After a lunch of sandwiches we set out. Already there was a light drizzle, and a girl who had just returned told me if there was one bit of advice she wished she could have had, it would be not to worry about getting her shoes and feet wet. We tried to pick our way delicately across the streams, but by the time we were about an hour into the walk, it started to bucket down, and as we ascended on the extremely slippery muddy path to the top of the ridge, there were intense lightening strikes with deafening thunderclaps. One time, there was a sound like a whip crack, and a close by flash with the main volume of the thunder following a split second later. This is the closest I have ever come to a lightening strike, even then it was probably a secondary spark attracted by the barbed wire fence bordering the path. Though there were tall trees by the side of the path, which would attract a strike, it was frightening nonetheless. The smell of ozone was strong. We slithered and staggered through the pouring rain, and by the time we came to the river before the base camp, it was flowing in full torrent. The water came up to our waists and almost dragged some people over. So much for trying to keep our feet dry. Still, we changed into dry clothes and enjoyed a good supper prepared by our guides. In contrast to the sailing boat trip, on this expedition, where all the food had to be carried by donkey or by human, the food and the organisation were superb.
The next day, a number of us visited a local cocaine factory, a vestige of the illegal past of the region. Of the 120 families that used to be involved, only 40 still are, the rest have turned to legitimate coffee farming and grain and bean production aided by government subsidy. There is a huge military presence in the Sierra Nevada, making it very difficult to bring in the chemicals needed to process the coca without being noticed and the penalties are severe. It was interesting too to learn of how the country was fractured by rival warlords and militias, before the political process included many of the renegades (who were subsequently assasinated by their own former comrades, some 2000 elected representatives at least) and how the militarisation has brought a semblance of order throughout the country, although there are pockets of dangerous areas still. Once again, the rain came down with a vengeance, and we slithered through the mud to the next camp. I went down to the river to bathe in the rain, and people were jumping off a cliff into the river below, and I just couldn't resist giving it a go. the trouble is, I couldn't jump with my glasses for fear of losing them and I had no contact lenses, so I could not see to orientate my body in space. I jumped, and hit the water badly, and immediately with the intense pain thought I was going to throw up. Initially I thought I had ruptured a kidney, I managed to fight my way to the bank through the current and somehow managed to stagger back to the camp. That is when I went into spasm, I could no longer straighten my back, and I went into a deep shock, feeling intensely cold. My companions had to get my clothes for me and in particular, Mike and Nina, an Austrian couple were extremely kind, as well as Ori, who had been a medic in the Israeli army. Not to forget too, Esa from Finland who lent me his deep heat ointment and Nadina from Switzerland and the Irish couple who kept me supplied with painkillers. It was terrifying, as we were in the middle of nowhere, I could not move and I had no idea of what damage I had done to myself. As luck would have it, I was given ibruprofen,of which I unwittingly took a massive dose, 1600mg, which allowed me to rest, and even better still, a French group came into the camp, and one of their number was an osteopath. He checked me over, and confirmed that it was a muscular problem, my discs were intact, and he assured me that nothing was broken. He told me that stretching, anti-inflammatories and pain killers would aid my recovery and that imobilising myself would cause me to seize up. It was a huge relief. Although after the massive dose of painkillers wore off, the pain was terrible. I was determined to not give up , so gave my clothes to the guide to carry, and carried my sandals and water in my pack, which functioned more as a back brace. The trek was intense. We had to cross the Buritaca river, swollen by the rain something like 9 times to get to La Ciudad Perdida, and walking through the rain and the mud was very painful, but somehow I managed to keep on. When we got to the base camp before the final ascent, I had to lie down straight away, I was in just too much pain and exhausted. The next day, we were lucky, the day started off beautifully for us to enjoy the Lost City in the sunshine, but ascending the 1200 steps was agony, and coming down again worse, followed by another 4 hours of walking to get back to the 2nd camp. I was dreading the final day, when we walked the route that had previously taken us 2 days to cover, but I made it, and although I felt a bit out of the group as if I was the old guy dragging behind, they told me that they were dead impressed that I had gone through with it and I had had the guts to jump! My overriding warm memory is the kindness of everyone in the group, finding painkillers for me from their personal supplies; everyone tried to help in their own way.
