Trek to Colombia´s Lost City

After 3 days of intense hiking through the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta we came upon a 1,200 stone staircase laid over 1,000 years before by the hands of the Tayrona people, the original inhabitants of this magestic, selvatic land. At the top of the ancient walkway awaited Teyuna, the remains of the most important city of the Tayrona. Teyuna was the political and religious center for the Tayrona and probably was home to 2,000 inhabitants. However, during the Spanish conquest, the city was abandoned and forgotten for hundreds of years. It wasn't until 1972 when local guaqueros (treasure hunters) stumbled upon Teyuna's gold chaches, that Lost City was rediscovered. For a time, the sacred site was extremely dangerous, with guaqueros fighting to the death over the loot and later guerrilla occupation. Fortunately, it's now well-protected by the military and open to visitors! It can only be reached on foot with a guide from a licensed agency.

Typical water break for Aymerick who
smoked and drank his way up the mountain!

I had set out from the city of Santa Marta, a bit anxious about my preparedness for the trek and who I would be spending every minute of the week with. On the bumpy jeep ride from Santa Marta to the trailhead my fears were assuaged! Enter Susana, German with a Colombian heart and attitude, with enough spunk to break the ice in the best of ways. The others were: Beya, the sole Colombian hiker on the entire trail and with a heart of gold; Jean-Pierre: French gent who travels 10 months out of the year in his retirement! And finally Aymerick: Endearing, chain-smoking Frenchman who despite knowing VERY little Spanish, made himself understood and provided most of the laughs (probably for just that reason!) The five of us meshed easily, and we had a week full of laughter and stories from everyone's worldwide ventures. The guides enjoyed our group dynamic and the fact that Spanish was the preferred mode of communication.

The first 3 days of the trek were tough climbs on dusty narrow roads carved into the mountainside. At times it seemed that the trail builders got lazy and went with the idea that the shortest distance between two points is a straght line...up the mountain. Despite my complaints, it felt incredible to be out in beautiful nature, sweating more than I have in my entire life. 

Clay/manure stoves.

Coffee delivery at 5am. Chivalry in the jungle!

The accomodations were actually quite comfortable: campamentos with hammocks or bunks beds under an open air structure. The guides also served as cooks and we were served heaping portions which earned my appetite a reputation. And with coffee brought to our hammocks every morning, it was the most luxurious camping i've done.

One of the most interesting privileges we were given on the trek was a chance to meet a leader of one of the indigenous tribes. The guides arranged for Fermin, a member of the Kogui tribe to share with us about his culture and world-view. Fermin spoke a clear, slow Spanish with a flat affect, as if to put some distance between us. He spoke of how his culture is very nature-centered and spiritual. Their religion is based on honoring Mother Earth. Before using land to cultivate crops or build a house, they consult their local shaman who spends days in prayer to determine whether Mother Earth will allow for its use.

It struck me how much of a contrast there is between the simple, respectful culture of the natives and the aggresive, often careless nature of the society that basically invaded the land they´ve called home for thousands of years. When sharing about their relationship, Fermin referred to the Spanish and modern inhabitants of the region as ¨hermanos menores¨ or younger brothers. Considering the sad history, I thought this was pretty noble of him.

Fermin is holding his poporo, a gourd given to all male Koguis at coming of age. It contains a poweder consisting of lyme and ground snail shells. They take some of the powder out with the stick and mix it with the clump of coca leaves that they continually chew on. After taking the stick out of their mouth, they wipe it on the gourd, causing the yellow portion to build up. Fermin's gourd is about 2 years old. When it's time to replace the gourd (after 3 to 5 years) the shaman interprets it.

Kogui constuctions. The two peaks represent the two tallest peaks in the Sierra Nevada.

Metate, used to grind corn to make flour.

Thought to be an ancient map of Tayona lands, including rivers , trails and settlements.

Pictures can´t capture the majesty of this place. An unforgettable, magical experience!

In the clouds.

Unlike Macchu Picchu, Teyuna is undiscovered by large-scale tourism.
We only saw one other group the whole day.

Foundation for a house.

The trek was an incredible experience and better than I could have ever imagined! Definitely the highlight of mmy trip thus far. Thanks to all the new friends who made it so!

Minca: from guerrilla territory to a little piece of paradise

This past weekend I ventured up to the 3,000 inhabitant strong town of Minca, a much-needed escape to the mountains! For the past 2 weeks I've been living with a local family in the bustling coastal city of Santa Marta. Unfortunately for me, I happened to have arrived at precisely the hottest time of year, with no breeze to speak of. Every morning I find myself wishing for the fog of San Francisco or even the snow I left behind in Boston! I never thought I´d be complaining about Caribbean weather but the heat and humidity combined with the persistent cloud of vehicle exhaust in an overcrowded, hectic city...it can be a bit oppressive. Enter Minca!


Just six years ago, Minca was considered much too dangerous for tourists step foot in. After being attacked twice by the guerilla, many residents fled the town in search of peace. Later, the guerilla was replaced by paramilitary forces which brought more violence and forced more residents from their homes. Fortunately, with changes in presidency, the Colombian government has been eradicating guerilla and paramilitary occupation with heightened military presence. With that, Minca has returned to its peaceful past.
 
My journey started this time not with a mototaxi, but a Jeep from 1968. I had the privilege of riding shotgun, where fumes and dust floated up through the holes in the floor. Not one of the gauges functioned on the dashboard, but Jeeps are made to last, and this one lugs passengers up and down the Sierra Nevada tirelessly!


