Colombian Cocaine Labs, Indians and Hiking to the Paramilitary Controlled Lost City of Tayrona

May 2006: In 2006, Colombia was just beginning to open to tourism after decades of war and conflict. Peace agreements between paramilitaries, guerrillas, and the government were in place, but crime remained high, and lawlessness persisted in areas still controlled by armed groups, where foreigners risked indefinite detention or kidnapping for ransom. Much of the country was still off-limits, but I wanted to venture beyond the main cities of Cartagena and Bogotá to explore the countryside and seek adventure.

That’s when I discovered the Lost City of Tayrona—an ancient, 1,000-year-old pre-Colombian Indigenous city, largely buried beneath the jungle in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains along Colombia’s Caribbean coast. The very name intrigued me, but it was the adventure surrounding this place that truly drew me in. The journey to the Lost City would take us on a multi-day trek through remote terrain—crossing coca farms that supplied the cartels, passing through traditional Kogi Indigenous villages, wading through jungle rivers, and ultimately climbing 1,200 stone steps to reach the sacred ruins, shrouded in mystery.

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. This is the story of my weeklong adventure to the Lost City of Tayrona with my brother Jesse and friends Sterling and Jason.

Location of the Lost City

Located in the jungle-clad foothills of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains—towering up to 18,000 feet—the Lost City of Tayrona is an ancient, 1,000-year-old settlement that remained hidden until its rediscovery in 1972. However, the Kogi people, believed to be descendants of the Tayrona civilization, had always known of its existence. They deliberately kept its location a secret, and for good reason—once outsiders found it, looters quickly began stripping the site of its treasures. Gold and priceless artifacts soon appeared on the local black market. Even today, rumors persist that hidden riches remain within the ruins, but the Kogi have remained tight-lipped about their whereabouts.

For decades, both the Lost City and the Kogi people suffered due to ongoing conflict in the region. Government forces, paramilitary groups, and communist guerrillas waged violent battles, often trapping Indigenous communities in the crossfire. Many Kogi were killed, and the area became too dangerous for travelers. In 2003–2004, a group of foreign trekkers was kidnapped by the ELN communist rebels, leading to the site’s closure. It remained off-limits until 2005, when paramilitary groups wrested control from the guerrillas and reopened the area to foreigners. By May 2006—just a year after its reopening and only a couple of years after the kidnappings—travelers had begun to cautiously return. However, it was rumored that a paramilitary group now controlled the region around the Lost City.

In Colombia, right-wing paramilitary groups initially formed as private militias, funded by wealthy landowners seeking protection from communist guerrillas. Over time, these groups evolved into powerful criminal organizations, engaging in drug trafficking, kidnappings for ransom, and extrajudicial executions of those they deemed threats—including government officials. By the time of our visit, we were told that a portion of our entrance fee went directly to the paramilitary group overseeing the area, along with proceeds from the local coca farms and cocaine paste production.

To reach the Lost City, we first flew to Cartagena from Panama City. From there, we traveled by public bus to Barranquilla—the birthplace of Shakira—before continuing onward to Santa Marta. Along the way, we made a stop to visit a unique mud volcano, an experience in itself.

In Santa Marta, I arranged our trek through a local operator who could secure the necessary permits from the paramilitary group controlling the area. Before setting off on the journey to the Lost City, we explored Tayrona National Park, a stunning coastal reserve where pristine rainforest meets the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. It was the perfect introduction to the wild beauty of the region, standing in stark contrast to the rugged, jungle-covered mountains that loomed ahead—the gateway to the Lost City.

We spent a few nights exploring Cartagena, a steamy Caribbean city that evokes the days of Spanish galleons, pirate raids, and hidden gold treasures. With its imposing stone forts, fortified walls, and beautifully preserved colonial buildings, Cartagena had an undeniable charm. At the time, it had yet to be discovered by mass tourism and still retained a raw, untamed appeal.

Part of my fascination with Cartagena stemmed from one of my favorite childhood films, Romancing the Stone, starring Michael Douglas. The city’s old-world atmosphere and sense of adventure had captivated me long before I ever set foot there.

We stayed at Hotel El Viajero, a boutique hotel housed in a colonial-era building. Its highlight was a small rooftop pool overlooking the city, which quickly became my favorite spot in Cartagena. On humid nights, we would retreat to the cool waters, sipping rum and Coke while taking in the city skyline—our own little escape within an already enchanting place.

Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, a massive Spanish fortress built to protect the city’s gold and other treasures plundered from the New World. The Spanish constructed the fortress in the 17th century as a defensive stronghold against relentless pirate attacks and rival European powers seeking to raid their riches. Strategically perched on a hill, it offered commanding views of the coastline and the city, making it nearly impenetrable.

