Into The Jungle
I’m wandering through the Colombian jungle for the second day of my trek for the Ciudad Perdida, the ‘lost city’ of the Indigenous Tairona people. The bush is dense and green but the trail is well defined. I have yet to see much large wildlife. The jungle teams with life of course; bugs, ants, spiders and crabs are everywhere to be found and fireflies at night punctuate the otherwise inky blackness. But larger animals are more reticient and through Central America, I’ve yet to see monkeys, tapirs, any of the super-shy jaguars or even any snakes.

Whoomp, something flies past my vision and plants itself on the ground a metre in front of me. Sure enough it’s a snake, my first snake and being striped bright red and black looks far too tropical for a city boy to try his hand at being Steve Irwin although had it landed on my head I wouldn’t have had the option. I wait for the guide to come up and he solemnly tells me it’s a corral, a highly venomous variety. Why on earth a snake would fall out of the vines overhead is beyond me but I curl him around a stick and hurl him off the track. I resolve not to think of any more poisonous creatures for the rest of the trip.

The heat is intense at lower altitude but it is amazing how 500 metres of altitude freshens things up nicely for hiking. The trek is quite comfortable and a change of pace from the bikes. The local indigenous people use the same tracks through the jungle and we pass dour faced men with machetes running tasks and women who avert their gaze, generally with a baby slung on their back while they gather food. The trail provides a steady flow of consumers for the local wares and women offer traditional bags while their children demand lollypops.

We come across a small indigenous village and the cameras come out. It is fascinating to see the traditional manner the Indians still live in and the basic standard of their huts. Children heave out of their homes and we take a few photos but the air is tense. A far cry from mass-tourism seen elsewhere, the indigenous seem to feel our curiosity is an imposition on their lifestyle to be tolerated. This is a small village, larger cities are deeper within the jungle, inaccessible to foreigners without a local Tairona guide.

The military maintain a highly visible presence along the trail. Five years ago, eight backpackers were kidnapped by guerilla ELN (Ejercito de Liberacion Nacional) masquerading as army. The whole account with the benefit of hindsight is one of confusion as to who was holding who. When the tour guide cut the ropes binding him and escaped through the jungle to raise the alarm the police threw him in jail thinking he had a hand in the plot. A far cry from accounts of torture, beatings and mistreatment in other kidnappings, these tourists were well looked after and releasing after over 100 days and negotiations with the government. Eager to avoid a repeat in present day, military presence is high but guerilla activity weak. Coca leaf is grown in the area and most military operations seem focused on stifling this production.

The military in Colombia are extremely well equipped, Current US aid must extend to supplying these soldiers. But like armies everywhere the fighters are generally young boys who get bored easily. In our case, they wait on the trail and try to barter with tourists to accumulate luxury kit in exchange for military issued badges and caps, with an added bonus of ogling sweaty girls in tank tops. I ask Beto, our guide why they are so present on the trail and he accuses them of laziness in being reluctant to hack through the jungle. It seems to make sense to me; if there is no guerilla activity there seems little point to their efforts.

Arriving at the Ciudad Perdida, nearly 2000 stone steps rise out of the riverbed to enter the city. Indigenous peoples abandoned the city when the Spaniards arrived and their military dominance became obvious. To survive, the peoples formed three separate tribal groups and abandoned the city to retreat higher into the Sierra Nevada which soars over 5000 metres (the lost city being situated at about 1500 metres. As such, the city was lost to the jungle – the simple thatched houses only last 5 years, leaving only the terraces the city was founded on. Rather than being an arresting example of the advanced technology of these people like Machu Picchu, the city is a mysterious marker of a people integrated to the jungle. Tomb raiders discovered the city in 1973 and by 1976 the site was under protection. In contrast to Machu Picchu the site hasn’t been developed and our small group of 12 could enjoy the surrounding jungle, swim in the river and explore the site undisturbed.

