where, has my brain gone??

Coming up to seven months travel now and I have to say that my brain is definitely gone on holidays, and may never return. Last night, Slurry and I were asked a public international law question; we looked quizzically at each other. All we could remember was that we did something on the topic in class, but we struggled to remember exactly what it was and what the answer would be, both of us saying the total opposite. Hmmm. 

Unfortunately for us, brains on holidays does not only mean I have no idea what I learnt over the past three years at uni, it also means I say yes to things without thinking them through - like deciding it would be a good idea to climb the Santa Maria volcano located just outside of Xela, promised spectacular views of the countryside and surrounding active volcanoes. Remarks that the climb was extremely ‘rough’ and ‘difficult’ went in one ear and out the other.

Waking at 0410, we were shuttled to the base of the extinct giant where we set off in the icy cold winds for an assent of about 7.5kms – about 3.5 hours of walking…up… 2 more for coming back down – 15kms in total, to 3700 metres.

The first half of the climb was enjoyable – the path winding along the edges of farmers properties where cattle grazed and ‘lion’s mane’ grew. With the incline not so steep, slippery, or rocky as it was going to become you could easily take in the scenery as you powered along, the view getting better and better the higher we climbed.

Still smiling. Just.

However, once we were told we’d hit the 2 hours to go (on the up part) you could hear our spirits break. No longer enthralled by the view, our eyes now concentrating on the narrow and increasingly slippery path that was cut into the volcano, we struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Our legs ached and though occasional patches of bright purple, lavender like flowers lifted our spirits, the fact that all we could see above us was more volcano and clouds flying in at the rate of knots, not a smidgen of blue sky, made it hard to keep going.

      

We were determined to make it to the top though – which I’m proud to report that we did. However, by the time we got there all we could see was a curtain of white. We huddled besides big boulders to get out of the cold and nibbled on marshmallows to pass time, hoping that for a brief instant the clouds would part so we could see Santiaguito (rated one of the top 10 most dangerous volcanoes in the world) puffing ash into the air and Xela in the distance. Alas, half an hour passed and we still couldn’t see anything. Disheartened, we started our descent, our knees buckling underneath us from the strain of climbing totally unprepared fitness wise.

The clouds rolling in as we made our way to the top

Disappointing as it was not to see anything, I’m glad we made it all the way to the top. We’ve been told that many people turn back because it’s such a task. We learnt later that you can leave your hostel at midnight so that you’re at the top for the sunrise which would have been spectacular – not that I’m volunteering to go up that Volcano again in my lifetime.

What the view should have been:

Guatemala & ‘chicken bus’ delight/fright

 

It was not without much umming and ahhing that we headed to Guatemala. We’d heard from many travellers that it was their favourite Central American country, but recent events - erupting volcanoes and tropical storm Agatha – caused us to question how dumb we would be to go. We googled our little fingers off to find out what the conditions were like, but we didn’t find much. The Australian Department of Foreign affairs said absolutely nothing. The US in comparison that had flashing warnings all over their webpage. What to do!?!? We toyed briefly with the idea of going to Nicaragua instead, but having so little first hand  information we decided the best thing to do was to judge the situation when we got there, and we haven’t regretted it one bit - Guatemala is a spectacularly beautiful country. Chicken bussing it through the countryside we’ve seen amazing things – at points we’ve thought the scenery resembled Ireland, Canada and Switzerland (though Claire would disagree with me on the last one). Mountain ranges are luscious; lakes are emerald green; and quaint little villages with Mayan men wearing the traditional red and white stripped pants cling to the hills.

                              

Our two night bus bender through Central America landed us in Guatemala City, Guatemala’s capital - apparently not the safest place on the planet so we jumped on the first ‘chicken bus’ of our adventure and headed straight to Antigua. We heard a story later on from a guy that witnessed a woman being shot at city’s bus terminal. Everyone around her just continued on their merry way, not caring in the slightest. Must be a usual occurrence - scary! Other stories, including that bus divers there get shot everyday by gang members wanting the bus fare collection make me very glad we gave it a miss.

