II.III.III – Wild
II.III.III
WILD
My journey through Colombia led Pedro and I to Santa Marta, a city renowned for the natural park of Tayrona – a wildlife sanctuary that is practically heaven on earth. Yet, it wasn’t for this that I had travelled there.
It was the Ciudad Perdida – the lost city of Teyuna, an ancient settlement located in the middle of the jungle of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Built some 1,200 years ago, this city is an archaeological remnant of the Tairona people, who inhabited the lands until the Spanish conquest. Built some 800 years BC, this city had been lost to the world until the 1970’s when some tomb raiders stumbled upon it in search of riches.
Pretty soon, I’d be stumbling upon those same ruins myself! That was what I was waiting for, a four-day trek in the middle of nowhere that promised not only the sight of ruins thought to have been long lost but also the rediscovery of something I had long lost within me.
Finally, the long-awaited day had arrived – accompanied by a sudden onset bout of fever and malaise. Add to this the fact that I felt so completely unprepared for such a trek and it already spelled disaster.
The reason for that is quite a simple one. You see, all of my life, I had been a couch potato. A bed potato, really. My bed was my best friend and my comfort zone. I’d watch TV, study, eat, read, write and do whatever possible from my very comfortable, very safe bed. Back then, my only exercise was walking to my refrigerator in order to get a snack and then crawling right back under my sheets. It took a while for me to realize that life happens outside of my bed, despite my overpowering clinomania. When I finally did, I threw myself right into the deep end. I started planning a trip that would challenge my physical limitations unlike anything I had ever done before.
And now I was to roam around the jungle with hiking boots which would later earn the name of Blister and a bag that weighed just as much as I did, victualled with everything I’d need on the trek, plus some extra supplies in case of an apocalypse. Throughout the previous month, Pedro had been warning me that it’s not just something you can just jump into – that you need to train and exercise. Of course, that’d be future Marius’ problem. And now future Marius was present Marius and present Marius hated past Marius with a passion.
And so, already feeling defeated, we arrived at the tour agency where we were put on a 4WD along with some other ten trekkers from all over the world. It was a two-hour, overly bumpy ride over a dirt road that took us pretty much right in the middle of the mountain, being surrounded by the lush jungle on all sides – the very first time I found myself in one! In between marvelling at the gorgeous views and breaking the ice with the rest of them, by the time we got to our destination I had mostly forgotten about all my ailments.
The starting point of our trek would be a small town on the mountainside called El Mamey. Here, we were with with Hugo, our guide, and introduced to some of the Taironas who live in the village, all clad in their white costumes. The word idyllic doesn’t even begin to describe the setting, with mules and chickens scurrying around everywhere you look.
Once we all settled down, we were shown a map detailing the various parts of the trek and were told that we’d be trekking around 45 kilometres up to an elevation of 1,100 metres in the coming days. Doesn’t sound so bad, right? Right. If you’re not a febrile bed potato, it’s totally not so bad. And I seemed to be the only one who was; the rest of the group seemed like they did this sort of stuff before they would’ve had breakfast.
With that, we started our journey. It really wasn’t all that bad. I was keeping up, observing everything around me. Vistas and panoramas that seemed to belong on a National Geographic cover had me in ecstasy all the time. Every leaf of every tree seemed to be the most interesting thing I had ever seen.
Butterflies of all kinds and colours; including the rare Diathria anna; otherwise known as the eighty-eight butterfly – a zebra-striped butterfly with… wait for it… an eighty-eight shaped figure on its wings. Oh, and the owl butterfly and big blue morpho butterflies that seem too unreal to exist, leaf-cutter ants and poisonous spiders – an entomophiliac’s dream come true. Woodpeckers, hummingbirds and parrots, flowers of all hues and shapes, exotic fruit and weird plants. I wanted to remember every single detail, and so I took photo after photo until I was already starting to fall behind the rest of the group. I’d catch up, get distracted by one thing or another, fall behind and then catch up again. Not only wasn’t this hard, it was fun!
Or so I thought. After a couple of hours, I had a hard time keeping up the positive attitude. My calves started to cramp up, my heart seemed to be beating in my throat, I was drenched in sweat and it felt like I was being sucked dry by millions of mosquitoes. Pretty soon I was trudging behind the rest of the group along with Hareth; a sixty-year-old guy who’d become my companion for the rest of the trek (along with his son Nicholas who’d tag along on occasion out of pity). Then we reached a point where we weren’t under the cover of the trees any longer – the scorching sun turning the vibrant jungle into a lifeless Tatooine. It was also getting steeper by the minute and I was panting and moaning, and then I was done.
“What the hell did I get myself into?! I can’t do this!” I’d repeat over and over. “Just a few minutes until we get to the checkpoint!” Hugo would insist. Only as hours and hours went by, I realised this was just one of those motivational and inspiring things people say just to keep you going. Up and up we went, always on the lookout for the Colombian flag that would mark the first checkpoint. And up and up and up. I was pretty sure it was all made-up and fictional by the time we got to it. But one way or another, we did!
Needless to say, the others, including Pedro, had been waiting for us for quite a long while while some had already kept on going. As I devoured the slice of watermelon that was handed to each of us at the checkpoint (so sweet, so juicy, so refreshing) and enjoyed the stunning view of the mountainside in front of me, I figured that despite how degrading it might have been for a twenty-two-year-old to be so slow and unathletic, at least I was doing it one way or another. Better to do it at my own pace and actually enjoy it after all!
Up and down we climbed, crossing over dilapidated bridges and traversing rivers all the while shrouded by the dense foliage. It felt like being on one of those expeditions you see on some crazy documentary!
In fact, I still remember the first time we had to cross a river so vividly. It felt like such an incredible feat to all of us. We’d have to take off our boots and whilst holding everything in our hands, we’d have to try and find our footing on the loose rocks and pebbles on the riverbed as we’d try to overcome the current without losing balance. As challenging as that might have been, having the cold water caress your feet after all those miles of hiking up and down felt just like the best damn thing ever.
By the end of the day it felt like we had been trekking in the jungle for days on end and most things now felt as if they were second nature to us. Who the hell would’ve thought? Bed potato Marius had somehow managed. Against all odds, against all logic, I had made it, I had survived. We got to the camp right around dusk, everyone collapsing on the bench the second we got there.
The campsite; an open space with a corrugated iron roof over wooden bunkbeds covered with mosquito nets, was lacklustre at best. That said, it might have just as well been a slice of paradise, with the promise of getting some much-needed rest overpowering my sense of décor and luxury. As a matter of fact, after having eaten and “showered”, I retired for an early night in hopes of waking up feeling better the following day.