Travel Tips

Crammed in the front seat of a Land Rover Jeep we drove over the winding dirt road that ascended from the palm lined Caribbean coast up into the mountainous jungle clad interior. From Patagonia to Cartagena we’ve heard extraordinary stories about the six day trek to Ciudad Perdida, the “Lost City”, in the densely vegetated foothills bellow Colombia’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. Disenchanted with the flood of tourists that have turned the world famous Machu Picchu into a gringo ant mound, there seemed to be a genuine opportunity to rediscover one of the world’s lesser known yet equally impressive ancient gems here in Colombia. Its seclusion and inaccessibility have kept it out of the international eye but so has other things. Synonymous with cocaine, drug lords, leftwing guerrillas, rightwing paramilitary death squads, kidnappings, and bombings; Colombia’s reputation for danger has kept it more on the US State Departments list of Travel Warnings than in the travel section of the New York Times. So here we were about to step into territory that has been in the middle of Colombia’s incomprehensible 40 year civil war.

From a small village that has more horse hitching posts than parking spaces we set out on our adventure with our guide Edwin, several porters, and a train of donkeys. We walked four hours climbing a badly eroded trail that weaved in and out of banana plantations amongst patches of jungle. The occasional fruit breaks and icy streams fed by the snow capped Sierra Nevada helped relieve the oppressive heat and sticky humidity. After passing a military security check point that made my heart skip for a second we arrived at the first camp just before sundown. We plunged into a nearby waterfall fed natural pool, dried off, and curled our fingers around a mug of thick Colombian coffee awaiting our first meal. We became acquainted with our eclectic group of intrepid travelers which would soon become great friends and travel companions even after the completion of the trek. Once stuffed with an assortment of carbohydrates and sugary juice we crammed ourselves into our burrito-like hammocks which would be for the majority of us the first night’s sleep hanging two feet off the ground. Under the chorus of bullfrogs and the gentle din of a mountain stream slipping bellow us we fell into a deep sleep.

The early morning sun pulled us out of our cotton cocoons early. After more coffee and a greasy breakfast we were asked if we would like to visit a cocaine laboratory located a few hundred meters outside our camp. Our curiosity outweighed our guilt and we allowed ourselves to be led by an old man named Adan past his coca field to the laboratory hidden under the dark cover of the jungle canopy. The word laboratory has scientific connotations that suggest technological instruments, sterile environments, and people wearing white coats and face masks. This is not the case here. The lab has a small cement floor raised at the sides with sticks around the edges to hold up a large black plastic cover. It’s a one man operation. Adan then began to explain and show us how the whole thing works. Once every four months he harvests his leaves, dumps them into the cement trough to be stomped upon, and goes through the multi-step process of adding highly toxic chemicals (which he buys from the traffickers at ridiculously high prices) in order to make about 3 or 4 kilos of the cocaine base. Like a show of Martha Stewart Living, Adan already had parts of the process completed so we didn’t have to wait long to see the finished product of each individual step. I couldn’t quite work out the exact numbers but here’s a general estimate of the crap that goes into cocaine. It takes 1000 kilograms of leaves, 8 liters of salt, 16 liters of lime, 50 liters of gasoline, 8 liters of sulphuric acid, 100 kilograms of potassium permanganate, 5 liters of caustic soda, and 5 liters of acetone to make 1 kilogram of cocaine. Each deadly chemical is used to clean the previous deadly chemical until at last the pure cocaine is left.

Adan explained that the paramilitary will not allow laboratories such as his to make the final processed cocaine because the acetone needed could be stolen by the guerrillas to make bombs. The traffickers, therefore, take just the cocaine base from the local farmers and then process it in their own factories and then ship it out. We asked Adan if the military, whom we saw yesterday just up the mountain, gives him any problems. He said their job is to fight the guerrillas not to bother the coca producers. The military just asks for a chicken or a pig every now and then. If the police come, he went on to say, they ask for exorbitant bribes. We asked if he ever uses his own product. Adan explained that 18 years ago he use to smoke some of his own cocaine, but the paramilitary decided that too many campacinos (people of the country) were doing too many drugs and neglecting their families. Therefore, any people found using were instantly put to death. After a couple of campacinos were killed for violating this rule no more drugs were being used by the farmers. Adan seemed to be enjoying showing the tourists his tiny lab as he posed for the cameras with a big smile and was very patient with the barrage of questions that hit him from the moment we stepped under the black plastic. Cara asked him if he liked his job and he said no. The chemicals make him sick and the actual amount of profit he makes from making the cocaine base is only $5000 a year. Adan further explained that the government wants to buy his land to increase the area protected in the park, but the paramilitary will not allow it. This is paramilitary territory and the government is not recognized here. I have no idea how many labs like Adan’s are found all around this area but my guess is there are many. It is obvious that these people are stuck into producing a drug that creates a tremendous amount of risk for them and their families yet yields them very little profit. If they refuse to grow they will get in trouble with the traffickers, if they do grow they have to pay bribes to the policy and risk imprisonment. They must also be wary of pleasing the military and the paramilitary. It has become clear to me during my time in South America, that that the billions of dollars that the United States spends to fight the drug war in countries like Colombia and Bolivia are completely wasted because the policy of coca eradication just will not work. Wherever there is a demand someone will grow the drug. If it is not here in Colombia it will be in some other impoverished nation where money and fear will drive those poor people like Adan to grow drugs for the benefit of those with guns so that rich people in the Western world can fry their brains.