Chicken buses are a Guatemalan experience in themselves. The rickety old American school buses are used around the country as mass 2nd class transport. You can catch them to pretty much anywhere, though quite often you’ll find yourself having to change 3 or 4 times to make a several hour journey.

The funniest bit, asides from the way the drivers have pimped up their vehicles – from TV’s, car stickers, bright colours, and the disco lights – are the number of people that pile onto them. I didn’t think too hard into the name when I first heard it, but once you’ve seen 8 people squashed across 2 seats made for a maximum of 4 you get the idea. How do they do it? They cram 3 people onto a small bench seat and then there are another two passengers that look like their sitting on a seat but are in fact are suspended mid air because they have wedged themselves between the hips of passengers seated either side and are thus held dangling in the aisle in a sitting position. Luckily for us, we got to experience the ‘suspended mid air’ bus seat when we found ourselves whisked onto a full bus by a driver keen to get some gringo dollars (they often overcharge gringos exorbitantly, so we’ve taken to asking the locals how much to avoid gringo inflated prices). It was surprisingly quite a bit more comfortable – instead of being thrown from one side of the bus to the other as the bus corners at 100km an hour, even though you grip the handlebars with all your might and lock your elbows, your totally wedged, so you don’t move an inch. Genius really. And, if you’re really lucky, you won’t be seated underneath a casket of squawking chickens, or Houdini cats that escape from their boxes, and you’ll get a driver with half decent taste in music – pumping out N-trance and Madonna as you cruise down the highway.

Our poor backpacks are getting a run for their money though – they ride the whole time - wind, rain or hail - on the roof. I can’t complain. They take your bag off your hands as soon as they know where you’re off to - the ‘co-pilot’ yanking your 25kg bag off your back and running it up the back of the bus, balanced on the back of his neck, to strap it to the roof. Those few minutes not having to lug my pack somewhere are bliss. One guy managed to carry both our packs up the 3m or so to the top at the same time – one on his back, the other on the back of his neck. They have to weigh at least 45kg together. Once you’ve arrived at your destination, like atom bombs, your bags are dropped from the sky, and come smashing to the ground unless your strong enough to catch them – which we’re not. As a result, our packs are a little worse for wear with broken buckles, zippers and the like.

Anyhoo, we decided that Antigua was a much better option and was only a short chicken bus ride away from Guatemala City. Entranced by the beauty and relaxed nature of the town, we spent 4 days in the old capital recouping from being glued to a bus from Panama. We perused the brightly coloured colonial buildings; explored the ruins of earthquake damaged churches and their gardens; and did a lot of what we do best – eating – as we watched Australia get thrashed by Germany in a pub full of German supporters.

Much to my utmost disappointment, we couldn’t do the thing I’ve been looking forward to since hearing Cliff talk about it back when we were on the salt flats in Bolivia – climb the Pacaya Volcano and roast marshmallows on the lava at the top. Two weeks before we arrived, it erupted. Though companies were offering tours to rivers of lava that were flowing through properties at the base of the volcano, we thought it would be incredibly dumb to go. Not only had a journalist, a tourist and her guide had already been killed, the volcano was still unstable and it was being predicted that it would erupt again. Oh well, onto bigger and better things.

         

So after much needed R&R we left Antigua and scooted off to Lake Atitlan – one of the places worst hit by Agatha. The destruction was still evident. Landslides destroyed bridges and left roads virtually impassable, though chicken bus drivers continue to drive at manic speeds like they are invincible. I think they enjoy the new obstacles.

In Lake Atitlan, we based ourselves in Panajachel - not the most inspiring of places, though the view from the pontoon across the lake is superb. Once you had walked down the main street, full of vendors and their stalls with the usual Guatemalan souvenirs there was nothing much else to see. We did find an ENGLISH bookshop – woo hoo – which we went a little nuts in. We’re now carrying around 4 books to read which we will not get through fast cause there is no way you can read on a chicken bus.

