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Published: August 9th 2010
´Today we will explore old town......no today we actually will!´
There is only one word for the weather in Cartegena - ridiculous!! Even at 8am as we staggered off our nightbus we were met by a wall of heat and humidity. We were staying in Getsameni an area of rough and ready charm on the outskirts of the old city walls. The old town is stunning, full of colourful old building nestled up small, quiet alleyways, and encassed in the original thick walls, and surrounded by a huge fortress. Now it did take us over a week to actually wander the city walls, and entire old town, we did venture off many days, get as far as a streetside juice kiosk, before swearing that it was too hot for touristy activities and such weather should be spent by the pool. In the process we got to know an old man who made the most delicious cool fresh pineapple juice I have ever tasted, pretty well, he would recognise us as we were approaching the street and welcome us with open arms and a handshake. We spent our days in delightful hostel Media Luna lounging in the pool, trying to save
ourselves from the heat, while we could not complain after weeks of dampness and demanding of sunshine, it was seriuosly hot and sweaty weather. Cali did not mark the end of experiences with drunk drivers on public transport. The bus station in Cartegena is miles out of town, so following the guidelines of the, not so trusty, LP we decided to get what sounded like a pleasant experience for a bus, an executive bus airconditioned against the monstor humidity into town. Unfortunately the air-con was broken, we had an argument with the bus driver about baggage and seats, and even after being asked many times by Harry to tell us when we got to our chosen location, it seems our drunk driver forgot. We ended up god knows where, miles from our hostel, forced to clambour out of said bus and into a cab, swearing that why did our money saving attempts always go so very wrong!
We met up again with Rich and Jon our trusty friends from BA early in our trip who have been a part of this story along the way. Decided to take a day trip out to Islas de Rosario, a group of
islands that sit on a reef just outside of Cartegena. We had heard good things about a beach called Playa Grande and decided nothing could beat white sand, palms and crystal clear water. It certainly lived up to its name, it felt like we had arrived in heaven and we vowed to return a few days later and spend a good few days enjoying doing nothing but lazing in the sun and bathing in the warm water. On this occasion we had decided to take the slow tourist boat, filled to the brim with Colombians on holiday, and sunbathed on the front deck as we toured around the islands. Now families of Colombians are hilarious, literally like sheep in a hurry. As the boat was leaving there was a mad dash of arms flailing, children screaming, and people running like crazed people to get to the boat first. Needless to say we had a good half an hour before the boat actually departed.
Cartegena also marked the scene of a few rum filled crazy nights on the roof terrace of our hostel. Nights of dancing on the bar, downpours, ridiculous behaviour falling over, being picked up and thrown around,
drinking games.....you get the picture. In our infinite wisdom we embarked on one of these nights, the very morning before we had booked our bus further north along the coast to Taganga. We got inebriated as expected did not go to bed until bearly two hours before we then had to get up. I can 100% confirm that hangovers in humidity are an awful lot worse than their counterparts, add to that a bus journey and the following day was horrendous in the extreme!
´There´s a crab in my hammock!´
We went back to Playa Blanca on the island of Baru. this time we dodged the hefty tourist tax and fellow tourists and got the local bus through the sweltering and smelly market, out to the outskirts of cartegena, where we jumped off the bus and were met by a very charming local man who took it upon himself to show us the way to the boat taxi across to the island. I love it when we leave the tourist track, you always get such a much better picture of the place. Hilariously Colombians love love love to build a wall of massive speakers outside their
tiny one story shacks and blast the whole world with whatever music of their choice, invariably reggaeton or salsa. They then like to sit next to said speakers, how they dont blast their eardrums is a mystery to us all. But it certainly gives the place some atmosphere. Following our trusty guide we were lead to a small canoe effort of a boat, and paddled across the creek to Baru. At this point along the coast it is purely a small river or canal that seperates the two. After a small amount of haggling we were then planted onto the back of motortaxis and sped across the island for half an hour along dirt tracks, traversing huge puddles, and wallowing through mud, wizzing past villages where locals waved, starred or shouted at us. Harry and I mused post journey why it is we always think it is a good idea in South America to get onto the back of motorbikes and cling onto adolescent boy drivers, hatless and in shorts!