Cartagena Old City

Totumo Volcano is a must-visit destination for anyone traveling through this part of Colombia. One of the largest mud volcanoes in the world, it is heated by underground lava, causing thick, mineral-rich mud to bubble up to the surface of its crater. Visitors can immerse themselves in the mud, which is said to have healing properties. While the temperature is surprisingly mild, the real thrill comes from the sensation of floating in its dense, viscous depths—an experience unlike any other.

To reach the volcano, my friends and I had to hire moped taxis and brave the rain, as the site was far from any bus stop. Once we arrived, we paid a small admission fee, climbed the 15-foot ladder up the volcano’s slope, and jumped straight in. That’s when we encountered the unofficial feature of the Totumo experience: local men stationed inside the mud, eagerly offering unsolicited massages in hopes of earning a tip. Normally, I’d be uncomfortable with any man rubbing my shoulders, but after the grueling Lost City trek, I made an exception—at least for the shoulder massage.

After about 30 minutes of wallowing in the mud, it was time to rinse off in the nearby lagoon. Here, a group of elderly local women awaited us, ready to scrub away every last trace of mud—for a small tip, of course. What we didn’t expect, however, was their thoroughness—as in, nearly pulling our shorts off in their mission to cleanse every last crevice. It was an unexpected but hilarious end to an already bizarre and unforgettable experience.

Mud Volcano

Me being massaged in the mud volcano

Jason harrasing Sterling in the Mud Volcano

We spent a night camping in hammocks along the beach in Tayrona National Park, a breathtaking reserve that protects both dense rainforest and pristine Caribbean coastline. After taking a taxi from Santa Marta, we checked in with the park rangers and hiked an hour through the jungle to reach the shore. The trail wound through thick, tropical vegetation, occasionally opening up to glimpses of the turquoise sea beyond.

We spent the day exploring the park’s secluded beaches, where enormous granite boulders rose dramatically from the sand, creating an almost prehistoric landscape. The water was warm, the waves inviting, and for hours, we swam and relaxed in this untouched paradise.

As night fell, we settled into a hammock camp near the beach, where the evening took on a festive energy. With the sound of crashing waves in the background, we swayed to Colombian music, sipped rum, and danced under the stars—a perfect blend of adventure and celebration in one of the most beautiful places on the Caribbean coast.

Me Swimming in Taryona National Park

The next morning, we were set to meet our pre-arranged driver outside Tayrona National Park, who would take us to the starting point of the Lost City trek. To reach the main road, we had to hike an hour through the jungle, but we decided it would be more fun—and easier—to take horses instead.

I was at the front of our group when the horse handler asked me in Spanish if I had experience riding. Wanting to sound confident, I replied, “Yes.” What I didn’t realize was that he wasn’t just making conversation—he was assessing my skill level to decide which horse to give me. And with my overconfident answer, he handed me the most difficult one.

Within seconds of setting off, my horse bolted into a full-speed sprint through the jungle. The rest of my group was left far behind as I clung on for dear life, dodging low-hanging branches and protruding boulders along the narrow trail. I yanked the reins, shouting “Stop!”—first in English, then in Spanish—but nothing worked. For a fleeting moment, I even considered jumping off, but at that speed, I knew I’d be guaranteed a broken bone—or worse.

So, I held on. Minutes of pure terror passed before we reached an uphill section, finally forcing the horse to slow. The moment I got the chance, I jumped off and walked the rest of the way, shaken but relieved to be back on solid ground.

I didn’t get on another horse again—not until I returned to Colombia almost 15 years later.

Nearly 50% of the world’s cocaine is produced in Colombia, generating over $10 billion in annual profits. Given the scale of the drug trade, it was no surprise that we encountered clear evidence of it during our journey.

Our guide for the Lost City trek picked us up in a colorful, makeshift jeep at the main road outside Tayrona National Park. As we climbed in, we noticed a group of soldiers armed with heavy-duty rifles standing nearby, burning a 10-foot-tall pile of marijuana they had seized from traffickers. We were advised not to take photos—a subtle reminder of the tensions that still gripped the region.

From there, we drove for hours along a rugged, mountainous dirt road to reach the starting point of our five-day trek. The journey began in deforested farmland, where cattle grazed alongside fields of coca—the raw ingredient for cocaine. Many local farmers supplemented their income by growing coca leaves and processing them into cocaine paste using drums of acid, chemicals, and crude filtration methods. The paste was then stored in empty 2-liter Coke bottles and left along the trail, where it would be discreetly picked up by a mule and transported to paramilitary-controlled labs for further processing and dilution before hitting the streets.

For a small fee, we were invited to visit one of these makeshift cocaine labs on a farm. The farmer and his children casually demonstrated the process of manufacturing cocaine paste—an eerie reminder of how deeply ingrained the drug trade was in everyday life here.

