As we wandered the clean, seemingly harmless streets of Colombia’s cultural capital a certain feeling sat with us apart from discomfort of sweating like we’d spent the last three days in a sauna. The old colonial city of Cartagena on the Caribbean coast offered tropical refuge from the busy polluted streets of the nations true capital, Bogota. However, it still left a certain desire unfulfilled among us. Prior to embarking on the trip to a country notorious for drug cartels, kidnappings and violence we had been the sounding board of warnings from family and friends. Don’t travel alone at night, don’t speak to anyone you don’t know and preferably don’t do anything at all. The fact of the matter is, any person that goes to the trouble of travelling to another country, particularly one as contrasting in culture as Colombia possesses a sense of adventure to some extent. Upon the realization that naive mental images of people being blindfolded and dragged into moving vans were purely a fabrication resultant of western hysteria, we knew we would need to look elsewhere to fulfil our desire for the unknown. As it would turn out we wouldn’t have to look too far.

 
  Over a few mojitos at the hostel bar with a young British couple it didn’t take long for us to be sold on the idea of spending four nights in Tayrona National Park. The knowledge that it was once an area of paramilitary activity and the fact that eight foreigners were kidnapped there some years ago wasn’t enough to deter us, let alone the sight of the woman’s legs covered in hundreds of swollen mosquito bites. The Ciudad Perdida (Lost City) trek takes hiking enthusiasts 48km’s into the depths of the jungle, the destination: ancient ruins abandoned during the Spanish conquest and rediscovered in 1972. So it entails a leisurely five-day stroll through the exotic Colombian jungle, right? 

 
  Piling into the 1990-something Landcruiser we became acquainted with the rest of the tour group, our guide Johnathan and translator Alex. As we endured the bumpy ascent to the trek’s starting point, the consensus was that if the car was twenty years old, the suspension was not a day younger. I would only taking my eyes away from the sheer cliff face to the left of the road to examine the rag wrapped around our driver’s hand. It served the purpose of absorbing the sweat and preventing his hand slipping from the steering wheel, sending us all crashing to our deaths.


  “Where’s Johnathon?” Asked one of the Englishmen.


  “Oh he was feeling a but sick, so he’s up on the roof.” Replied Alex with a degree of nonchalance, as we were simultaneously thrust into the air for the hundredth time.


  When we reached our jump-off point, following a generous lunch we set off into the jungle, carrying feelings of adventure and intrigue. Within minutes of commencing walking we were covered from head to toe in either sweat, moisture from the air or most probably, both. The exhausting heat was compensated for by the Buritaca River, which you essentially follow through the valley until you reach the Lost City. Crossing it fifteen or twenty times meant there were many opportunities to cool off in the picturesque swimming holes. The trek itself is somewhat challenging with solid uphill sections however there are many chances to break, catch your breath and do your best to avoid inhaling each other’s odour. Perhaps the toughest part of the five days is the ascent to the ruins, via some 1,200 stone steps.


  Once you have conquered the ancient staircase you have the chance to explore the city, receive a brief history lesson and meet military that patrol the area.


  Clouds formed above us and light raindrops fell from the sky as we wandered around the ruins. It wasn’t until we finished our lunch in the home of the shaman, with the rain now increasingly heavy outside that Johnathan turned to us with a serious look on his face and gave us the ultimatum.


  “We go now, or we spend the night here.”


  We shared looks of confusion as we scoped out our potential accommodation for the night, consisting of nothing more than a single room with a table and chairs. It was then explained to us that when it rained like this, the river rises incredibly quickly and like Alphonse Gangitano, was not something you want to get caught on the wrong side of. Needing to cross the river three times to get back to our camp for the night we took a moment to discuss, another moment to comprehend the thought of spending the night on the hard wooden floor and then made our move.


  Down the stairs we came as did the rain, growing heavier which each precariously placed step. The now slippery, stone stairs more resembling a waterslide than means for us to get to safety. Upon arrival at the bottom Johnathan was waiting at the river. True to his word it was now a gushing mass of water of around waist height, tenfold the force of what we had encountered earlier that day. Luckily, Johnathan had made the descent a lot quicker than us and tied a rope between two trees on either side of the river to help us across. The look on his face, yelling,


  “Rapido! Rapido!”


  Pulling us across the river, this was cause for us to realise the seriousness of the situation.

 
  The river was now above waist-height and unable to be crossed so we were forced to take an alternate route, as Jonathan would shout to us above the heavy tropical rain. Moving swiftly through the dense forest, climbing over boulders and fallen tree trunks in the pouring rain with time against us you couldn’t help but feel a little Rambo-like. However, our imaginations were quickly reeled in. As we made our way along the hillside we were forced to cross a newly formed waterfall via a narrow ledge no wider than two feet. Having to negotiate a foot or two of gushing water that threatened to throw us off balance, the weight of the situation sunk in as jagged rocks stared up from below, just one wrong step away from a fifty-metre fall to the valley floor.

 
  The following day, on our return route we crossed paths with the tour guide of another group, who held a brief discussion with Johnathan. The word then spread throughout the group detailing the incident of the day before.  A French student of 23 years had been caught up in the river current and swept downstream. His guide and the rest of the group were rendered helpless on the bank with the sight of him being rag-dolled amongst the rocks and boulders. They were still trying to locate the body.


  For an hour we walked and no one said a word. The overwhelming sense of pure tragedy swallowed the group as we trudged through the forest, in shock and disbelief at how real the danger had been, unbeknownst to us. Johnathan informed us that we would not be swimming that day despite the sweltering heat, out of respect. It was evident that the guides as a collective were deeply affected by incidents such as these. As a tourist you place your full confidence in them and their knowledge of the wilderness and as Alex informed us,


  “The guides would do anything to save the life of a tourist”.


  As it would turn out, we would be provided with evidence of this soon enough.


  After a steep incline, we stopped for a rest. Alex our translator tapped me on the shoulder from behind. Pointing to the ground and then pushing me forward, beckoning for me to move quickly I had one glance at the coral-patterned snake within a foot of my left shoe before moving forward. Alerting the rest of the group in the process we moved down the path while Johnathan pushed past us wielding his machete.


  We waited down the path for a minute or two until we he called us back


  “Chicos! Chicos!”


  The snake lay dazed on the path, still alive but moving slowly. Colombian men are known for their machismo and this was no exception as he proceeded to kill the snake in front of us. Coming from Australia, the land of the deadliest snakes in the world I naturally assumed that this snake was harmless in comparison, but back at camp over lunch I was informed of how lucky I was.


  The snake we would learn was toxic enough to paralyse you within twenty minutes, have you bleeding from every orifice within thirty. The guides don’t carry anti-venom as once shaken becomes useless. The snake was acting in a strange manner, as if it had just eaten a big meal and therefore wasn’t acting normally, otherwise it may have been a different story. The casual manner with which I was delivered this information was testament to the Colombian value of life, with its deep seeded roots in violence.

 
  As we sat around the pizza restaurant the next day sipping our cokes, the local newspaper was passed around the table and to our shock, the front page beared the graphic, candid image of the young students body battered and bruised on the riverbank. Now among civilization and partially detached from the encounters of the last five days, the image was a chilling reminder of the fragility of life and more than sufficiently fulfilled our desire for adventure.