Ciudad Perdida
We had walked from our hostel in Old Town. Seeking protection from the shaded side of the street. It wasn’t until we arrived at the fortress and paid for our tickets that we realized how the entire enterprise was quite idiotic.
We hadn’t even taken a full day of rest after the wedding and now we were traipsing about in the scorching heat just to see the intestines of a bloody fortress that had never even been used. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before we secured a taxi back to the town center: electing to take the rest of the day for naps, delicious food, and cooler evening walks.
Laura left for California the next morning and I grabbed a bus for Rodadero, a city just west of Santa Marta.
I stared out the window as we drifted by corrugated metal roofs, and yards whose only claim to a colorful garden were broken bottles and discarded candy wrappers. Shoe-less children scampered about in the mud, occasionally kicking a soccer ball. Groups of men sat round tiny pop-up tables playing cards, while women swept porches that would never know true cleanliness.
It was the other side of things. The side that most tourists turn a blind eye. I could not help but wonder what their lives were like. If the next Einstein or Tesla lived amongst them…would their true potential ever be achieved? Would lack of opportunity deprive the world of the person with the potential to cure cancer or develop a faster means of space travel. I wondered and in doing so accepted the futility of my ponderings.
The city of Rodadero wasn’t much to marvel at, but I would only be there for one night. In the morning I would join two friends from the San Blas island in a van bound for the jungle community of Mamey. It was the first multi-day trekking trip I would be taking with a small pack. Machu Picchu was my large pack and all valuables, because I didn’t trust the luggage storage at my hostel. Torres del Paine was a proper trip with a tent, sleeping bag, and cooking supplies, as was The Wicklow Way.
In fact compared to all my other treks, La Ciudad Perdida was quite luxurious. Pack mules hauled the food to the basic lodgings along the trail, all of which included flushable toilets, cold showers, and proper beds.
Ten of us set out on that bright and all too sunny day: two Irish, two Belgium, one Czech, one Aussie, one USA, and three locals. The trail went up, then it went up, then it continued up, and then it went steeply up. The sun was cruel and unyielding and before I knew it my clothes could be wrung from all the sweat. The earth alternated in color between chalk white and ruddy red. At one point we paused for watermelon and the view. The breeze dried the sweat from my naked legs but did nothing for the clothes on my back.
Our day concluded with a sheer decline down to a river and campsite. Once we had selected our beds and hung our damp, in my case wet, garments out to dry, we followed a mossy path to a natural pool. Some of the locals were jumping from frightening heights. I leapt in from the lowest rock and still touched the bottom with my toes – that was enough for me.
Dinner was amazing, as always, with its large portions and satisfying flavors. I only wish sleep had been as fulfilling. After a talk with the others about mosquitoes and bed bugs, paranoia got the better of me. After waking up thinking there were bugs crawling all over me for the fourth time I stopped counting.
The second day was meant to be the most difficult – there was a lot of climbing and it was the farthest distance. However, the weather made it nothing compared to the direct heat from the day before. In the morning we were graced by light rain, though our guide Sergio insisted that it was not rain.
It wasn’t until after lunch that we learned what he meant.
The rain didn’t come in sheets; it didn’t come in buckets. It came in waves, pounding our backs like we were shells on the shore. There was no point in dodging puddles, because the entire trail was a river.
It reminded me of the movie “Jumanji” (the original not the remake) when the house is consumed by a monsoon and the characters literally have waterfalls pouring down their faces. That was me: one hundred percent!
When we reached the river crossing the current proved too strong to ford alone. Sergio instructed us to link hands and side step while facing against the current. There were several moments when I was certain I was about to fall, but somehow we all made it across.
Before we checked into our beds that night we were asked to shower. Up till this point I had scraped by with only two bug bites…but that was about to change. To me that shower was like a scene from psycho. Hanging from the walls were thirty to forty mosquitos, waiting to strike, waiting for me to get naked.
It was Mission Impossible. I flung the clothes from my body, dashed under the water stream, trying my best to remain fully submerged. The mosquitos began leaving their perches. In one swift movement I left the water, dried my upper body, and covered it in repellent. Then I did the same with my lower body.
Unfortunately, those buggers were smart. They waited until the spray wore off the edges of my feet and assaulted me then.
In the morning, we left our belongings at camp, crossed the river again, and ascended the 1,200 steps to La Ciudad Perdida.
Nestled in the mountains, the city Teyuna once thrived and flourished. It was founded some 650 years before Machu Picchu and is believed to have been a political and religious hub. Yet, with distant explorers there arrived strange illnesses that showed no mercy. To save themselves, the survivors fled their homes and ventured deeper into the jungle. As the years passed, those who remembered Teyuna transitioned from this world, until all memory of it was forgotten.
It wasn’t “re-discovered” until 1972. By this I mean that it was the first time non-indigenous learned of its existence. Several of the aboriginal tribes living in the mountains had been visiting the site for years but kept it a secret. These tribes continue to follow the traditions of their forebears. Women come of age with their menstruation, around 12 or 13, while men gain a voice in the village at 18 or 19. There are separate huts for the genders, indicated by the direction of the weaving: horizontal vs vertical. To this day they practice farming, ancient medicinal cures, and the burial rights of their ancestors.
The one thing I found odd was the presence of military at the site. I had almost forgotten that less than twenty years ago the Lost City had been an area of contention amongst different interest groups. Nowadays, I feel that its proximity to the Venezuelan border requires their occupation.
After enjoying the views from the city we descended, collected our belongings, and began the journey back to the modern world. The lack of monsoons allowed our river crossings to be completed with ease, though portions of the trail were still very muddy. We bonded with one of the local children on our last night. I watched him explore Sergio’s sketch book and shift through the photos on Lucy’s iPad. Once again I wondered, what this boy could achieve. He was indigenous so I knew he would not likely leave the jungle to attend school. Would he, however, become a great leader amongst his people? Would he have new and innovative ideas? Would he even survive to manhood? It also made me wonder what my life would be like if I had been born into that culture.
Exhaustion granted me a restful final night of the trip. Well that and the side effects of the benadryl…my bite count had surpassed twenty. The itch was worth it though. Not only because of the reward of seeing the city, but also because of the interactions with the locals and the experience of climbing through the jungles of Colombia.