Following the advice of one of our trusty Aussie friends we walked along the beach until we found Mr Hugos, a place run predictably by a man of the
same name, who made sarah´s skin crawl most of our stay with his pervert, borderline sex pest behaviour. Either way Mr Hugos has a pretty good little set up of palm thatched huts where hammocks are slinged below more substancial accomodation above, in our budget means we took the hammocks complete with the necessary mosquito nets, for a mere 5,000 colombian pesos a night, thats under two pounds to you and me. And spent a few days eating freshly caught fish, drinking obscenely strong pina coladas, watching some beautiful sunsets and tanning ourselves. Our first night we had just settled down to sleep, I just dozed off when I felt something on my foot, I kicked it off and proceeded to fall back to sleep before feeling the sensation of something crawling up the side of my hammock, in a rushed daze a scrambled out of the hammock and netting waking harry in a panic in the darkness I had no idea what it was. Turning on my torch I noticed a massive crab, about the span of my hand, crawling around my hammock. Having failed to find anyone to help me, Harry and I proceeded to take the hammock
Lost city
indigenous chidrenapart while I in a pretty panicked state (we all know I don´t like creepy crawly things) squealed that I wasn´t getting back in until I was certain it had left. Thankfully my little crab friend left the building and calm was restored.
When it came to go home we managed to negotiate a reasonable price to get home on a speed boat, great, only it decided to have a tropical storm on the way back so we battered by big waves, strong winds and thoroughly soaked by the rain.
´Never listen to male advice´
In my quest for crazy adventures and challenges to fill my time out here, the lost city trek seemed an obvious choice. I had wanted to do it after first setting eyes on it in my guidebook long before I actually embarked on this trip. Unlike the Inca trail and others trails to Machu Picchu which are very popular, commercialised and completed by alot of people, the trek to the lost city is still a new venture, and undertaken by relatively few people. It requires a walk for five days through the sierra nevada jungle, slowly climbing up through
the humidity to the lost city for three days, and two walking back along the same trail, sleeping at night in hammocks strung up under a shelter open at the sides. The Sierra Nevada was a highly dangerous area until a few years ago, in 2003 a group of tourists were kidnapped by a guerilla group, commonly blamed on FARC. There is now a huge army presense and things appear to be under government control. Soldiers stationed at the lost city are stationed there for 3 months, poor buggers nothing to do, is commonly a punishment for misdemeanour though.
We heard shady stories, it was obviously the done ´thing´among guides to explain to the tourists that there were no guerillas that control was fully in the hands of the military. This does not at all explain why a few months before we embarked on the trail one of the guides from our company ´sierra tours´ was shot while walking a group to the lost city. Reasons for this were stated as the company had not paid off the correct people or the correct amount of money; the company itself was closing the week after we did the trail for
this reason. A fact completely and utterly unknown to us as at the time, before you think we like to dice with death intentionally on a regular occurance! Our knowledge of the company stemmed from years and years of reputation and running, plus the fact a group of lads we had met earlier in our trip had just returned from their lost city tour on our arrival in taganga and we were able to get a hefty discount.
Which leads me on to the main point of this section - never listen to male advice. We were told in no uncertain terms from more than one group of male friends that we really did not need to take towels, that they did the whole thing in boardies and singlets, spare clothes were unnecessary. So while we started the trek with the lightest bags in the group, we ended up totally screwed because it rains daily in the afternoon leaving us soaking wet with no towel to dry off, and munched to hell by mosquitoes because we didnt take any spare long trousers with us. Thanks guys! I now have legs peppered with ugly purple and red marks where monster mosquitoes
once were!
The lost city is the city of the Khogi Indians, a group of the Teyronas people who still inhabit the Sierra Nevada, farming cattle and pigs, growing small numbers of crops, and harvesting goods from the jungle itself. Along the trail we passed through a number of their villages, made up a circular huts made out of wood and reeds. On the trail itself we also passed them with their long hair for both sexes, white or cream sacking clothing, and assortments of animals and weaponry. In the camp of our second night we got to meet a stunning Indian woman and her beautiful children, they were friendly yet reserved, smiling meekly and while willing to pose for photos never made eye contact. Unfortunately our introduction to the indian population and the treatment recieved by Colombians was pretty horrific. We were in our jeep just turning off the main road at the start of the dirt track up into hills at the beginning of our trip when we noticed two indian men fighting in the road, our driver instantly jumped out to join the crowds (non-indian) who had gathered at the side of the road to laugh,
watch and film the fight on their mobiles. It was absolutely horrendous, and we endured the proceedings until one of the men starting smashing the others head against the hard tarmaced surface of the road while blood poured out of his mouth. Screaming at our driver that if they werent going to do something then were leaving, we finally departed our driver still highly amused by the whole proceedings, and legitimising their behaviour because they didnt speak indigenous languages.