I repaired back to Santa Marta, and found it impossible to be comfortable on the very hard bed, despite having been prayed over. Fernando was the only Colombian in our group, slightly older than me and a person I would describe as a real gentleman, sort of like Alfie was. He proposed that I would join him with his ladyfriend through the Parque Tayrona for a 3 1/2 hour leisurely walk to the beach, spend the night somewhere, then get a lift with them to Medellin. With some reluctance I agreed, even though my back was not right. To cut a long story short, Marta didn't walk fast, so the short walk took over 5 hours, the walk back was through thunder and lightening and rain and mud again! Something I swore I would never do again, and when we got to the pension, there was no power, and no food and we were soaked. However, I did have some dry clothes, and the next day, the sun mostly dried my soaked clothes which lifted my spirits. They very kindly gave me lift to Quinta San Pedro, where Simon Bolivar died of TB, malaria and cirrhosis of the liver. He was one sick puppy, but mostly probably he died of disillusion as his vision of a Grand Colombia comprising Venezuela, Colombia, Panama (which was still part of Colombia then), Ecuador and Peru fell apart as the nations went their separate ways.He died in a very simple bed in a simple room., but the finca itself quite grand, a solid marble bath but nothing really sumptuous in the way of furniture. Originally a sugar plantation and distillery worked by slaves, the landowners had a good standard of living. He is totally venerated here as the "Libertador" who freed the colonies of the Spanish yoke, but as usual, the story is at best schizophrenic, liberty based on the US model didn't really include the indigenous at that point...
Although Fernando kindly came round to the hotel in Santa Marta to see if my bags would fit, it was such a squeeze and I was so uncomfortable with my legs and my back, that I elected to not travel with them. In fact, I stayed put in Santa Marta recovering and feel a lot better for it. Tomorrow I hope to take the early bus to Bucaramanga and then on to San Gil..... but that's for another post...
A vehicle stuck in the mud en route from Machete Pelado
The group before setting off, as yet dry and clean!
Fernado in the mud and the rain
Our first night at Manas(?) camp. We slept in hammocks for 3 out of the 4 nights ( I scored a bed on account of my back the 3rd night
An indigenous village. Although they greeted the guides, they looked through us foreigners as though we simply didn't exist. They always had this dignified air and wore white robes and beads, with long flowing black hair. I found them to be very attractive people. The incongruous thing was that they seemed to like their transistor radios. Their home settlements are very reminiscent of Zimbabwean huts.
Walking alongside the mighty Buritaca River
An Israeli crossing on the makeshift cable car. It was pulled across by the guides at either end
A short respite before descending into the valley below
A "Tigre" snake with a mouse that it had just constricted and eaten clearly visible inside it. We watched it killing its prey hidden amongst tree roots.
Crossing the raging Buritaca with the aid of a cable
Misael, our guide, who was so great at helping me and everybody. Very strong and able
Misael helping Swiss Nadina cross before ascending the steps
Beautiful waterfalls before the steps to the lost city
The 1200 steps that ascend 300m
Looking up to the mirador of the Ciudad Perdida
Sitting on the throne of the great "Mamo" shaman kings of the Tayrona, trying to smile through the agony in my back. The Tayrona still conduct shamanic rituals on the site from time to time.
The panorama from the mirador, with Misael gazing on
Misael explaining the "Poporo" carried by the indigenous males. The gourd symbolises a woman, the stick a man, and the colooar around the top the family. It contains chalk or lime inside, which he mixes with saliva, and puts in his mouth when he chews coca leaves. This releases the active alkaloids. He also carries a little satchel bag with raw coca leaves. When an indigenous meets another from another area, they exchange bunches of coca leaves by way of greeting, and I guess in that way they sample eachother's environment.
My blistered feet after the walk. I have never had a blister under my nail before! (2nd toe from the left)
Beautiful convoluted roots in Parque Tayrona
Fernando and Marta at Casa Grande, the sun shining on the day after our long walk through the park
