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!