Valledupar
It was in Santa Marta drinking beers on the street that I met Cesar. An indigenous Arruaco he was passing our restaurant when I noticed he had a maori bone carving around his neck. I couldn’t believe my eyes and briefly thought someone had slipped something in my drink but yes here was an indigenous Colombian with an authentic bone carving gifted to him 19 years previously by a Maori delegation who had come to Colombia. We made friends and he invited us to his home in Valledupar for a national Vallenato music festival. Asking around Colombians everywhere nodded their heads vigorously and told us that this place was a good as the party got. For a musician like Jon this was too good a thing to miss so we lounged around in the heat waiting for it to begin and biked our way over. Jon made a mistake of giving a lift to a local artesan type muso he befriended. The problem with carrying people here isn’t carrying the person, it’s carrying their luggage. And this fella having promised ‘one bag’ has neglected to mention his guitar and that the one bag is a rucksack with his artisan work inside. Nevertheless, Jon in incredibly delicate state carries the guy – I tie off the guitar to my bike. After half an hour the bag is too much on the shoulders and they try to rig the bag on top of Jon’s luggage. It fails and rests on Jon’s tire biting through the bag and a pair of hiking boots – might have been easier to take the bus!

We get to Valledupar and have the exquisite sensation of being the only travellers’ group in town. The small rural town is packed to the gunwales with revelers from Bogota and Medellin all ready for a good time. They’re friendly and keen to share the party with a few strangers. The plaza is full of small bands while people buy bottles of whiskey to drink while warming up before heading off to the stadium to hear Vallenato until the early hours of the morning. I enjoy the plaza as it gives more space to socialize and we make a lot of friends. I dance with a girl and the Swedish girls we have met up with have plenty of suitors. Suddenly there’s a crowd and we’re the centre of attention. I just pretend I’m in Brazil and go nuts with the dancing. If you don’t know the steps, it’s no excuse to stand still and everyone thinks we’re hilarious. Women drag me away and dance a song and then I’m passed along. In the morning we head to the daytime competitions in a fairground where I try to play the Guacharaca. Vallenato music is made up of four instruments, accordion, bongos, vocals and the guacharaca, a stick with ridges making a rasping sound. The rasp had seemed to me a poor match for the other musicians but I found, to everyone’s amusement, it was far harder than it looks.

Walking around the town, people strike up conversation, invite me to their houses, recommend far-flung parts of Colombia and generally are happy to see me. I can’t think of the last time I spoke to people with such a simple motive of ensuring I’m having a good time.

Medellin
Medellin is a deceptively large city. The meat in a sandwich of huge hills, it’s compact appearance as a modest city is actually due simply to the majestic scale of it’s setting. Lush green pasture surrounds the city and 3 million inhabitants call it home. Once famous as the ‘murder capital of the world’ and the headquarters of Pablo Escobar, since the death of El Patron in 1993 the city has quietly rebuilt itself as a fashionable and industrious city. Pretty from a distance, the centre is a chaotic place. I’ve found it a difficult city to get to grips with, probably because of the size.

Also Casa Kiwi, a hostel run by a biker Paul Thoreson has had something to do with my lack of moving around. The hot water works, they have a kitchen for travelers and there’s always someone handy to go to a party. And they throw a pretty good party themselves.
The following morning they suckered Ritchie into a waxing.

I have managed some trips. I rode to the beautiful colonial town of Santa Fe de Antioquia founded in 1540 and made a visit to a finca (farm) which in this case was really a retreat into the jungle.

From here, I’m heading further south to the zona cafetera to relax further, from where I’ll make for Bogota and then it’s Venezuela and some long days as I restart the trip.

Josh

PS I know it’s been a long time since an update but more and more people seem to be reading (not just Mum) so thanks for your patience. I hope to flesh this out a little bit with some more impressions. But the summary is ; you just have to see Colombia for yourself!

Posted on Wednesday, May 16th, 2007 at 11:31 pm in Josh's Journal.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.