  

With little else to keep us entertained in Panajachel, and with the lovehandles over our jeans ever so slowly increasing, we kick started our fitness regime that had until this point consisted only of chewing, with a bit of interval training. The locals obviously thought we were a bit nuts in our matching bootcamp shirts and exercise gear and gave us weird looks as we jogged through the main streets, dodging tuk-tuks driven by 10 year olds. Exercise has not been a big thing in any country we’ve visited so far – you feel very self conscious, even more so at this point because we have absolutely no fitness. It might not be the attire that makes them stare, it may be that they’re concerned we’re going to drop dead. The amount we puff and pant as we make our way along the street would be enough to make anyone worried, especially considering that the road was absolutely flat.

After exhausting the to do’s of Panajachel, including a day trip to the Chichi markets (same old same old), we boated it across the lake to San Pedro (a rip off at Q25, about $3.50, for the trip per gringo with locals paying no more than Q5) – a dirt path maze of restaurants, Spanish schools, and yoga centres. With yoga definitely not my thing we gave it a miss and headed straight for the restaurants. After about a half hour of wandering, we finally found Cafe La Puerta, down on the ‘playa’. It is not a beach really – or maybe it was – but Agatha has left the lake littered with debris so we didn’t see any beach. It was absolutely gorgeous though, sitting at a table on the waters edge. The food was even better than the view – a delicious Greek Salad with to die for feta and a hamburger, made with homemade bread. Delicious! We loved the food so much that we went to ‘Ventana Blue’ that night for dinner – a new addition to the restaurant scene in San Pedro run by the same guy. Sitting in a tiny deep blue room with only 5 tables we devoured a fabulous curry and pad thai (the closest we’ve had to the real thing – and by real I’m talking Stanley Street standards) followed by a huge piece of chocolate mud cake and icecream. Yum, yum, yum. On all the tables were beautiful mosaic lamps, that glowed different colours – blues, green, pink. I loved them so much I bought one, and am now lugging the thing around with me until I can find some way to ship it home – so worth it though.

    Always love a good moo-moo.

After a night in San Pedro we ventured across the bay to San Marcos. Apparently the prettiest of the towns found around the lake, San Marcos clings to the hill from the dock for a kilometre. After a quick wander around, in which we witnessed more destruction caused by the storm, we wandered back down to the lakeside and had lunch at Cafe Moon Fish. You’re thinking ‘random name’ I bet, but once you learn that San Marcos is also the home of month long ‘moon courses’ and other holistic hippie things, it makes a lot more sense. We didn’t hang around long.

Some of the destruction around Panajachel.

Sunning it up in San Blas

Sniff! I cannot believe how quickly time flies and that we’ve left the amazing continent of South America already - We flew out of Colombia and up to Panama a few days into June. From the ‘white city’ of Sucre, to the beaches of Uruguay and the people of Colombia, I LOVE THIS CONTINENT! Oh well, got to keep moving north or there will be no hope of getting to Europe.

Getting out of Colombia was not without some fun. We waited and waited to be allowed through security to get to our gate. All we were told was that it wasn’t open yet. We thought that was a bit weird, but we just figured it was another odd South American thing – we filled our time wandering the tiny duty free shops of Cartagena airport. When we finally got past the security guard at the door, we were greeted by the usual metal detector and bag x-ray. Nothing out of the ordinary at this stage. However, because of all those nasties leaving Colombia tucked inside drug mules, they have uped security to the extreme: our hand luggage was then physically checked, we were frisked, and then sent upstairs for full body x-ray and finger printing. Intense! It was fun seeing everyone’s x-rays on the screen though. I was tempted to ask for a copy of mine, haha. To top it off an evening of searches, they thought Claire’s big pack had ethanol in it. They proceeded to empty the entire contents of her pack in front of us as we stood there wondering if we would ever get everything back in and manage to close it again. No ethanol though. We figure it must have been her perfume.

