Canada to Patagonia at a Worrying Age

Now back in the absolute calm of Hotel Tres Banderas in Cartagena de Indias. (A bit calmer than I want, actually, as the electricity has gone down and I want to book some flights.) Santa Marta and around was a blast for a variety of different reasons, but the highlight has to be the trip to Ciudad Perdida (The Lost City). It was rediscovered in 1975 and I had many opportunities to curse the man that found the sodding thing. For my memory and anyone else’s delectation here is the day-by-day account.

(Here’s me and the lads mentioned on Day 5)

The Night Before

Staying cheap for once (£2.50 a night in the famous Hotel Miramar) I found myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling fan the night before departure. It was a scene directly from Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen is contemplating his trip into the jungle to catch up with Kirtz. At the time I didn’t realise how many parallels there would be, although I wasn’t kidnapped and didn’t witness any ritual slaughter.

Day 1 – We’re not in Kansas now, Toto

Up early for breakfast and to get the all important passport photocopy which was never used. We left dead on time at 0800 hours (ie 0945 Colombian time). I’m reasonably sure that the driver spent the time gluing the axle together. With Pritt. 12 of us were squeezed into a land cruiser with tassels hanging from the ceiling. An unnecessary affectation when better time could have been spent, perhaps, improving the engine’s capacity for forward motion. The guides were on the roof with the luggage and food.

We had to climb a mountain in our jalopy and several times had to get out and walk for a bit as the thing was in a very genuine danger of tipping over into the neighbouring ravine. Still, I thought, climbing is good as it reduces the amount of foot slogging at the other end. This supposition was incorrect on a great many levels. The drive also gave us our first glimpse of the local paramilitaries. Nice chaps with guns.

10 minutes into the hike we came to our first river crossing. Most tried to cross by the occasional boulder, but I got my feet wet straight away. This was a mistake as three hours later I was about one step away from trench foot setting in. This was only one of my woes, however as the first climb proved that a 43 year old who has been smoking for over 20 years is ill-advised to attempt this trek. At least it didn’t rain. And the paramilitaries appeared from time to time with an encouraging wave of their uzis.

Our happy band were three guides (Beto, Ishmail and Albert), two Aussies (Brendan and Naz), Mirco from Madrid, Jenny and Adrian from Sweden, Jan from Norway/US, Kevin (Seattle), Ryan (Vancouver) and some French people (they didn’t mix much).

Tea was chicken (I didn’t like to make a fuss as I was relying for my life on the guides), although I got away fairly lightly where food was concerned in general. Promise of a cocaine factory tomorrow.

Day Two – Koke adds life, where there isn’t any…

Up early from our hammocks to scrambled eggs for breakfast. Then out to the coke factory which was really more of a mosquito-infested pigsty with a rudimentary chemistry set attached. At one point one of the pigs came to sniff me but the smell repulsed him and he was forced away. The farmer is only allowed to make cocaine to the penultimate stage when he must sell the paste to the paramilitaries for conversion to the final powder. He makes a lot more money showing us around his place and for all I know is possibly making lemon sherbet by now. The need to keep the place safe from the authorities means the paramilitaries regard our safety as essential to their trade so their presence ensured we were unlikely to be kidnapped. Hence, the whole journey was morally rather dubious from the start. But hey, here we are.

This morning’s song could have been one of many, but Koka Kola by The Clash, fits the bill best.

Then the next trek. The guides assured us that it was only 6km. It might as well have been 60 for all I knew. Uphill was bad enough, but when this old man needed to stop for a rest the attendant mosquitos and other unidentified insects thought I was offering my gringo flesh as a 100 course meal. The only respite was a brief stop for fresh pineapple after two and half hours. That is honestly the best pineapple I have ever had in my life.

During the day the only song I could honestly say reflected my mood was Where Will It End? by Joy Division. That should tell you all you need to know.

Day Three – I Can See My House From Here

We were 600m up the mountain at this stage and the absence of a sleeping bag in my pack revealed itself to be a rather foolhardy omission. The fact that I froze all night in my hammock was a wound freshly salted when I discovered that blankets had been available. I asked the guide if there would be any at the next camp and he replied in the affirmative should I wish to carry one up there. More weight was hence added to my pack. The blanket itself had the appearance and smell of one that had previously belonged to a rather unhygienic mule.

By this stage my boots were dry and I was determined to keep them that way knowing we were to make 7 river crossings today. The sandals I had bought were thus put to use and within an hour they had destroyed my feet.

It took about three hours to reach the start of the climb and we broke for lunch in the middle of a river with a rather marvellous waterfall nearby. I got in for about 5 seconds. You could say it was cold.