The trek itself is very hard, a point completely underestimated by tour companies leaving you totally unprepared for the difficulties in store. If you dont really want to do it, dont. You will hate every minute of it guarranteed. It is tough, properly tough, the terrain is difficult to climb up or over, one minute you will be clambering up a vertical wall of mud, the next scrambling across green moss covered rocks, there is very little evidence of a proper built path, with the mules trudging daily from camp to camp even the simplest pathway soon becomes a sea of deep red mud. And once it starts the afternoon rains start all hell breaks loose, unfortunately for us
on our second day we were descending a slippery vertical wall of mud down the side of a mountain just as the heavens opened, forcing torrents of water down the mountainside, creating rivers in our path, and swathes of shoe stealing mud, river crossings that we were manageable by jumping across the rocks became swollen and had to be crossed waist deep while clinging onto a guide to avoid being swept away by the strong rapids. By the following morning calm was fullly restored and it was as though nothing had happened! Unfortunately for harry she got a sickness bug just before we left for the trail, the ridiculously high humidity, tough walk combined with the fact she wasnt able to eat forced her to leave the group at the beginning of the third day, despite our guide claiming that it was a lovely walk on the third day, just after we left camp we were climbing up the steepest ascent of the trail for an hour and a half almost of hands and knees because of the gradient, most of us felt lightheaded and warn out by the effort the climb required and the exhausting effects of the humidity,
harry would have passed out, to suggest she continue was a massive error in our guides opinion. I felt awful leaving her behind and continuing with the group without her, but it seemed pointless for the trek to be ruined for both of us so I continued on.
The morning after our first nights sleep we were met by a small man in wellington boots who came wandering into our camp asking us if we wanted to see a cocaine factory. We had been pre-warned that this would most likely be offered to us, so out of curiousity we followed him to see what it was all about. Just off the main trail we took a small path along the side of the hill that lead to a tiny clearing covered with tarpalling, under which sat barrels, tools, and buckets full of the necessary chemicals to make cocaine. Unfortunately we later discovered that our guide like to weave different stories depending on the group dynamic so half the things he told us I am now doubting. He claimed that he only make the paste, base, from which cocaine powder is then made, and that he made little money from
this, more from his other products such as coffee, and tours. I find this hard to believe. However, there is no doubting that cocaine production in this area has slowed, apparently up until 2006 the hills of the Sierra Nevada were peppered with farms growing the leaves, and basic laboratories creating the paste and cocaine powder. The arrival of the army slowed this he said. He did not seem as upset as expected over the loss of this trade, he claimed that life now that the guerillas and narco-traffickers had left was a great improvement on the previous situation. Apparently it is the guidelines and controls on the chemicals to turn coca leaves to cocaine that have become increasingly tight making the production of the paste increasingly difficult. Whatever the real situation of the cocaine production of this area it was interesting to see him make cocaine paste or base.
The third day signalled the start of the river crossings, taking off shoes and socks soon became boring and time consuming so we just waided through up to our waists in water our backpacks securely covered in plastic bin liners and pushed against the currents to the other side.
We soon became experts at this, on the fourth day, and day of our visit to the lost city, we crossed the river a whole 14 times. With the high humidity nothing, clothes, socks or shoes would dry so we got used to walking in soaking footwear, jokes about trenchfoot became increasingly less funny, and worryingly more of a reality.
The lost city itself was only discovered by outsiders in 1975 by two brothers involved in the drug production that dominated the Sierra Nevada at the time, it was not until 1976 that any government agencies were informed of its location, after the site had been thoroughly pillaged and all treasures stolen. The city comprises a series of terraces covering an entire mountain, only part of it is visable from above, most of it obscured from view by a vast jungle canopy. The lost city is awesome not for what you can see, but what you cant. Endless possibilities. Not even half the estimated city has been uncovered. When you look at it, it is amazing to think that so much of it is undiscovered, untouched, and waiting to be explored. The government has apparently reapproved funding recently for
more archealogical work to be undertaken in the coming years and it will be interesting to see what they discover.