We finally made it to Panama, though we doubted we ever would – having to make the two hour trip in a tiny little propeller plane. Getting to our hostel wasn’t the safest I’d ever felt either. Our cab driver, though ‘official,’ was dodgy. The fact that the police take your details and where you’re going as you leave the airport does not make you feel any more comfortable. The problem with cabs begins though with the fact that there are no metres in cabs over here. You have to negotiate with the driver how  much the trip is going to cost before you get in the car. For some reason, they reckon they can charge you more the more people in the taxi. They also think they can charge a foreigner 200% of the normal fare. When you arrive in a new country at midnight after a long day of travel, the last thing you want to do is bargain with these idiots. Though I do feel sorry for people who have to work so hard for every last dollar, the way they try to milk you gets on my nerves. Your white face makes them think dollar signs. I wish they were right. I keep telling them that if I had money my backpack would be a huge suitcase with wheels. Our cab driver in Panama was a particular breed of tool. He tried every trick in the book to make us pay more for our cab – including trying to tell us that there was a ‘high road’ that is faster and safer to drive into town that costs $3 and then a ‘low road’ that is dangerous and will take heaps longer, however we would have to pay extra to take the ‘high road’ – this was after we’d already decided on the price, a rip off US$28. He got so annoyed when we said we wanted to take the low road – clearly frustrated that his little trick didn’t work. He took the high road anyway, paying for it himself. I bet there is no low road. He managed to squeeze an extra few dollars out of us anyway however when our hostel stuffed up our booking and didn’t have space for us. Though he was driving to the other hostel we chose anyway because we were sharing the cab with a couple of Dutch girls and that was where they were staying, he decided it would cost us a few dollars extra to go there. Argh, they really rub me the wrong way.

Anyway, back to the trip - Having majorly overstayed in South America, we made an executive decision to jump straight up to Guatemala from Panama. Unfortunately, the cheapest way to get across the 4 countries or so in between is a 50 hour bus ride, spread out over 3 days. In preparation for bus hell, and to remind ourselves that there are beautiful and peaceful beaches out there in the world, unlike Playa Blanca, we thought we would spoil ourselves and head to the San Blas Islands.

The San Blas Islands, about 365 in total, are just off the coast of Panama. Except for the odd tribal family (the Kuna Yala people) that live on some of the Islands, the majority of them are deserted – that is my kind of beach! The Spanish didn’t think the islands were worth conquering, so the Kuna Yala have lived there totally removed from the modern world for generations; except for the modern flushing toilets that you now find hidden in discrete corners of the islands and the plastic garbage that is strewn all over the waters edge of the main islands of Carti. Unfortunately, the Kuna people, who for generations have thrown their biodegradable waste into the sea, haven’t changed their ways since the introduction of plastic and the like into their daily lives. The result – a waterline of garbage around the islands of Carti. Luckily, just an hour from Carti, the water is pristine.

To get to the islands we had a two hour roller coaster of a car ride through the Panama jungle. We didn’t get off to the best start – we were supposed to be ready to go by 5 am. We were abruptly woken at 5.21am by the driver with ‘you’re late.’ Whoops. I must have rolled on my phone and turned off the alarm in my sleep. Our sleep-in worked out in our favour in the end - the cars not departing for another 15 minutes or so. So, while we were snoring, everyone else was standing around on the street waiting for the vehicles. We even got time to run to the fridge and grab our left over pizza to munch along the way, much to the disgust of one American guy who wouldn’t quit telling us how much he disliked eating cold pizza. Luckily for him we weren’t going to offer him any anyway. The car bit took so long. What felt like every 5 minutes or so we had a ‘coffee break’ or some other kind of ‘break.’ What we were told would be a couple of hours ended up taking more like four. The worst part was hanging around at the supermarket where we stopped to pick up last minute supplies. We also had to pay for our transportation here. It was seriously dodgy. We were all shooed into the ‘office’ of Lam Brother’s Transportation. This ‘office’ was above the supermarket, through the carpark and into a room that contained only a lady and a desk. Oh well, we made it back in one piece.

