A Journey to the Heart of A Lost City

Had I known how tough it would be I might’ve stayed in the Colombian beach town of Santa Marta. The guidebook vaguely mentioned a six day uphill climb. My mind only retained the word ‘hill’ however and the image of one gently rolling into the distance, as I handed over $200 to the guide who would lead us to the Lost City.

Ciudad Perdida in Spanish, or Teyuna, as the Native Americans call it, was founded in 800 AD and was only discovered in 1972 when treasure looters came across mysterious stone steps rising up the mountainside. They nicknamed it ‘Green Hell’, which is a pretty accurate description of what my companion and I went through on our first day. Of course, had I been better informed I wouldn’t have taken ten kilos worth of clothes and my friend wouldn’t have hunted around early morning to find a tobacconist open to buy six packets of cigarettes; cigarettes she’d never smoke because she’d need all the lung power she could get to sustain the fast pace up the steepening slopes.

There were 18 of us, plus the porters and our guide, Edwin.  Mules carried food supplies and would later carry one exhausted walker, who, in her pink hot pants and halter neck looked like she hadn’t done much background reading either. For four hours we struggled upwards, our boots pushing against a ground that appeared to be covered with fine grey ash. I didn’t dare stop to enjoy the view until we all finally emerged onto a flat plain and sat down to eat fresh pineapple.

I’d spent most of my childhood in the Spanish Pyrenees and hadn’t expected to enjoy another mountain view as much, but the immensity of the Colombian Sierra filled me with wonder. This vision of rich green abundance stretching to what felt like the ends of the earth renewed my flagging resolve and numbed the pain in my legs. 

                Heading deeper into the mountains, the landscape became jungle.  Lofty trees blotted out the sky and their huge roots broke through the wet earth.  Some of these trees were a thousand years old; symbols of constancy in a region of violent changes.

                The Tairona, the first inhabitants of the Lost City, retreated into the mountains when the gold-hungry Conquistadors made their lives impossible. They were made to labour intensively in gold mines and satisfy the insatiable appetites of their captors. Their culture was brutally dismantled and those who could no bare the oppression committed suicide or killed their own children so they would avoid the terrible life that awaited them.

Today there are three main tribes in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. These are the Kogui, Arhuaco and Arsario tribes; incredibly, for such a small area, they all speak a different language. We were able to visit a Kogui meeting place on the third day. It was a small dusty enclosure with five or so round thatched huts.  A woman dressed in a plain white smock came out and offered us papaya.

The indigenous people are unimpressed by the world beyond the Sierra. They have seen the problems of the Colombian government at first hand; their land has been a battleground for drug smugglers and the opposing FARC (Revolutionary Armed forces of Colombia) and ELN (National Liberation Army). In 2003 eight tourists were kidnapped by the FARC. Edwin, the guide at the time, had been in a secluded hut listening to the Colombian football league final on the radio when the guerrilleros had come. As the rain poured down around our wooden shelter, he enthralled us with his storytelling.

 The sound of rushing water was never far off; it was the background noise of our evenings spent at each simple wood ranch where we hungrily ate the rice and meat the gruff young chef served up. We played cards after sunset, the candlelight luring hordes of insects.   

At night I lay awake in my brightly coloured hammock listening to the exotic hoots and hisses of the jungle. The frogs gurgled like motorbikes and from a distant ranch, cocks crowed in the darkness.

My real fear was not the jungle, or the guerrilleros, or the fat spiders that lingered on our mosquito nets in the morning, what I really feared was being unable to keep up with the rest of the group. As I struggled to control my breath on the steep inclines, my head throbbed and I felt myself on the verge of tears.

“Emily!” Edwin called back. “Estas muerta?” (Are you dead?)”

It was only later, on the fourth day, that I stopped battling the road. Finally, alone in the jungle, I welcomed my own rhythm and with that acceptance came an enormous sense of peace. Time expanded and I was able to find joy in my surroundings and in the journey.

On that day, after hours walking upstream, we spotted the steps jutting out of a mossy outcrop. A waterfall fed into the fast-flowing river that separated us from them and it was a battle to push through the current.

Firmly at the rear, my companion and I took on the 1,200 slippery slabs.  After twenty minutes of calf-wrenching pain, the gradient relented. Slowly, mosquitoes multiplying, sweat flowing, the steps flattened into grass and we caught sight of the first elevated plazas of Ciudad Perdida.

Circular walled terraces spread out across the green plateaux at different heights; these were the simple, understated remains of what had been the political, commercial and spiritual hub of the Tairona people.

Dropping my backpack to the ground, I walked across the flat land in silence. Had I expected an upturned gold pot and a bone spearhead? I’d certainly expected to find something more than a neat green park. And yet I wasn’t disappointed.   

From this high point, I looked out across the steaming mountains and felt my spirits soar.  More than a lost city, it was an uplifting presence I found at the heart.

                                                                   END