The approach up to the lost city involves walking up a just under two thousand ´steps´. These are not really steps in the conventional sense, more just rocks lodged into the side of the steep slope; damp, moss covered and running with water in places. They were also designed for people with the smallest of feet, going up was difficult enough, coming back down nigh on impossible! It is no suprise that it took so long for the city to be found, the steps literally just rise out of the river bank, highly obscured by the jungle, there is no hint of what lies above. Once you reach the top of the stairs, you are met by a number of circular terrraces, the sunlight still highly obscured by the canopy of branches above. Walking up more steps you come to huge open lawned terraces, offering stunning panoramic views. Originally the terraces would have had dwellings on them made out of wood and other products from the jungle but these are long gone. The cities only inhabitants are mosquitoes the
size of the common fly!
The walk home was painful, my shoes decided that they don´t fit properly when soaking wet so attacked the back of my ankles, the steep descents also buggered my knees leaving me hobbling like an old lady. Linda, another member of the group, was also struggling with an infected blister so we spent the duration of the final days walking at snails pace behind the rest of the group. We made it though with very sore aching muscles, swollen ankles, and trashed feet - it felt like a pretty huge achievement to have made it back to the start of the trail. Unfortunately for us our ordeals were not over as our return transport to Taganga decided to break down numerous times on the mud road, and every time we went up a hill on the main road back to town, finally dying just outside Santa Marta forcing us to mundle into one of the local mini-van buses for the duration of the journey.
Along the way a few of us who had completed the Inca trail previously were debating which trail was harder - the unanimous conclusion was the lost city beats
the inca trail because the terrain is so hard, the humidity equally as challenging as the altitude, the path on the lost city however is non-existant making for a very tough trek mentally as well as physically. For me the Inca trail was obviously a lot harder than it would have otherwise been due to my sickness, and weakness after hospital.
That night we all decided to meet up before we went our seperate ways, and to meet each other as we looked ´ín the real world´ - not wearing trekking clothes, with greasy hair and covered in sweat. We were hardly recognisable! Somehow, I imagine powered by the delicious daiquiris made with Colombian rum and fresh mango, we mangaged to stay out dancing in an open air roof top club until the sun was coming up! Pretty impressive on post trek legs!
´Welcome to Eurocamp´
Taganga - pest central, dread walking around by ourselves. Even though we spent some considerable time here we did never quite sum up exactly what makes this place so popular - while a significant improvement on neighbouring Santa Marta, it is still just a small fishing village that has
Lost City Trek
Cooling off in a swimming hole been overtaken with Gringos, hippies and other general layabouts. With ´beach´comprising of rough sand and pebbles, that smells suspiciously of dog and human excrement. We had heard jokes that swimming in this water was like swimming in a human toilet. Needless to say we avoided it like the plague, preferring the marginally better, playa grande over the neighbouring headland. Taganga is also the destination for Israelis in Colombia, many shops and bars have everthing written in spanish and hebrew. I was informed by two Israelis on two seperate occasions that for guys just out of their army service in Israel it was all about local drugs and whores. Delightful. So I guess the reason we spent so long in Taganga was due to location more than anything else! Nearby is Tayrona national Park, a large area of jungle that sits along the coast, encompassing a number of beaches where it is possible to stay in hammocks or camping. Now we had heard numerous reports about this national park, half good and half unimpressed. Either way we decided that we would bear the brunt of the expense of going, as it would be a bit of a traversty to come this
far and not visit the beaches here. It was expensive, transport there in a battered old people carrier was pricey, as was the park entrance fee, it was also the price of a dorm bed to rent a hammock by the main beach Cabo San Juan. We decided that anything that requires a hefty hour and half walk through jungle and along the coast must reward us with beauty and seclusion, we were wrong! We arrived....and it was like a basic version of eurocamp. We spent the night squashed under a long shed in our hammocks, sleeping touching the person next to each other. It was not what we expected at all. The beach was very pretty, lined with palm trees backed by luminous green covered mountains. I don´t want to seem ungrateful, it just didnt quite live up to expectations after our previous beachy experiences; but only a minor blip on the fabulous Colombian experience.
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Peter
non-member comment
Wow
All your adventures make our holidays sound terribly boring - in fact I should imagine your stay with us must have been a low light of your global trek. Always wanted to go to S America and whilst I still may I am sure that I will not do the things you are doing so it is great to read about them. Keep well. ciao Peter