Dodgy Venezuela and the Lost City

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Good morning blog readers! Yes I know it's Monday morning about 8:30 for you guys, but honestly we do forget what day it is and it is purely a coincidence that we post our blogs on Sunday, honest. Well, perhaps not this one!!! This blog takes us from Venezuela, which we didn't like, to Santa Marta and the Lost City in Colombia, which was excellent. Hope you enjoy the trip!

As usual, immigration at airports takes quite some time and our bags had seen a few laps of the conveyor by the time we arrived. We were soon approached by “changey money” vendors, which is not surprising and is unfortunately a must in Venezuela. Johnny became an immediate “friend” (or so he thought) and led us through the airport to the tourist information booth where a very nice man plied us with all the information we required. He also vouched for our Johnny if we needed to change money and get a taxi. Undertaking a very salubrious encounter we handed over our American dollars for Venezuelan roubles (bolivars actually). The official exchange rate is 2.2 to 1, but the black market offers 5:1, which is just as well as the taxi to town is 150,000 bolivars ($70 or $35 depending on where you get your money). It soon becomes apparent in Caracas that the money situation is not good. All the hotels have increased their rates to reflect the black market exchange rate and our crap hole was US$107 or 230,000 bolivars per night. We have stayed in better hostels. The attitude is that tourists are not really that welcome and are only good for changing money. Caracas has a bad reputation so we quickly decided to get a bus to Puerto Columbia, a nice seaside town as described by our guide book. First priority was to change some money as the US$120 changed at the airport had all but gone. A friendly guide sitting in the hotel helped us out as she knew an importer who needed US$. At a local café the deal was to be done. The guide suggested we have breakfast and I agreed that once we had some money we could. She requested that we order something so it didn’t look so obvious. Well along came Sanchez (well he could have been) and we changed up our last US$400 into roubles (sorry bolivars). This equated to 200,000 bolivars which he provided in 10,000 bolivar notes. I have never had such a stack of money - it made me feel like a pimp.

Puerto Columbia is an hour and a half from the town of Marakay and the only transport is the bus ride from hell that took us over the mountains to the coast. The buses are reminiscent of the old American school buses from the movies, but are painted extrovertly and normally have very large sound systems. We couldn’t work out why the lower two-thirds of the windows were blacked out though. We bounced along to some Latin salsa music with the bass reverberating throughout the bus as the driver flung the bus at blind corners with wild abandon. The only saviour was the horn to let anyone stupid enough coming the other way know that they were about to be hit by a bus. This worked fine until we met a fuel tanker…. thankfully our driver yielded to this high octane situation. The only thing missing was chickens. Probably the blackened windows were to save on the clean up of the seats after each ride - what you can’t see doesn’t scare the crap out of you.

Contrary to our guide book, Puerto Columbia was an average place and not worth placing your life in the hands of maniac bus drivers. After a day at the coast, lazing on what could have been a beautiful Caribbean beach, marred only by rubbish, hawkers and a lack of sunshine (just as well as I was a lobster that evening), we set foot upon another early morning bus back to Marakay. Our next destination was Coro, which requires a change of bus in Valencia, which appears to be called San Diego now. Coro was a little cheaper, but probably due to everything being closed. We were in what was described as the central part of town with an abundance of restaurants. Well, not any more, we were lucky to find a deli open that sold some food. It was an easy decision to get the first bus outta there in the morning. Our next destination would be Maracaibo on the gulf of Venezuela. There is a spectacular bridge over the inlet that is similar to the bridge to the Florida Keys (the one that got blown up in True Lies). Maracaibo is an oil town and rich by Venezuelan standards. Whist at the bus station we sought Bus Ven, a local operator with connections direct to Santa Marta in Columbia. With some aid from a money exchanger (there is always a catch to helpful people here) I was advised to return the next morning at 4.00am to purchase a ticket for the bus which left at 4.30am. I should have smelled a rat!

We had selected an hotel in the suburbs as our guide book advises against the city, but our taxi driver informed us (once we were on our way of course) that it had been demolished. With great insistence he took us to Hotel Caribe, which he has recommended to other travellers and we were okay with this as it was also in our guide book. Outside the hotel we made an arrangement for our taxi driver to pick us up at 3:30am. Inside the hotel, well, you would be forgiven if you thought the hotel only rents rooms by the hour - I don’t need to say any more.

