4-9 July 2006 - La Ciudad Perdida

Lynne says...

This is the FCO's advice about travel to the Lost City in Santa Marta.

We advise against all travel to the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, including the ‘Lost City’. Two British tourists from an organised tour group to the ‘Lost City’ in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta national park were kidnapped in September 2003. The victims spent some months in captivity, before being freed. There is evidence that the illegal armed group responsible for the kidnapping wanted to sell the hostages on to the FARC. Armed groups are still active in this area and the risk of kidnap in this area remains high.


Despite the official warning and the knowledge that we would be invalidating our travel insurance, La Ciudad Perdida was simply too tempting to miss. After paying 440,000 soles (£90) for the five day trip (a percentage of which, we later learnt, was our "protection money") we left at around 11am crammed into a rusty old jeep with a group of complete strangers.

We'd managed to bag the seats next to the driver and although the safety belts didn't work at least we had a bit of space. The driver appeared to have a problem with his door and every two minutes, whilst hurtling along at breakneck speed, he would open it and slam it shut again. I held on tightly and concentrated on the fruit stalls lining the dust streets. I was more concerned about a fatal car accident than the threat of being kidnapped by drug barons.

Two hours later and we stopped for lunch at the village of Mamay. Young girls walked around in mini skirts and low cut tops, giggling at us from a distance. They wore lots of bling and obviously had money. Was this the result of drug trafficking I wondered? We were about to enter the Colombian jungle after all. The last foreign tourist to be taken hostage in this area was in 2003. The threat of danger made the trip even more exciting.

Our guides were anxiously looking at the sky and wanted to set off before the rains started and so we began climbing uphill through thick vegetation. It was hot and humid and the group quickly split up - the athletic types jogged ahead without so much as a sweaty brow whilst the rest of us lagged behind, wondering what we'd let ourselves in for.

I spent the first half hour chatting to Garrett, a mad lad from Ireland who immediately started recounting his various adventures in Colombia. He had me in stitches after five minutes but it didn't take long for the conversation ground to a halt as we struggled for breath. Garrett's shirt was already wet through with sweat and we had only been walking for a few hours. Ahead of us the athletic types were having normal conversations as if they were having a gentle stroll in the park when I could barely breath.

The heat was suffocating. Imagine opening an oven door to check the Sunday roast. That blast of heat is exactly the kind of conditions we were walking in. I felt as if I was a succulent piece of chicken roasting happily in 200 degrees. If I felt like a roast chicken, I probably looked like a drowned rat by the time we arrived at our first camp.

The guides, porters and athletic types, who all looked as fresh as daisies, had already set up camp beneath an open sided shelter. I eyed my bed for the night suspiciously. I had never slept in a hammock before and they looked very uncomfortable. The mosquitoes had made an appearance now the temperature was beginning to cool. Not only would I not be getting a wink of sleep I would probably be covered in red bites by morning. Mosquitoes love me even when I resort to the evil chemical combination of 100% deet.

The rumours about the cocaine factory had begun early on in the day. A fair few people had no idea it was on the itinerary. For others it was the single reason they were here. I'd read about it on a few travelblogs and was curious to see what it was all about. We were in the cocaine capital of the world after all.

Following a surprisingly comfortable night's sleep, Frederigo, our local guide, informed us that the cocaine factory tour would cost an additional 20,000 (£5). An old man wearing red shorts and a faded t-shirt hovered in the background. He had a toothless grin and a crazy look in his eye. Could we trust him? Would we be safe?

Curiosity won over the more hesitant member of the group and we were soon walking along a narrow mud pathway hidden in the undergrowth. We were totally reliant on our guides. No-one knew we were here and if anything happened to us nobody would know for some time. Despite this possibility I felt completely safe.

The crazy eyed, manic looking man we had met at breakfast introduced himself in Spanish as "Alan". He was standing in the middle of a large low sided concrete container full of drying coca leaves. Behind him on a raised platform were three empty oil barrels and a variety of pots and plastic tubing. It looked like some sort of amateur laboratory. Everyone crowded round as "Alan" began explaining the process of turning fresh coca leaves into the fine white powder that makes Colombia so notorious. He only spoke Spanish so immediately his descriptions were translated into English, Flemish, French, German and Hebrew so everyone in the group could understand.

