There is a different sort of green to the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, Colombia. The jungle is bright, but it seems to carry a rich darkness. Below the palm fronds and lazy, fanning leaves are the sounds of tucans, insects and the cracking of dying branches. The guerillas and paramilitary plot and idealize. the Tyrones indians lie mute, their hard work and craftsmanship about the landscape- glanced at, taken home in photographs and memorialized in traveling memmories to be re-told later in emails, on websites, to families and on dates. And the Kogi indiginious people farm the land, cultivating the hillsides for their bounty: coffee, chocolate, pineapple, bananas, plantain and sugar cane. Their children yield machetes, wade about in rubber boots, and carry on the ways of their ancestors. The tourists take it all in.
The Ciudad Perdida is one of the most awe-inspiring places I've ever been. I sat on one of the terraces for hours trying to cement those feelings in my memory forever. Seeing a place and knowing you'll leave it is like seeing a face and knowing you won't see it again soon. You try to study its individual features, what you like about it- the dots that form the painting, but you can almost already feel it fading. I'm really here. This is in front of me right now. For the majority of my life, this will not be facing me, posing. Come home with me, trees. Come a little closer, leaves. Let my brain study your bark and hold it in my taste buds so I'll have this flavor forever.
