Paradise Lost: The National Park Tayrona

Diese Diashow benötigt JavaScript.

My bike well stored with the friendly owner of Casa Familiar, we took a bus to the near national park Tayrona. Yes, it was very hot and the mochila was heavy, packed to survive three days in the wilderness. But we were enraptured by the beautiful scenery when, after three hours of walk in the jungle, we reached the sandy beaches of the coastline in the sunset. It was a picture like sprung from a catalogue of the untapped Carribean, a dreamy vision for the longing soul.

In the falling darkness the steady murmur of the ocean mixed with the rich sounds of the jungle, the crying of micos, little monkeys, the buzz of crickets, the croaking of frogs and the call of sleepy birds. The concierto followed us into our dreams in a light tent on the camping site Don Pedro.

After a hearty breakfast at Panadería Vere (the best bread I’ve tasted since travelling), we discovered the beaches up to Cabo San Juan with two mates we’ve met on the way, with Lazaro and Elisabeth, un día de descanso in preparation of the tough walk we planned for the following day. For supper, Estella prepared delicious Pasta on a log-fire.

Passing Cabo again, we left the sea to traverse the jungle on an old indigenous track mounting up to Pueblito, today few ruins on a green glade which about 800 years ago counted a population of 3000 people. It was a nice stone-paved path through dense thicket, crossing at times little streams and climbing small rocks. In the humid tropical heat our sweating soonly spoilt up our water reserves which we refilled hesitantly in a river.

After about 8 hours we got to Calabazo along the carretera and stopped a bus to Santa Marta. The relaxation was short: in a good distance from our destination the road was blocked by violent manifestations in a suburb which was cut from electricity supply for more than a month. The only way to proceed was again by feet and after passing the blocked bridge on the back of two moto-taxis. Due to these unforeseen complications we missed in Santa Marta the last bus to Minca, a village in the milder climate of 630 meters above sea level. Thanks to Estella’s charming negociation skills, we finally got a cab ride and arrived -after one more walk up the hill of course- at about 8 p.m. a calm and lovely cabaña of a finca on fresh green meadows.