The next two hours were completely fascinating as "Alan" demonstrated the various processes involved in making base cocaine. (Base cocaine is only turned into pure cocaine in a few locations deep in the jungle and that's where it gets really scary). The chemical concoctions involved are terrifying - petrol, sulphuric acid, caustic soda - do people really realise what goes into this stuff?

"Alan" made over 400,000 soles (£100) from our group for a few hours work. He probably makes the same from every tour group who passes by. It made him a relatively wealthy man and he is just a small time entrepreneur capitalising on a small group of risk adverse backpackers.

I asked him if he ever had any trouble from the police. "The police make more money from the drug famers than they do from the government," he replied, "We pay them protection money and they leave us alone."

We started walking again after lunch and continued to climb through jungle and cloud forest. Whenever we came across a clearing the views were spectacular. After a fairly easy yet hot and sweaty few hours we arrived at the second base camp, just before a torrential downpour. However, this time we were not alone. The para military were everywhere. Young soldiers in full army fatigues lounged around the place smoking cigarettes and polishing their weapons. Sub machine guns, rocket launchers and grenades were piled up in every corner. They eyed us from a distance and I felt uneasy until I caught one of them looking at me. He grinned shyly and then looked away in embarrassment. A few others nodded their heads at us in greeting and it didn't take long for one of them to show off a particularly large and menacing sub-machine gun. In no time at all I was queuing up to have my photo taken with a fully loaded semi-automatic. Strings of ammunition draped around my neck. Lara Croft, eat your heart out.

Later on that evening I met Ade, one of the soldiers in the camp. He did look terrifying at first but when I looked at him closely I realised he was just a young boy doing a job. "Where are you from?" he questioned in Spanish. Ade was twenty five years old and after serving two years of military service he had decided to make it his career, "I work for four months solidly and then have twenty days off" he explained, "I choose one full month a year and that's my holiday". He seemed happy and content. I would have loved to talk more about the situation in Colombia but my Spanish wasn't up to the task.

I awoke in the morning to the sound of breakfast being prepared and by 08.45 we were ready to leave. The sky was full of cloud so although it was still humid we were protected from the direct rays of the sun. For the rest of the day we crawled along thin ledges, crossed fast flowing rivers, snacked on fresh pineapple and cooled off in crystal clear pools of water. Finally, we reached the entrance to La Ciudad Perdida. Ahead of us were over 2000 steep, moss covered steps that were a final challenge for our weary legs. We climbed past overgrown terraces and caught glimpses of hidden pathways reclaimed by the jungle. There are no warning signs or safety rails here.

Eventually we reached a clearing and could see several restored terraces stretching out in front of us. Beautiful cloud forest surrounded us. Paths led off in every direction. I was desperate to explore but it was late in the day and the sky threatened another downpour so we headed to camp for steaming mugs of chocolate and a welcome rest for our tired feet. The Lost City could wait until morning.

After breakfast Frederigo took us on a guided tour of the city. I understood most of his Spanish and was completely mesmerised by what I heard and saw. It felt as if we were in the middle of an Indianna Jones film set complete with vines to swing on. Due to its remote location and restrictions on tourist numbers we had the place to ourselves and I revelled in every second. For me, its main appeal is its remoteness and the complete lack of a tourist infrastructure. A great deal of the city still needs to be restored and although there isn't a huge amount to see its location more than made up for it. I could almost feel the spirits walking amongst us.

After a quick lunch it was time to leave and we all knew we had the exact same return journey ahead of us. Despite the prospect of more river crossings, muddy trails, jungle, mosquitoes, cold showers and the ever present threat of kidnapping we didn't care. We'd been to the Lost City and no-one could take that away from us.

La Ciudad facts

• The site itself is over 1800 years old and is thought to have been the ceremonial centre of the Tayrona tribe. After the arrival of the Spanish in 1499 they were forced to flee to higher ground to escape from the various foreign illnesses that afflicted them such as flu and syphilis and eventually their city was reclaimed by the jungle only to be rediscovered by grave diggers in 1970.
• Traditionally, each male member of the tribe had two wives. When the first grew too old to reproduce, he simply chose another one.
• The dwellings were circular and built from stone and wood. A tomb below contained the bodies of their ancestors who were buried with gold and medications to take to the afterlife
• Couples were not permitted to make love in their dwellings. Instead they had to go to the caves in the mountains.
  
• The men delivered the babies in the same caves and cut the cord with a special twine.
• Whenever the tribe cut down a tree they gave the earth a small offering of gold