Colombia's Lost City may be next Machu Picchu

Indiana Jones was never this wet.

River water sloshes in my shoes, sweat soaks my shirt, and rain pours from my cap into my eyes. 

My backpack clings to me like a hot, soggy slug as I struggle up a steep trail in the jungles of northern Colombia. 

I'm on day three of a six-day trek to Ciudad Perdida, the "Lost City," a place shrouded in mystery as thick as the mist covering the mountaintops above me.

Despite the hardship, the 25 miles of trail is dotted with dozens of backpackers as Ciudad Perdida is fast becoming the next Machu Picchu, the go to destination for adventure travelers in South America.

I came to experience the journey before the trails are graded, the schedules formalized, the luxury hotels arrive and the place becomes just another Epcot outpost for casual tourists. 

I wanted to feel just a little bit like Indiana Jones, embarking on an adventure to discover for myself an ancient site known to the outside world for less than 40 years.

Indigenous capital

Colombia's indigenous Tayrona peoples made Ciudad Perdida their capital from approximately A.D. 700 until the conquistadors' arrival in the 1500s. 

Following the usual Spanish trifecta of disease, looting and slaughter, the surviving Tayrona disappeared into the hills, abandoning their city to be lost beneath the fast-growing jungles.

There the city remained undiscovered until the 1970s when a new generation of grave robbers dug into dozens of stone-ringed terraces filled with bones, artifacts and treasures. Before the government stepped in, the area was known as "The Green Hell," for its savage battles between factions of robbers, squatting farmers, bandits and drug producers.

For my guided group of eight, the first ascent into the jungle becomes our own green hell. No air moves between the thick foliage surrounding us. 

The heat and humidity make it feel like we're climbing a Stairmaster in a steam room.

A Brazilian tax lawyer among us nearly keels over during the climb, stopping to sway sickly and clutch his chest. 

Glad for the excuse to stop, we offer him water, a walking stick, a candy bar. 

Our small wiry Colombian guide, who at age 56 has done the hike well over a hundred times, grabs the Brazilian's backpack, and wearing that and his own, trots up the trail like a mountain goat.

Organized trip payoff

Just as I'm doubting the wisdom of having spent money to join a death march, we reach our first summit. 

There, awaiting us, is the greatest watermelon ever created. Cut into pieces by the guide's machete, the cool, sweet slices of goodness lay spread on wooden tables as a reward for the ascent. 

A small shack there also sells Gatorade, granola bars, even menthol cigarettes, for those seeking that refreshing smoky mint taste.

We hike up another trail fully exposed to the brutal sun, and turn a corner to hear laughter. 

Giggling hikers from a group ahead of us are gleefully flinging themselves from a 10-foot boulder into a deep pool of cold water fed by rapids powered by the waterfalls high above us.

Body temperatures lowered, stomachs filled with fresh fruit, we power up to our first campsite. 

There we reap the benefit of money spent on an organized trip: Mules have arrived ahead of us with food and cooking supplies. 

A long series of shelters enclose rows of hammocks with blankets. 

Surprisingly, despite the oppressive daytime heat, the nights are chilly at the 2,000-foot elevation.

We feast on bandeja paisa, the typical Colombian peasant's platter of rice, beans, meat, fried eggs and plantains. 

The meal is prepared over an open fire, while tanks of water refill our canteens and run the camp's basic flush toilets and showers. 

For an after-dinner treat, we take advantage of our last day of electricity and visit the camp store to buy cold beers.

Original link : Sfgate