Eventually everyone was done with their supermarket shopping and we were back on our way. We drove through rivers, up and down mountainous terrain, round hairpin bends - the road and the crappy driving leaving many people very car sick. We then swapped our car for a hollowed out tree canoe, powered by a tiny outboard motor. Though we putted along no faster than I imagine a sea cow would swim, spray and waves came crashing over the front of our canoe leaving a crust of salt all over us as we dried in the hot sun. The trip, supposedly one hour to the island, ended up taking at least two. They really have trouble here with time – probably stemming from the fact that no one here wears a watch. When we arrived at ‘Diablo Island’ we were greeted by, well, no one. Metres away, the abuela (grandmother) of the family dressed in her traditional attire of a colourful and arms and legs strangled from joint to joint in beaded bangles,  watched us curiously from inside her cabana. We were escorted to our cabana, complete with inflatable mattresses and left to our own devices, though a family of nine lived not 10 metres away. You actually feel a bit intrusive – it’s like wandering around in someone’s home and they keep very much to themselves which makes it all the more awkward. Especially when they call you for the breakfast, lunch or dinner that they have prepared for you and you come to the table to find your food just sitting there with no one to thank for it.

Which brings me to another point – All they eat is FISH! Those of you who know me well enough will know that I don’t eat seafood. Not prawns, not lobster, not tuna. Never have, but I won’t go as far as saying I never will. To avoid absolute starvation for the 2 nights we were there and to avoid being rude, I had no choice but to munch away at the fish, head and all, lying on the plate in front of me. At first, I couldn’t really stomach it. I picked away at it rather grotesquely. But, by the third straight meal of fish and rice, it suddenly began to taste more like chicken. In fact, much to Claire’s shock and my own, I even said that I was ‘enjoying it.’ I never thought that would happen! Though I still wouldn’t order it in a restaurant anytime soon, I am getting used to fishy flavours. Gross – still don’t think I’d like anything that was too fishy though.

San Blas is so peaceful and so beautiful – somewhere I would definitely recommend, especially if you have your own yacht to cruise around and explore untouched islands with. Palm trees full of coconuts blanket the islands; the sand is immaculately white; the water is so transparent, so crystal clear, that I could see my feet and red toenails though I was wading in water chin deep. It is spectacular. The only problem, if I had to say something is the glare. Even with sunglasses, you squint so hard all day that I know I came back with extra eye wrinkles.

With absolutely nothing to do besides lie on the beach, swim and read that is all we did for 2 days.  We also ventured to ‘Isla Perro’, ie. ‘Dog Island’ (I have no idea why it is called that, there are no dogs there and it is not shaped like a dog in the slightest) which was just two minutes away. ‘John’ from the family said he would paddle us over in his canoe. We were lucky to get there.  His ‘canoe’ was a much smaller version of the hollowed out tree motorised canoe we’d taken earlier – though this was was only two metre long. The thing weighed a ton, and took three of us to pull it into the water. It also took a lot of concentrating on sitting still so that we didn’t flip it - with every stroke the canoe tipped violently to the other side, water lapping over the lip. Camera in hand, we were very worried we weren’t going to make it. To make matters worse, the poor guy sounded like he was going to suffer a stroke at the amount he was puffing from paddling. We must have been really heavy – he brought reinforcements to help paddle us back…

Why did we head to Perro Island? Just 10 metres or so from shore there is a shipwreck. We swam out to it and clambered all over it, trying not to fall in any of the rusty holes where giant, brilliantly coloured fish were lurking in the dark. We were having a wonderful time until someone who turned out to be a nobody thought he would play ‘shipwreck police’ and tell us to get off, though we’d seen heaps of people doing exactly the same thing days before. Not that we would have had much longer to explore. Just minutes later the sky turned black, and a huge storm blew in – we are in hurricane season after all. We were forced to retreat to our cabana to continue our lounging around. After dark, a spectacular lighting show lit up the horizon. I was so glad we weren’t in hammocks under a tree somewhere.

Two days of bliss!           

The colours of Cartagena and MUD!

From Taganga, we headed off to our last stop in Colombia – Cartagena. SAD!!!!

