Ciudad Perdida- The Lost City

Juan Carlos is an impassioned man. A campesino, he has witnessed the evolution of his lands over the span of his life. At age 14 he began trekking to the Lost City, befriending Kogis and Wiwas learning first hand their history, beliefs, and customs while learning how to cultivate his family’s personal plot. From these seeds were born Juan Carlos’ economic wits. In addition to being a guide he maintains his family’s land. When coca arrived in the 80’s along with fistfuls of dollars he and his family cultivated and processed the leaf, like much of the surrounding campesinos. When tourism arrived Juan Carlos started piling pesos once again becoming a guide for several companies. However, upon the intensification of ‘Plan Colombia’ and the looming threat of coca eradication via fumigation planes, Juan Carlos feared the bankruptcy of both economies. Dreading the degradation of the land, and the death of tourism he joined side by side with the indigenous community, fellow campesinos, and environmentalists to force the hand of the government- literally. United efforts obliged thousands of agents to hack through the Santa Marta’s and manually uproot each and every coca plant, saving the region from poisoning and driving out drug traffickers. Juan Carlos was there. Juan Carlos was there serving on the team of guides who assisted the foremost Lost City scholar on his expedition into the deep of the jungle. Juan Carlos was there to guide us on our five day march into the green abyss. It was Juan Carlos’ 15th consecutive expedition, two straight months on the trail, and another run lined up upon our return. As our hammocks swing us smoothly off to sleep each night, Juan Carlos’ mosquito net is aglow forming shadow puppets in the cool night air; he thumbs through his Ciudad Perdida picture book, excited for the day to come.
Day 1
We bounce into the village of Machete in a jalopy Land Rover. Coming up the dirt road our truck gets stuck in some mud. There are five of us in total and our driver assures us that he has made this trip with 15, that number shoots up to 20 as he cranks it into four wheel drive, we continue to sink. Offering to get out and push, the driver tells us of his feat of 30 people, smiling a gap filled smile skewing his moustache, we lurch forward and are free.
The first day is a rather leisurely jaunt through the heavily trafficked clay campesino trails, providing a good opportunity to get to know the rest of our international team. A fireman from Basque country France, the Italian gelato maker who lives in Spain, a Canadian couple mistaken for brother and sister, Dutch brothers who are addicted to backflip, a Japanese guy whose world tour include Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and coming this July: Afghanistan, and last but not least a Pollack (is that politically correct?) who lives in London and likes tea.
Day 2
Pushing deeper into the jungle, our trail narrows and the campesinos disappear. We pass several young Kogui families while the kids ask for cookies and candy; their fathers are keen on cigarettes from our guides. Turning a worn corner we come to a medium sized Kogui village of 30 or so tightly woven round bamboo homes. Relations between tourists, campesinos, and indigenous is amiable but maintains an appropriate non-intrusive respect. Entering the village is prohibited when its inhabitants are present, tunic-clad children peer out of their houses, entrance is a no go. Juan Carlos tells me that contact with the outside world has provided exposure to certain luxuries that hadn’t existed. Upon contact with the Spanish in the 15th century hammocks replaced former sleeping arrangements in Kogui dwellings; in the last century rubber gum boots by were introduced by campesinos and now walk alongside bare feet, today young adolescents take a liking to backwards baseballs hats. Each of us must pay a fee when crossing onto the path that weaves through the protected lands of the indigenous, who also own the campsites we eat and sleep at. The small tribute helps to maintain the tiny local economy and trade. I have trouble reasoning why it is that millennia old subsistence farmers suddenly have a need for cash. Juan Carlos explains. It is a testament to all human nature: people always want more stuff.