TOUCH DOWN // AUTUMN 2018
Dodging death in the
BY CAMERON EWART-SMITH
There comes a time in every traveller ’ s life when they must question their sanity .
Ciudad Perdida
ILLUSTRATION © NATASHA JOHNSON
Being in Colombia in the ’ 90s was just that sort of time . I ’ d joined an eclectic group of backpackers – including a mad Italian with a boxer puppy – on a five-day hike in the jungles of the Sierra Nevada in northern Colombia . We were to visit the Ciudad Perdida , or “ Lost City ”. Away from the main cities , however , I always felt uneasy . Colombia was at war with itself – drugs and crime were rife and large areas of the countryside were controlled by paramilitaries . So when , squashed together in the sauna of our bus , we came across an execution , my blood ran cold . The Ciudad Perdida dates from roughly 800 AD , making it 650 years older than the Incan ruins at Machu Picchu . It was built by the Tairona people , whose descendants still live in the area today . You can only reach the site , which consists of large stone terraces overlooking the jungle canopy , on foot . It ’ s hard going : temperatures rarely drop below 40˚C and the humidity hovers around 100 %. Along the way the guides had cheerfully taken us to a cocaine factory and clucked worriedly at the Italian , who picked every mushroom , reassuring us they were magic mushrooms . Up and up we hiked , one river crossing after the next . But like all arduous mountain hikes in the jungles of South America , when you reach the summit you ’ re richly rewarded . Giant trees drizzled in moss and lichen are alive with birds and monkeys . Snakes slither through the underbrush . Frogs and lizards of all shapes and sizes appear under every leaf and on every tree . From the stone terraces of the ruins you have a lordly view over it all . Immediately you understand why it was built in the first place .
TALES FROM THE ROAD
That was all rather distant , though , as we stared at two bodies crumpled behind their car . Each had a neat hole in their forehead , pools of treacle slowly spreading across the tarmac . Paramilitaries in fatigues sporting mirror sunglasses , automatic weapons and bad attitudes had converged on the scene . Traffic had stopped . Drivers lazed under the shade of their vehicles – obviously nothing new to them . Our group stood around hoping not to attract too much attention . The kidnapping and / or murder of tourists was commonplace . The nearby villagers were quick to capitalise on the event . Soon a number of roadside vendors appeared selling roasted corncobs , chichi ( a maize beer ), bananas
and – across the paramilitary check point – ice cream . The doped-up Italian spotted the frozen treat and , totally oblivious to the danger , sauntered across to buy one . The mirrors and the muzzles followed his progress . Us gringos held our breath . The villagers melted for cover . But there was something disarming about this crazy gringo with his gambolling puppy ( he was planning to smuggle it home in his luggage ). He reached the vendor , chose his treat and headed back . Our driver crossed himself repeatedly and spewed venomous Spanish at the Italian , who looked on bemused as he sucked his ice lolly . “ Vamos !” – the captain waved our bus forward and we left the scene behind . No one else was allowed to leave . I turned to look at the Italian who , having finished his ice cream , was rummaging around in his pack of magic ‘ shrooms . Colombia : it ’ s another kind of magic .
62 // MAKE MEMORIES FOR LIFE