Ciudad Perdida

The Magic Bus

The terrain shifted over the next hour from coastal desert valley to humid mountain jungle. Just past a small banana farming village, the bus veered off the road. Some soldiers instructed us to unload our bags and proceeded to perform a search which seemed to serve a purpose more ritual than functional. We were loosely patted down by the young soldiers, most looking about seventeen years old, all toting automatic rifles and smiling shyly whenever someone spoke to them.

Then off we went on a rutty, sideways road which cut up the side of a mountain, into the wild core of the jungle. The magic bus kicked into 4WD, groaning and growling over the impossible road. We rocked wildly from side to side as the bus negotiated the terrain, leaning far over harrowing cliffs and then nearly plowing into the mountainside on the next turn. Several times everyone was made to exit the bus so that the psychedelic beast could roar through a thick stretch of clay mud and puddles. Vast valleys of dense jungle gave way to towering cloud-topped mountains, frothing rivers rushing far below.

The magic bus, enduring the hard times

Eventually we pulled into a tiny community of houses in the middle of nowhere and began to walk. Leaf cutter ants streamed across the trail toting upright bits of green leafage many times the mass of their own bodies. A bacteria on their bodies cultivates a fungus on the leaves, which grows into a food source in large underground nests.

We hiked for several hours, stopping occasionally to swim in a river or enjoy one of the many amazing hilltop views. We arrived at camp around sunset, a riverside Eden sparkling with lightning bugs and surrounded by lovely smelling datura plants. Datura, also known as Hells Bells or Angels Trumpets, contains the psychoactive compound scopaline, an abrasive psychedelic known for inducing demonic visions and general belligerence for days at a time. "Don't sleep under the datura," as the folk adage says.

A Colombian man trekking with us warned about the malicious use of scopaline at carnaval. Someone blows a handful of the powder in your face. You think is just more celebratory talcum and continue to party. Before you know it, everything goes weird, and you come-to days later, conveniently liberated of all financial assets.

Colombia is known to the majority of the world for one thing and one thing only - cocaine. Cocaine is produced in the jungle, and for a small fee, we were given the opportunity to tour a production center. Which, of course, we did. The side tour reminded me of a time in the first grade when my class toured an ice cream shop. Buckets of this and that were strewn about, prepared to demonstrate each step. A cheerful, soft-spoken Colombian man guided us through the process.

Five workers picking for ten days can harvest 1000 kilograms of raw coca from the jungle grow-plots. The small green leaves are ground to a pulp in a machine, then churned with salt and powdered calcium, which is abundant in the surrounding terrain. The mash is then placed in a large vat and mixed with 120 liters of gasoline, which helps separate the cocaine from the plant matter. The liquid is siphoned off and mixed with a combination of water and sulfuric acid. A charcoal-like form of potassium is used to extract the gasoline, and caustic soda (Draino) is added to neutralize the acid. The end result is a white paste of water and pure cocaine, resembling toothpaste. And just like in the ice cream tour so long ago, our humble guide offered everyone a sample at the end.

The kilogram of paste is distributed from the jungle production center, later to be mixed with acetone (nail polish remover) to extract the remaining water. As a result of the loss of weight from water removal, all cocaine is cut with flour or baking soda by up to 20% before it even hits the market. Ten days of work, and the jungle renegades are several hundreds of thousands of dollars richer.

But of course, it's a frustrating lot being a zillionare in the middle of nowhere. Many of them buy expensive cell phones, despite the fact that there is no service. Others invest in flashy road bikes, but there are no roads. You can bet they aren't spending money on drugs. A strict policy of three times and you're dead prevents most workers from ever even trying cocaine in the first place. Besides, Colombian love to get drunk, and cocaine only deters this.

The legality of the whole endeavor is similar to the marijuana scene in Humboldt. In general it is permitted, if only because by and by, it makes everybody a little richer. But the authorities are obliged to make a facade of enforcement in order to justify their own existence, so every so often the paramilitaries will send out a chopper to arrest a few helpless coca harvesters picking leaves in the rain. Years ago, when Colombia was an unruly no man's land which made America's so called "Wild West" look like an eight year old's birthday party, FARC and other rouge guerrilla groups would raid the coca operations and demand a cut of the profits for "protection."

FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, was established in the '60s as the military component of the Colombian Communist Party. They were community organizers, protecting their farming villages from an oppressive government. The winds of politics eventually shifted and their communities no longer needed a militant force to ensure livelihood. The faction remained, however, enchanted with the spoils of the blossoming cocaine trade of the '80s. Today, an estimated 6,000 to 10,000 members remain, down from 16,000 in 2001, mostly in the jungles of the Darien region, keeping to themselves making their riches in drug trafficking.

There are, however, incidents.

Our guide, a quiet old Colombian who spoke, when he did, in a sweeping, melodic tone, told us of an incident in 2003. He was guiding a tour like ours, to the lost city ruins three days into the jungle. A gaggle of FARC soldiers intercepted the group at the lost city, posing as paramilitaries there to evacuate the group. Our guide was then tied up and the group was split up according to how fast the soldiers perceived the people could trek. They were taken deep into the bush to clandestine hideouts, where they were held for ransom for 113 days.