The ‘old town’ of Cartagena has to be one of the most beautiful colonial towns I have been to. It is a world of colour - buildings are electric blue, orange, and pink; purple bougainvilleas cling to windows and doors;  local women meander through the streets balancing baskets of mangoes on their heads wearing long skirts, blouses and head scarfs of deep red and orange. It is a spectacular site. We spent hours getting lost in the old town, with many a drink break along the way (any excuse to escape from the stinking heat and get into some air-conditioning). From mango smoothies and iced-chocolates, fresh watermelon and crispy pastries, we sampled the best Cartagena had to offer, complete with an obligatory drink at Cafe del Mar (though I have to admit that I’d never heard of it…) perched on big red cushions, looking out over the wall to the boats on the horizon.

Walking on the wall that surrounds the old town.

From Cartagena, we ventured through the Islas de Rosario, with a quick stop at an Aquarium to watch a dolphin and catfish (?!) show, to Playa Blanca on a ‘disco boat.’ Seriously. The steward thought he would double as a DJ. He’d make an announcement, pause, pump a bit of reggeaton as he tried to rap, then turn the volume down and keep chatting about the islands – much to the enjoyment of the locals who sang and clapped the entire several hours to the Islands. Us gringos were not impressed. We were well and truly keen to escape the boat when it finally pulled up at the beach some hour later than the journey was supposed to take, we didn’t care that it was raining - we wanted out!

Actually, I am starting to sense a pattern with wanna-be DJ’s here in South America. There was also one in the bread isle of the local supermarket, all set up with his trillion CDs of songs trying his best to rap about bread. Hmmm.

 
Playa Blanca

The water at Playa Blanca is beautiful - so transparent, so clean and so warm. I wish that I could say the same for the beach. Though the sand is a brilliant white, the rest of the beach is spoiled. It is smothered in little huts and their vendors who nag and pester you until the sun goes down and the mosquitoes come out. You cannot even sit on the sand and read your book. You are surrounded every second by people who literally pull at your every limb to sell you a massage, ugly piece of jewellery, rent you a snorkel or give you a jet ski ride. What is worse is that they don’t take no for an answer – our polite reply of “no gracias” was soon much more curt, accompanied by fierce looks of “get lost.” Poor Claire mistakenly said “maybe later” to a ‘masseuse.’ In English we all know that that means no. To Marie the masseuse, this translated to – I will follow you down the beach and sit on the sand where you’re swimming and wait for you to get out at which point I will harass you again. We stayed in the water for at least an hour in the hope that Marie would give up. Instead, she got reinforcements. By the time we got out, there were 5 masseuses sitting on the sand, waiting to harass us. In the end, we succumb to the greasy massage they were offering – and I’m sure got extremely ripped off in the process.

Luckily, we’d decided to spend the night there so when the beach finally cleared out of tourists and pesky sales people, we finally got some peace and quiet. We sat on an old washed up log and watched the brilliant pink sunset. Unfortunately our peace didn’t last long. Mosquitoes were out full force that night. By morning, I was one walking big red itchy lump.

Sunset on Playa Blanca

 

Having enough sun, sand and mosquitoes to last us a while we traded it in for MUD!
A couple of hours by bus from Cartagena sits a weird, yet amusing freak of nature - a 20m ‘volcano’ that spits out mud. Atop, in a makeshift pool you float around in it. Well, you don’t really have any other option than to float because for some bizarre reason you cannot go entirely under, no matter how hard you throw your hands above your head, though supposedly the pool is over 2 kms deep. It’s not a very nice feeling paddling your heart out and getting absolutely nowhere. You are forced to pretend to fly like superman along the top of the mud, aided by someone pushing you along by your feet, to get anywhere. Not that there is anywhere to go – the pool quickly filled up leaving you with not only an inch to move.

 

Trying to push Slurry under

Though you couldn’t go under, we all soon looked like monsters from the deep. We had mud everywhere - mud in our ears, eyes, and hair. We were still finding traces of it days later even though we’d been thoroughly washed down by the scary washer women waiting for us in the river below who left us all in our birthday suits when they stripped us of our swimmers without warning to get mud out of them.