After spending a couple of hours with Adan in his lab we set off from our camp on a five hour hike that would take us deeper into the jungle and higher into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. The path led us through more pristine rainforest and fewer areas that had been cut and farmed. Bright red leaf cutter ants are more responsible for the dismantling of the forest here and one must pay attention not to step on one of their multi-lane highways which may unleash the multitude on some sensitive white legs. Instead of seeing campacinos, who are a mix of Spanish and Indian or African, we saw more and more Koguis. These indigenous people are the pure descendants of the Tayrona people, whose ancient city we were currently on route to visit. They still believe in animism and go about their lives just like their ancestors did 1500 years ago. Despite feeling intrusive we were invited to visit a local village. Males and females both wear off-white robes that fall to their knees with their long black hair down over their shoulders so it is difficult to distinguish the sexes. Long strands of jewelry, that appears to be made from brightly colored seeds from the forest, are worn by the females. The boys wear a small handbag around their necks which contain a slingshot and small round rocks for killing birds. Men wear panama hats and carry a wooden device, called a poporo, with which they crush their coca leaves with lime or seashells and then chew to give them energy for the day. Their simple one story round houses are made out of bamboo and mud with palm thatched roofs that come up to two points. There is no electricity here and water is carried up from the nearby river. Chickens, turkeys, and pigs roam around the grounds everywhere. The Koguis have sturdy feet as they wear no shoes and hop up and down the mountain in big leaps. As we walked through the village the women and children hugged the inside of the doorways peaking out shyly to the strange people outside. I was sure we were not genuinely welcome but they did seem to have some sense of curiosity about us and the strange devices we held in our hands. Someone handed out candy to all the children which drew instant smiles showing tiny rotten teeth. If you hand out candy you also need to hand out Colgate and some brushes! The Koguis have their own language but some know Spanish. So with a friendly smile and a farewell greeting in Spanish we left the village to the flat faced adults and waving children. We would continue to see these small shy people over the next three days.

Day three, the final ascent up Ciudad Perdida We got an early start this morning for what would be the final leg to the Lost City. We left our camp and followed the winding trail along the Buritaca River. It remained in constant shade under the thick jungle despite the blue clear sky above. After having to cross and re-cross the same river 8 or 9 times I wondered if there was another paved trail that the ancient Tayronas would have used to reach their city that have also succumbed to the obscurity of the jungle. After about 5 hours of walking and one fall in the river that baptized our brand new video camera we reached a rocky dry spot in the middle of the river for lunch. Waterfalls fed from another large stream entertained us while our porters prepared sandwiches and juice. After a filling lunch we crossed the river to find a stone staircase cloaked in vegetation leading nearly vertically out of the river up the rainforest covered mountain. This was the beginning of the 1200 steps that lead up to Ciudad Perdida. Through a cloud of mosquitoes we slowly climbed the narrow path until the sound of the river faded and the width of the staircase widened. After nearly an hour of climbing we passed several stoned terraces with nothing but cut grass and an occasional tree on them. Further up the meandering steps we arrived to several large terraces along the spine of a prominence were the jungle had been cleared away allowing us spectacular views of the mountains and the valleys surrounding us. Over 1500 years ago people fled the tumultuous volcanic lands of Costa Rica and Panama in search of a safe place where they could live and prosper. They settled in this region and made this place in the mountains their religious, political, and ceremonial capital of the region. They were not isolated, however. The Tayrona people not only had trading and communication links throughout its empire in the Sierra Nevada, it also had links with both the Andean Incas to the south and the Central American Mayas to the north. They did not conquer other lands by force nor did they have king-gods. Their leaders were democratically elected and their people pacifists. They fished from the sea, reaped fruits from the soil, and hunted the profuse game in the forests. Their civilization was quickly and brutally smashed by the Spanish in 1525 in their quest for gold and the mythical El Dorado.

The indigenous people were displaced by those of Spanish and African origin in order to grow fincas (farms) and the ancient cities of the Tayrona were abandoned, but not forgotten. Despite being dubbed Ciudad Perdida, the “Lost City”, the indigenous Koguis, descendants of the Tayronas, have always known about the city they call Teyuna, meaning Mother Hearth. They still perform annual ritual ceremonies here just as their ancestors had. By the 1970s guaqueros (grave robbers) also discovered the site and began looting some of the graves to sell in Santa Marta, 50kms away on the Caribbean coast. Several exquisite treasures of unknown origin started showing up on the international market. At the same time certain guagueros were being murdered for not sharing their spoils with the grave robbers union and speculation begin to grow about the existence of a lost city. So in 1976 the Colombian government sent an expedition of archeologists and scientists up into the Sierra Nevada and they did indeed find a lost city. They cleared the most important ceremonial sections of Ciudad Perdida revealing 168 terraced platforms and a paved network of roads. On one of these platforms a two story wooden building with open sides has been constructed to house tourists visiting the ruins. We picked out a moldy double bed on the floor of the third floor and retired down to the dirt floor living room where we would start the ritual of drinking our syrupy coffee before eating a dinner of plantains, rice, and noodles (all the carbohydrates growing gringos need).

After dinner Edwin told the story of the politically motivated guerrilla kidnappings of eight tourists in 2003 from the very same building in which we were sleeping. That night we spent our second year wedding anniversary next to a snoring Frenchman on our dank mattress fighting over the one blanket we had to share to keep warm. The trek to the Lost City was a long, difficult, and uncomfortable hike along a historically dangerous trail. But, there was a feeling that we had discovered for ourselves, cradled in nature’s protective grasp of roots and vines, a magical place where small shy people in white come to pray and make offerings on ancient stones surrounded by the sound of falling water and singing birds.