Convinced that Ciudad Perdida (literally ‘Lost City’) was infected with bad energy, the oldest indiginous group in Colombia, the Tyronas, decided to close the city for a few months in order to cleanse it through their ceremonial practices. Then they opened it up for visitors again this fall. We decided to take the one possible route to see the mysterious abandoned town: A week-long transcendent treck through the tropical jungle of Sierra Nevada.
Change of plans! My longing for the mountains and Siri’s lack of interest in kiting, steers us to a sudden postponing of our indigenous sleep-over in Cabo de la Vela (in reference to my last post). A dig in my budgeted wallet, some sneakers (I’ve just had flip-flops so far) and a sleeping bag later, we’re now heading for a 5 day hike, to The Lost City. Believed to be over 650 years more ancient than Machu Pichu, but only recently discovered, this is a hidden gem (apparently).
A man and a woman, a dog and a house. The man runs a kiteschool, the woman is a journalist and a writer, the dog barks and the house accomodates us. We’re north of Cartagena in Puerto Colombia. We’re kiting, eating, reading, playing and sleeping. And today we were on the prime time news over here…
It was hard for the guy behind the immigration-desk to understand and accept that I arrived this day with absolutely no plans. I didn’t have a single adress in the fourth largest country of South America or a contactperson among the 45 million inhabitats of Colombia. Not even a return-ticket. So while trying to convince the guy that he should let me enter the country, a girl sticks a note in my hand with an adress. “Hey, this is my place!” I tell the guy. And the note gets me over the boarder. I’m in Colombia! On this last day of 2011.
I hereby admit I am an addict… An acai addict. And because of my recent acknowledgment I decided to learn about my drug.
Fact, numero uno: The amazingly healthy acai berry has been used among tribes of the Amazon people for thousands of years, as a cure for various illnesses. But it was firstly “discovered” and introduced to the rest of Brazil in the early 90’s. Now it’s trending among upscale fitness-fanatasts in Hollywood and alike.
Last night, Alef (a friend from Fortaleza) and I packed his car full of milk and crackers and drove around Salvador to hand out to the misfortunate. To kids who are born into a lifetime of struggle in the street… My idea of christmas is simple: It is too love others and to be with people that you love. And most likely you are loved in return…
…from the dirrrty slum…
And now, among babies, old and young, crackaddicts and non-crackaddicts, blacks and… yeah mostly blacks, except from the three of us, Oledum pumped pounding powerful drummed rythms into our body and souls. It was impossible not to fall in love with the Brazilian culture.
Freaky, freaky, freaky. Ok, let’s rewind here. I was a bit disappointed in Itacare and left to Barra Grande (with bus and ferry). I wanted to go to this amazing secret 40km unspoilt beauty of a beach (thanks for the advice André) to go scubadiving. But the boat needed to the divespot was appearantly under repair for yet another week. So unfortunately no coral-dive for me… Anyhow, it was well worth the trip. And my hike with a speedboat back, was a little peace of backpackin’ San Tropez; sunbathing on deck with dancemusic pumping from the speekers. On the peer I met a Brazilian and a spanish guy, living in the inland nature-reserve Chapada Diamantina. They could tell me that they had just left Itacare and that they didn’t like it there at all.
The guys told me a history that is not mentioned in the tourist-brochures, of slavery and slaughtering. It was once a notorious hideout for pirates. And hundreds, thousands and millions of african slaves were taken to Itacare after the nightmarish voyages on slave ships, to be sorted for perpetual bondage or killings…
With the creepy whiff of the cruelness of colonialism, I took the nightbus and ferry back to Salvador again.
PS: Most of the pictures are taken from the bus, from my windowseat.
André and Itacaré. And André tried to convince me that Itacaré had become so touristy that I shouldn’t go. But I had to see it for myself. My romantic vision of picturesque beaches, Virgin Atlantic rainforest, surfbreaks, mellow hippies & surfers and a beautiful little village could only be dismissed by me… I’ve heard that you can’t force a donkey to do (or avoid) something (s)he doesn’t want. Hrmfff… So I went. And allthough nature and surfbreak remains the same, with many true souls, it is a feeling of a dense energy and a forced hippievibe here. Some are just a bit fake.
And hey, is there a Bob-Marley-look-alike-contest going on? Competing under the parole: “We’ve turned our backs to the shitty society, and wanna stay backpacked, dreadlocked and unwashed 4-ever!”
The touristy Bob Marley’s are surfing, skating, zip- and slack-lining. Talking about life, love, vegan food and ecofriendly stuff, allthough they flew inn with carbon-dioxide-emissioned longhault airbuses. But it is definitely a mix here, between these cliches and the real deals. And a lot of good things happens here too. For example yesterday’s reggaefestival at one of the beaches… After my swim, I was hanging out on the beach as the sun was about to set. I listened till I was musically content. I read my book till I was read and then I went to a baiana (Bahian aunt) who feeded me till I was fed, with a local dish rhyming with André, Itacaré and cliché: Acarajé (bean and shrimp fritters).
I’ve started to get a cold, so I praise thy lord and Bob Marley that I’ve been the only one around in my 8-bed-dorm-room during the two previous nights. Now, off to some new destination… But what is the lesson #14 learnt today? Well, I’d better listen to André.