The Americans in the group freaked out and wished they'd stayed at home watching TV like everyone told the to do in the first place. The French sunk into an existential oblivion and chastised the brutish soldiers for their outright ignorance of aesthetics in the jungle hideaway. The Israelis, however, had a blast. They joked with the soldiers, demonstrated superior techniques in operating their assault rifles, played cards, and formed friendships that would last a lifetime. They considered the affair three and a half months of free vacation time in the wilderness with kindred spirits.

Emotions were strong on day 113, when the negotiations for release were finally complete.

But Colombia has changed in the years since, as paramilitaries slowly chip away at the remaining guerrilla forces. At least that's what our guide told us as we trekked ever closer to the lost city. We came to a congregation of about thirty huts made of sticks, mud, and straw. Dark haired indigenous Cogi children peeked at us from the insides of the dim huts. Our guide produced some lollipops and the children came running out, smiling beautifully as they snatched the sweets away and thrust them into their woven shoulder bags. The older Cogi's kept their distance, regarding us suspiciously and maintaining stern faces when a few of us waved. We were not permitted to enter the village, this time, because they were preparing for an evening ritual involving entheogenic shaman's brews made from local mushrooms, flowers, and herbs. We kept walking.

Cogi kids eager for candy

The third day was several hours of intense uphill walking in wet, heavy heat and we pressed ever closer to the lost city. The trekking was demanding and tiring, especially for those of us who had awoken ill in the stomach, plagued with vomiting and diarrhea. After some time we came to some stone stairs which came down a mountainside to meet the river. We climbed. And climbed. I had never seen so many stairs in my life. It took just under an hour to get to the top of the makeshift stone stairway. When we finally finally got there we were speechless. Circular stone terraces dotted the grassy mountaintops, an enchanting vision as the rain began. We went to the accommodations shack and slept for a very long time.

Extra haggard with Brad at Lost City

The next morning most of us had recovered from our illness. We went out into the sun and explored the vast ruins. Daniel asked one of the child-soldiers milling about the place if he could pose with his assault rifle. The soldier was obliging, and was just going down on the grass with his hands behind his head for a point blank capture photo when our guide ran over yelling "no!" The other children may get the wrong idea, he said, and open fire on my bold British friend. Instead, we all took turns posing on the mountaintop with the fashionable loaded weapon.

What the FARC?

Soldiers at Lost City

Our guide lead us around the city, giving some history along the way. The place was built sometime between 500 and 700 AD. It was a shamanic spiritual center, a university of sorts, holy grounds. When the Spanish arrived they plundered the city for gold and enslaved the wise, peaceful shamans. They established churches in place of the ancient holy sites, making vague justifications involving some God character who supposedly wanted it this way all along. Sound familiar? (Iraq..."Democracy"...)

The parallels between the old Spanish and the current American agenda put me on a long string of contemplation. Conquest and complete disregard for humanity is the story of almost every nation on earth. One could resign the notion to "human nature", some innate tendency which we are helpless to control. But that's stupid. America should be held accountable for whats its doing - Iraq, Guantanamo Bay, supporting Israel. I don't dislike my country for one second, but lets face it - American foreign policy personified is a belligerent frat boy who spends all evening rambling about what a great bro you are, and then buggers your sleeping girlfriend in the next room the moment you go for another beer. The creeps in charge are making fools of us, enslaving the minds of the masses with manufactured consent - everyone hysterically chanting the mantra of "Freedom" and "Democracy", the false idols of our time, as they are herded like so much cattle to the killing fields.

Anyways, back we went. Down the stairs. Across the rivers. Over the hills. We all went for a dip in the river when we got back to camp. The dudes jumped off of rocks and the girls circled together in a cove, washing their hair and talking. A pagan mood took over me as the women splashed around like nymphets on the riverside. I felt elfin and green. I wanted to join to Cogis, live simply and free.

But of course, that would ruin everything for the Cogis.

The next day we trekked for eight hours. About halfway through we encountered a Cogi vending Coca Cola by a river. A zillion miles from anything and you can still buy a Coca Cola. The Real Thing.

The Real Thing, like hell! The real thing was being grown on the hillside, manufactured in makeshift tarpaulin shelters in the jungle. In fact, the Cogi had a large wad of cocoa leaves in his cheek and licked, every so often, a stick which he produced from a container which looked like a maraca. The white stuff on the end, he explained in Spanish, was made from powdered sea mollusks and aided in the absorption of the cocoa.

Hours later, with bloody feet, we emerged in the village of Adan, where the magic bus awaited. We bumbled over the hills. At the first possible location, our guide leaped out of the bus and bought a huge bag full of beer. He passed them out and turned the music up loud. We all drank and sang and felt really good as we breezed down the highway, stopping at every single bar along the way and taking turn buying sacks of beer for the road. Our guide must have spent half his paycheck before the time we got back to Taganga, but that's how Colombians are. They will spend all their money taking out girls and partying and then starve for a week before doing it all over again.

Which sure beats a whole lot of other approaches, ya know?

Plenty of laughter in the jungle