Monsters from the deep

Getting Lost in the ‘Lost City’

For 4 nights and 5 days we sweated, stunk and swore the 45kms to the Lost City of Sierra National Park, Colombia. Seriously, I have never been so utterly disgusted at the stench emanating from my body in my life before. You sweat like you would not believe – you look like you’ve just been in a shower fully clothed - but the scenery once you arrive is something magical and is well worth several days of stench.

Bra sweat marks…. attractive…

After my quick ‘lesson’ on the Lost City from the local beach sleeping, t-shirt making and bracelet selling nomad who yells “thanks for visiting Colombia” as you walk past – he joined me as I sat on my lonesome at a cafe waiting for Claire to return with our mango smoothies (Claire was in the background, chuckling at my situation) - I felt more knowledgeable and prepared, though sceptical of the story I was told, for the Lost City. In his spluttering English, two inches from my face, he told me that the whole thing is about frogs, amongst a lot of other gibberish I couldn’t grasp. So we weren’t told anything about frogs on the tour, but there was a lonesome frog shaped rock. Maybe that is what he was talking about. Though slightly overbearing, you couldn’t fault him - his passion and enthusiasm for Colombia obviously ran very deep, and though only 5 weeks travel here I can relate. I won’t be making any t-shirts with Colombia sprawled all over them any time soon though.

The torturous heat and sweating began even before we’d started walking when the 14 of us left Taganga packed into 2 old Landcrusiers with crappy air-con to drive the 2 hours up to the start of the climb. Even with all windows down and the back hatch of the car open, sweat rolled down everyone’s face - Ross’ in particular, who was suffering from a serious bout of food poisoning. The poor guy had been up since 6 am after deciding to test his stomach strength the night before with a street stall hamburger. He gradually got greener and greener as the car rolled on and cried ‘YESSSSSSS’ as soon as we were asked if anyone wanted a pit stop.

At this stage (besides Ross who was grimacing), we were all smiles. None of us really knew what we were in for – some of us, less than others – the two Brits thought an old pair of converse and a pair of Puma’s would do. They soon knew differently, and our smiles turned to looked more like Ross’s ‘I’m in serious pain’ car face.

After a quick lunch the walking began. I now feel really stupid for my ‘a hill already comment’ several minutes in. Not only was this ‘hill’ more of a mound, I had no idea that in in half an hour I would be struggling up the steepest hill of my life, and surfing down it on the way home after torrential rain left a river streaming in our path.

The trek is bloody hard – step is not even the right word for the hills you have to climb and long is not strong enough for the length of them. Some of them felt vertical, and most of the climbs lasted hours. Though you’re enticed up the hill with offerings of fresh watermelon, mangoes straight from the tree, the odd chocolate bar, and the knowledge that at some point the up will change to a down, nothing but mental determination (and a very good pair of shoes) will get you there. Then, there are the river crossings, about 20 in total – some as deep as your thigh, or if you’re a stoned Israeli, your neck, because you wade the wrong way because you are hysterically laughing and then get swept away in the current. Having picked the brains of Katherine and Julian who’d done the trek a couple of weeks before, we came prepared for river crossings with silly little surf shoes we’d bought for $7 off a random on the street. We coped therefore a lot better than others, who struggled to cross barefoot, while our guide Miguel, even though fully laden with all our bags, cameras and water bottles, crossed, to our embarrassment, with ease. More embarrassing for some was Marjory, Miguel’s cousin, helping them across the river. As skinny as a rake, the 15 year old somehow managed not to be swept away by the current as she guided us across the river. At one point, her hand was being nervously gripped by the 40 year old French guy on our tour as she led him across the river, him stumbling and struggling along beside her the whole way as she glided across with without a hitch.