And then the climb. 700m and 2000 moss covered steps. Steps made for the feet of incredibly small Tayrona Indians in about the ninth century, not my size 11s. In terms of genuine danger, this was far more serious than any kidnapping threat. Unbelievably the density of mosquitoes actually increased. The song at this time was ‘What a Way to End It All’ by some Scouse 80s band (possibly Big in Japan).

Beto was waiting for me about three quarters of the way up with a fire set to try to keep the mossies at bay and I entered the Lost City with the Aussies. The fact that they built their home just here is mind-numbing. There are lots of theories why, but it is truly amazing whatever the reason. All that are left are the outlines of the living areas and the many, many steps. The views are breathtaking.

Camp was 8 blokes sharing 5 filthy mattresses under a big mosquito net, the couples getting a mattress each. However, we slept well enough as about half of us had had the same idea of bringing a bottle of rum to celebrate getting to the top. What was extremely cool was the fact that it was a full moon at the top of that hill.

Day 4

Here’s what I wrote in my diary on the morning of the fourth day:

The bites on my legs are astonishing
The cuts between my toes are painful
The pains in my thighs are increasing
The veins in my head are pulsing
The bites on my arms are annoying
The sweat from my body is voluminous
The terror of the next trek is all pervasive
This might have been a good place to love a thousand years ago
It’s not now

This day I set off early in an attempt not to slow the guides down as Beto has taken the image of Gollum on Lord of the Rings hanging around me (sometimes ahead, sometimes behind) as I bring up the rear with whoever happens to be injured or ill or slow that day.

However, this goodwill attempt on my part merely stimulated levels of testosterone in some of the alpha males who saw my early(ish) departure as a slight to their manhood. As I left camp hurried packing ensued and by the time I’d got lost and found my way agian, two people had already overtaken me!

The day was fairly straightforward torture after that, although I’d got into a marching rhythm and felt OK after a wash at camp and a belly full of food. Today’s song was Feel the Pain by The Damned. Bit of extra fun at night when I got into my hammock only to discover it was designed for someone about a foot smaller than me.

Day 5

Feet really suffering today and it was at this point that Private Hell became the new song.

There were a number of pitfalls today in terms of opportunities to get lost if you were trekking alone as I was for about an hour today. At one point the only vague clue I had that I was going in the right direction was one slightly wet footprint on the other side of a river. At this point I didn’t care if the track I was on led to a Kogi Indian Camp where I would have to get married and settle down. I wasn’t turning back.

A note on the Kogis. Kogi women have to get married at 15 and are expected to have 10 children in the next 10 years. After this point, if they lose a couple of children, a witch gives them a drink to prevent any further pregnancies. If they have twins they have to kill one as there is only room on their back for one child each year. When we went past Kogi villages it was clear that the men were busy sitting down while the women were working. Kogi women live on average to 45, the men for longer. Just thought you might be interested.

As we neared camp an enterprising family appeared with Coke and Beer at 50p a shot. Very helpful. Yet more beer was available at the camp as was something referred to as ‘Colombian wine’. Three paramilitary gentlemen were availing themselves of this and it seemed rude not to join in. They were very keen to point out that they were there to protect us, but I wouldn’t have liked to have been too close when the bullets started flying in the state they were in by the end of the afternoon.

I actually felt very fresh after today’s trek, which shows the advantage of exercise, I suppose. Spent the night playing cards before a fitful sleep because…

Day 6

We had to get up at 0600 today as Beto had to get back for a guides’ conference or something. Again I set off a bit early and again I got lost within 15 minutes! Eventually neared the end of the track and a return to civilisation. There was just one river to cross and I was happy to do the boulder-to-boulder thing, but Alberto advised against it saying with just 10 minutes to go I should not risk getting my feet wet. So I took off my shoes and socks and crossed the river only to slip and get no part of my pack wet other than the shoes and socks in my hand.

I didn’t care that much, though as I had fooled the jungle by having a spare pair of secret dry socks in my pack. I put them on and set off – but of course there was an extra river which had been added to the jungle since we set off. This looked easy to cross by boulder hopping and with Brendan as an extra helper I set off only to slip again and entirely soak my shoes and socks. The jungle had won in the uneven contest with the gringo viejo.

The ride back was as hair-raising as the ride in with extra fun of us all having to get out and push at one point. At another we had to wait while the mud road was repaired by a gang lifting rocks out of a creek. This took an hour, but there was a man on hand selling ice-creams so that was all right.

While I wouldn’t do it again, it was worth doing even if my legs now look like something that would put you off your tea.

The evening was a rather frantic Rum’n’Coke fuelled salsa evening by some of the returnees and assorted hostel-dwellers that ended at 0930 after a discussion about the existence of God. I’d been awake for over 27 hours. Oh, how it sent me back. Some things never change…

Tags: Travel

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