After an uncomfortable night in an air-conditioned room (full on only) we ventured onto the street to await our taxi. Our failed early morning assignation with our taxi driver indicated an ominous start to the day, although the kindly hotel porter misunderstanding our implication that we had arranged for a taxi, ordered us a taxi. It was only a short trip, but in Maracaibo it is unwise to flaunt your backpack on the street (and probably anything else). The bus terminal was relatively busy and we declined several offers to share a taxi to Maicao (just across the Colombian border), opting to take the Bus Ven we researched yesterday. At 4.00am there was no sign of life at the office or any sign of a bus. 4.30am and the situation had not changed. At 5.10 with still no life in the Bus Ven office, we opted for a taxi. We were eagerly swept away into a big old Chevrolet by a fat Danny Glover and a Steve Buscemi look-alike. Steve was not happy with the 1,000 bolivar tip for carrying Leanny’s bag, but such is life (he’s probably stalking us right now). We agreed 200,000 bolivars each for a direct ride to Santa Marta, Colombia. A few kilometres down the road the taxi drove into a petrol filling station where our taxi driver explained that he would take us to Maicao and put us on a bus. After a bit of reluctance and a one way conversation we agreed. I suggested that I pay half now and half on arrival. This was not acceptable to our driver and I felt obliged to hand over the cash (400,000 bolivars in 10,000 notes). What could I do? I was a sitting duck caught in the green glare of the BP petrol station sign. It was dark, he was big and black and he took all my pimp money!

With fuel in the tank we set off for the border. The closer to the border we got the more frequent the (armed) military passport check points were (no less than 7 by the time we got to the border). It was light as we crossed into Colombia - having to pay our Venezuelan departure bribe - we encountered 3 hopeless girls working as security. They all tried so hard to ignore people so someone else would do the work, bless ‘em.

At Colombian immigration we faced a bucket of water and soap and were asked to wash our hands before entering the building. They obviously take the threat of swine flu quite seriously. Once our passports were stamped we had to sit and answer questions about our health. Of interest was the high number of Venezuelan people passing through who were not required to have their health checked, our driver included. Things were a little better once our driver came into immigration and told them to stop mucking around as he had to get us to Maicao. We had sort of finished so after receiving a couple of face masks (“to wear in Santa Marta“) we were back to the taxi and off we roared. The trip into Maicao is hideously dirty with rubbish strewn everywhere, but soon we were at the bus terminal being ushered on to a very crap bus (okay, not as bad as Bolivian buses) for the last leg to Santa Marta. Having waited half an hour the bus crawled through the town seeking more passengers for the all stops express. It wasn’t until we got off the bus at Santa Marta that we actually relaxed with “we made it here in one piece” high fives.

Santa Marta is a pleasant waterfront town with a container port. Surprisingly the port does not dominate the town, but is discretely located to the eastern edge flanked by a large hill. We found a hotel a few blocks from the sea with a pool. Relaxation at last. We had planned that we would trek to the Lost City and scouted around for a suitable guide. They all charge the same so it’s more a case of what they can offer. Oddly, even after doing the treks for 15 years, no guides appear to speak English. We departed late on Tuesday morning with 3 Aussies, an Irish lad and a Norwegian. In an open back jeep/bus we headed off for the 2.5 hour journey into the jungle to our starting point. After a few hours we turned off the main road and into a military check point where very young faced military men (one armed with a missile launcher and the rest with AK-47s) took our names and checked the documentation of the tour guide. A further hour on and we reached the starting point of the trek, a small village consisting of shacks used as restaurants for the tours. After a quick lunch we thew on our back packs and started to walk. It was hot, about 35 to 38 degrees and quite humid. Quite humid, phah, bloody humid. I must have sweated a litre in the first two metres! The first hour was a pleasant level grade taking us to the first river crossing. The rivers are typically about 5 metres wide flanked by large grey boulders and pebble beaches. Further up the river we stopped at the first swimming hole. The swim was a welcome cooling off point after walking in the heat. The water was surprisingly warm and has that green tinge to it in deeper parts. The water is lovely and clear allowing a fine view of the many fish (no piranhas).

Our guide was all smiles (they always are) as we left the swimming hole and started to climb the first hill. It was steep and the heat made for very slow going. This was the first time we questioned whether we should be doing this. We questioned ourselves a hellava lot more during the next 5 days!

The first day was a 3 hour walk and we reached our camp late in the afternoon. Halfway along we inherited a dog that followed us to the camp. We later called him Wonder Dog, cos we wondered where he went. Sitting around waiting for dinner we got to know our companions and learned that a few weeks ago a guide had been shot (in front of his tour group) as his tour company had not paid its taxes (bribes probably). Speculation during the trip didn’t quite work out exactly who would have shot the guide although it was allegedly para-military. There are Columbian military everywhere along the trek guarding the national park (or so we think). One of our group said he knew the shooting to be true as he knew someone who knew someone on the trek who was in the car taking the dead body back to Santa Marta (yeah I started to wonder after the first “knew someone“).

That evening a creepy looking fellow came into the camp, even the dog growled at him, and invited us for an early morning visit to a cocaine workshop. Our interest outweighed the thought that we could be funding drug cartels. So early the next morning we ventured 10 minutes into the jungle to a small clearing by the river. He showed us how cocaine is processed from the coca plant, including ratios of chemicals required. It was very interesting to see how alkaline and acid is used to extract the drug, including quite large quantities of gasoline, which is surprising as they all smoke. We were asked to keep the location of the camp secret as he didn’t want the military raiding him and he had forgotten his gun so he couldn‘t kill us. However the path to his “secret camp” was well worn, so I am sure the military may know it as a “tourist” attraction. We like to think that what we paid for the drug tour actually is more profitable than making the drugs, so he doesn’t manufacture anymore. Although we could just be giving him capital, you just never know!!