The heat had to be worse than the hills, and we were quite lucky with the weather, having several overcast and therefore much cooler days. It made everyone a little delirious loosing litres and litres of sweat though we pumped our bodies full of water and the occasional Gatorade along the way. Even the pack horses and donkeys went a bit stir crazy. One little donkey in particular– whom we nicknamed ‘the little donkey that could’ lost it completely. From no where came a rattling behind us. We turned around just in time to jump off the path and out of the way of the lonesome animal strapped to the heavens and as wide as two horses with cargo. He trotted past us and off down the hill, letting the weight of his cargo pull him down the hill so fast (with the light bulbs that were bagged on his back coming loose and smashing everywhere) that you thought his little legs would buckle out from underneath him.

Luckily for me, I had not packed as much as the ‘little donkey that could’ because the weight of my Machu Picchu pack was still on my mind. No, rather I decided to be stingy with fresh clothes. Mistake. With 100% humidity, your sweat and rain drenched clothes remain just that. They don’t dry, not even a smidgen. In fact, over night they seem to get wetter. So, back on go the stinky, damp clothes and filthy and even more repulsively smelling socks the next morning. In the end, my shoes were so stinky that I gave up removing them before wading through knee high river crossings. Though probably not a good idea to trudge for hours in wet socks and shoes, it was a welcome relief both from the heat and from the stupid slippery little river crossing shoes we had brought with us which left Claire with a twisted knee after doing the splits on a mossy rock.

Hammocks for a good night sleep (for those who didn’t find themselves sharing with fleas….)

At least everyone is as stinky as the next person. Unfortunately, the miasma that clung to us and wafted around us like, well like a bad smell, for 5 days did nothing to deter the swarms of mosquitoes that inhabit the Lost City from savaging us.

After climbing the 1300 or so steps up to the Lost City, we were greeted by two armies. One – the military, stationed there since a tourist was abducted from the site in 2003, and the other, a brigade of mosquitoes that attacked you like fat kid does cake. They got to my legs, my arms, even my bum through my leggings. Bastards.

Though I whinge, the blood (I had a spill down the Lost City steps), sweat (3 t-shits drenched) and tears (well, there were no tears it was all laughs) were well worth it. You reach the last steps of the climb and the trees clear; all you can see is a maze of paths that wander off in hundreds of directions around you. Spaning over 4ha of land, what remains of the site that was built in 800AD, 650 years before Machu Picchu, is enticing. Green moss, and thick vines  cover everything in a thick blanket, though it has been cleared just enough for you to see the structures that remain. Though some say that the walk is the experience, which it definitely was -  the untouched paradise that is the Lost City tops Machu Picchu.  The fact that Indigenous people from the area still come to the site regularly, and live here, unaffected by modern society even though tourists have trudged passed their doors for at least 15 years amazes me.

The way out was just as eventful – the sky opened up, leaving us drenched (though now smelling a tad better after a bit of shower). Though glad about the refreshing shower, the rain made it impossible to descend the hills we’d climbed the days before.  Makeshift walking poles in hand, we navigated the mud path that was now a waterslide. The image of Claire and Ross coming crashing to the ground as their old Nikes and Converse, that were no better than ice-skates after all the rain, lost their grip is an image I will never forget. Desperately trying to grasp at anything (including our guide Miguel and thorn covered vines) to stop themselves falling, once down and red bummed, it was an impossible struggle to get back up - every attempt made harder by stiches of laughter everyone was in.

The return car trip to Taganga was an experience in itself. We were forced to hang around camp for our Landcruiser that was mysteriously delayed for several hours. We soon found out why – our Landcruiser was falling apart. Not only did the back seats fall off the wall mid trip, leaving one Israeli hanging onto anything for dear life as we bumped and wound our way down the mountain, the driver also forgot to fill it with petrol. The car choked and coughed the whole way, making some horrendous grinding metals sounds as well. If there was a hill, there were problems. After getting the spanner out and having a couple of bashes at I’m sure nothing in particular on the engine, we would get a big run up, hold our breath and cross our fingers and toes in the hope that we would make it up the hill. Add a bit of slippery mud, tyre slippage, a very narrow road that clung to the cliff face and a driver that was more keen on drinking his Coke than holding the wheel and you have one scary down hill adventure. But, we made it, and our now safely back in Taganga.

Cartagena next!