Day 1: Los Pinos hike
With the blessing and direction of Fernando, the owner of the Hostal I was camping at, I set out on a day trek to Los Pinos, a lookout high in the Sierra. He was confident that it´s safe to hike alone and furthermore, that I would make friends along the way.


The first friend came in the form of a mountain biker that was too tired and preferred to walk with me to my first stop: the waterfalls of Malinka. A dip in the cool, clean water straight from the glaciers above was the perfect recharge for the next leg of the trip. Upon finding out I intended to go uphill, my biker friend bid me goodbye and I made my way to La Semilla, a small organic coffee farm and hostel.

At La Semilla, I stumbled upon some fellow travelers I had met the night before in town. With very little convincing, I had company for the rest of my hike!

Gabriel, roaming musician from Argentina and Ramón, a wandering Colombian.

At this point, the trail narrowed and the sound of motos was exchanged for the chatter of thousands of species of birds and even more insects. Just 10 minutes in, we had to stop in our tracks and yield the right of way to a striking, black and green snake as he slithered across the trail and up a tree.


Our next encounter was more amiable: a certain Fernando Guerrero, coffee farmer and resident since 1960. At first reserved, Fernando warmed up to us and shared his experience as a coffee farmer over the years. Basically it´s a story of struggle, with the selling price of a kilo of dried coffee seeds at about $2.50, barely enough to live on. Even so, he and his wife bid us farewell with 6 of the most delicious bananas I´ve ever tasted.

Just a little ways up the road, we arrived to Los Pinos. Pinos is pines in English, aptly named for the giant pine trees around. The views were impressive, though not quite captured by the iPhone. 

Stretching on a giant hammock overlooking the mountains.

After soaking in the views and streching out tired muscles the lads decided to accompany me to a little hamlet called El Campano. El Campano turned out to be not much more than a convenience store/bar equipped with a sound system intended for a much bigger venue. We had to use sign language to place our order and no sooner than we had the cold cerveza in hand we looked for a place we could sit and still hear ourselves think. 

The place was a neighbor's porch down the road.
 A salsa came on and I asked the guys if they danced (I'm still in search of the Colombian salseros I've heard so much about). Gabriel challenged me to prove my gringa skills so I had to oblige.  (This is a fairly common occurrence: no one can wrap their mind around a white person with any sort of rhythm) This drew the attention of all the neighbors and soon we had a throng of kids watching and then joining in. They switched the music to Vallenato, a dance typical if the region and we hesitated. That's when one of the little girls stepped up as profesora and showed us how it's done. And so it went til the sun went down: Lauren and her little Shakira hips showing us the moves to every style and us trying to keep up!












After filling up on some home cooking over the fire we had to part ways. Lucky for me, I just had to catch a ride down the mountain to my hostel. Ramon bartered a ride for me and I hopped on a mototaxi for the second time (I thought I wasn't gonna do that again!) This time I really clung on to my (maybe) 16 year old driver as he expertly maneuvered around the potholes of the unpaved, windy road.

Reggaeton demonstration

When we arrived to town and I breathed a sigh of relief, the kid informed me that he had been driving 'suave' for me. According to him, some people like to hit the bumps hard but he didn't think I was one of those-good call!

Getting on board with public transport

There´s a first time for everything...that´s what the mototaxi driver said as I clumsily hopped on behind him explaining that I´d never done this before. I actually never intended on getting on this popular form of transportation, especially having never ridden a motorcycle. But when I asked my host family how to get to the bus terminal, Señora Elena whisked me out the door and before I knew it she had hailed the mototaxi.´But I´m scared!´ I said. ´You have to get used to it´ was the unsympathetic reply. So there I was, clinging to this man who had my life in his hands...weaving in and out of traffic and dodging buses, dogs, potholes and pedestrians. ´No eres de acá, no?´ said the driver. No, I´m not from here I replied. He proceeded to explain that he could tell by the way I looked and the way I talked. Astute oberserver! Well, as promised, the driver delivered me safely to the bus station, which turned out to be a tree at the intersection of two roads. The ride, in the end, was fun and much nicer to have a cool breeze the whole way, as opposed to sucking in the stagnant, sticky air of the public buses. Will I do it again? Vamos a ver...

On that note, the public bus system is quite an interesting experience. First of all, they look like retired school buses from the 1950s. (and quite well could be!) Every ´buseta´ has a driver as well as an assistant that collects fares and hands out change. This guy also has the job of getting as many passengers to board his buseta as possible. According to my local friends, the system is basically: the more passengers the more money for the workers. To be competitive then, the assistants hang out the door like garbagemen and harrass passerby shouting out their destinations and making aggressive gestures to board. My American mentality wants to respond: ´If I want to get on your bus I will tell you, and get on of my own volition!´ But of course, I´m not in the U.S. (or any other country where the bus drivers couldn´t care less whether you get on or not. Which is every country I´ve been to!) To top it off, my understanding is that the busetas are on the clock, so it´s possible that when approaching the ´finish line´, the assistant will leave his post and take off running to hand over the fare money to the boss. You can´t say are aren´t working hard for the money!

Here are some unrelated pictures from my last days in Cartagena:

Castillo de San Felipe. Never taken! Defended Spanish Cartagena from attacks in the days of ore.

Great views from the fort (not all are crooked!). It owes it´s height to the hill that it was incoropated into.

Limonada that gringo bellys can´t handle.

Tunnels were built throughout the fort to aid communication and movement of soldiers.

There are lots of nooks and crannies to hang out in the walls surrounding the city.

El auto fantástico! Enough said.