Day 2 was 6 hours of walking through beautiful jungle and open valleys. Unfortunately in the heat you tend to miss quite a bit, as you wheeze and drip, falling over your own feet from exhaustion. Thankfully we came across several rivers in which we could cool down a little. The third day was an early rise for another 6 hours of trekking through the jungle, but by about midday we hit a large river. Once again clothes were shed and bodies immersed in the water (in togs not the nud). The trek then continued for a few hours upriver with about 8 crossings required. The current was quite strong and care was needed in crossing or we could have been swept away! OK it wouldn’t have been that bad, but our packs would have got pretty wet. Finally we reached a bend in the river with a large pebble bank. Opposite was the entrance to the Lost City, a set of stone steps hidden by the jungle starting about 5 metres higher than the river. The steps climbed the hillside at an angle of about 45 degrees and from the river looked like they just went straight up. Our guide advised that there were 1,200 steps to reach the city and with a shared look of despair, Leanny and I waded across the river and started the long climb to the top. Dense jungle bounds the stairs and when the steps turn through corners you find yourself isolated from the rest of the group and even the world. It took a little over half an hour to get to the top to reach a clearing where we regrouped. The Lost City has a desolate and eerie feel to it. It is in the midst of dense jungle, with little sound except for a few birds. It was hot and humid and once more we felt like we had walked into a movie set.

All that remains of the Lost City is a collection of round platforms, about 5 metres across, which provided a flat foundation for the houses. As the houses were wood and thatch, they have all long since disappeared. Climbing higher into the jungle (the city is mostly overgrown) you reach a set of 2 large oval areas where it is believed the central plaza once stood. The views from these platforms is amazing as you view the Columbian mountains draped in jungle and mist. To ensure that tourists do not do anything inappropriate, the government has kindly supplied a large military presence in the city, which gave some of our group an ideal opportunity to get their photos taken holding AK47s. The military guys are doing national service so are late teens/early twenties and they quite enjoy the attention of crazy tourists (just as well as their guns are loaded!). Unlike our other camps where we slept in hammocks, that evening’s camp was an open 3 storey shelter occupied by 3 tour groups. It was pretty crowded and sleeping arrangements were grubby mattresses strategically placed on the floor to maximise sleeping positions. We were provided with our own mosquito nets (you’ll lose a lot of blood without them) but one group were provided with a communal net spanning 8 mattresses. A bit too close for comfort as a few of the girls in that group voiced. Dinner that evening was taken quite late as there were only sufficient tables to cater for 2 groups and as we were the last arrival, we ate last. That night it was chilly and rather uncomfortable, but having walked all day most people were asleep pretty quickly. The jungle is eerie and quiet at night with occasional frog noises and weird howling sounds every so often. It’s dark, very dark and once the moon goes down there is only starlight to be seen. It’s in these dark hours that memories of the movie Predator come to mind.

Day 4 was a guided tour around the city and as described, the city is a collection of platforms used as foundations for houses. Although sounding a little lame, the location of the city is what makes it pretty spectacular and obviously pretty unique. We scouted every nook of the city to find a secret tunnel leading to lost gold, but found nothing. So with no further adventure to be had we set off down the stairs to the river below. It was another 6 hour trek to the previous night’s camp and the trip to the city was mostly uphill, so the return was a little easier. However, that was little consolation when the following morning we had a one and a half hour climb out of the valley. A swim at midday was a welcome relief and by this time we had foregone our dignity and just striped to undies (and tops for the girls). It was then a little over an hour back to the restaurant for lunch and vehicular transportation back to civilisation. At the restaurant several beers were partaken in an attempt to re-hydrate our bodies in a celebratory manner. It was soooooo nice to get back to our hotel with running water and a soft bed!

The next few days were spent relaxing as Leanny had caught swine flu, okay it was just a head cold, but it is surprising how much rest you want and need after a 5 day walk. The hotel pool and hammocks provided well deserved cooling and relaxing opportunities. But there were other trips looming.......

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Photos

Puerto Columbia
Check out those speakers!

Venezuela
Puerto Colombia beach, not quite what I was expecting of the Caribbean.

Puerto Columbia
The only nice photo I got of Venezuela.

Lost City Trek
A peek at the countryside.

Lost City Trek
A village in the hills.

Lost City Trek
Potato sack children in Tayrona. They are pretty handy with machettes.

Lost City Trek
Just to appease some of you.

Lost City Trek
A peek at the countryside.

Lost City Trek
Pretty rivers.

Lost City Trek
Many rivers to cross and this was one of them. Actually it was the same river every time!

Lost City Trek
More bloody steps. 1,200 actually.

Lost City Trek
Honestly I took this one, it's not a postcard.

Lost City Trek
Group photo.