That night, we slept in our hammocks outside a farmhouse, not far from drums of freshly processed cocaine paste. Sleep did not come easily. At one point, a drunken Kogi Indian wandered into our camp, collapsed on the ground, and passed out. Later, our rest was further interrupted by the piercing screams of a bull being castrated, as a farmer performed the procedure with nothing more than a knife.

It was a surreal introduction to the realities of rural Colombia—a place where beauty, brutality, and lawlessness coexisted in a way that was both unsettling and unforgettable.

Farmhouse on our trek

farmer rinsing coca leaves to get the extract needed to make coca paste

farmer showing us the final product cocaine paste

Filtering the cocaine paste

Castrating a bull

The Kogi Indians are an isolated Indigenous group who live exclusively in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains. Fiercely private, they see themselves as the caretakers of the Earth—the “Big Brothers”—while the rest of the world, lost and misguided, are the “Little Brothers” who, in their confusion, are destroying the planet.

For centuries, the Kogi remained secluded in their mountain villages, avoiding contact with the outside world. Only in recent years have they begun descending into the lowland villages and cities, wrapped in their distinctive white cotton garments. They claim this is because they realized it was time to teach the Little Brother the error of his ways. However, some speculate that curiosity about the outside world—or the need for help amid Colombia’s civil war, in which they were caught in the crossfire—may have also played a role in their emergence.

As the caretakers of the Lost City, the Kogi have multiple villages hidden deep in the jungle, some of which we passed while hiking the trail. These traditional villages were constructed entirely of wood and thatch, with no electricity or modern infrastructure. Understanding the Kogi’s shy and reserved nature, we only approached those who seemed open and welcoming. Most adults were distant, their expressions unreadable, while only the children showed curiosity toward us.

On the trail, we encountered Kogi men with stern dispositions, each carrying a gourd called a poporo. Inside the poporo was a mixing spoon and a powdered coca leaf blend, which they continuously ground and consumed—a practice deeply rooted in their spiritual and cultural traditions.

Every Kogi, regardless of age or gender, wore simple, potato-sack-like clothing made from handwoven cotton, which they cultivate from the surrounding jungle. Their presence along the trail was a reminder that, despite the modern world encroaching on their lands, they remained deeply connected to their ancient way of life—guardians of a world that outsiders could barely begin to understand.

Kogi Village

Kogi Kids

Kogi Village with Coca Plants 

Me with some Kogi Kids and School Supplies We gave Them

Jesse showing his  photos to the Kogi’s

Kogi’s crossing a river

Angelic Kogi Boy

A Very Stern Kogi man Who Was Not Happy to Come Across Us

The jungle hike was hot, humid, and relentless, with sand fleas and mosquitoes feasting on us as we trudged through the thick, sticky air. Within hours, we were soaked in sweat and covered in itching bug bites. The trail was a constant battle—climbing through mud, crossing rivers and streams, and navigating terrain that left our feet perpetually wet.

To prepare for the wet conditions, we wore Keens—hiking shoes designed for water and rugged terrain—but even they couldn’t save us from the blisters that soon formed from the constant dampness. Every step became a painful reminder of the jungle’s unforgiving nature.

But amid the misery, small moments of paradise broke up the suffering. Every night, we camped near crystal-clear jungle rivers, where we washed off the sweat and grime, swam beneath waterfalls, and cooled our burning feet in the refreshing water. These moments, frolicking in the cool jungle pools, became the highlight of the trek—brief but glorious escapes from the brutal conditions.

At night, we slept in hammocks inside open-air shelters, with only mosquito nets separating us from the jungle. Occasionally, Kogi villagers would emerge from the shadows around mealtime, drawn by the smell of our food. We shared our meals with them in quiet exchanges, bridging our vastly different worlds over simple bites of sustenance.

Wolf Spider

Crossing a river in a cable cart

Swimming in a waterfall

Sterling on a small rock island

Jason, Jesse and Sterling getting cuddly

As we climbed higher into the cloud forest, the landscape became increasingly breathtaking. The surrounding mountains and dense jungle stretched endlessly before us, shrouded in a thickening mist. The air grew cooler, a welcome relief from the heat of the lower jungle.

At one point, after crossing a river, our guide led us into the jungle and pointed to something barely visible in the foliage—a hidden stone staircase, emerging seemingly from nowhere, disappearing into the dense green canopy above. It was a surreal sight. The ancient stairway, 1,200 steps in total, led straight to the Lost City, perched atop a rainforest-covered mountain.

Unlike Machu Picchu, much about the Lost City and its original inhabitants remains a mystery. The city is built on a series of stone terraces, carefully carved from the mountainside by the ancient Tayrona civilization. Our guide showed us a large rock covered in engravings, which he believed to be a map of the city in its prime. Yet, much of its past remains unknown, and the surrounding jungle is still rumored to conceal hidden treasures.

That night, we slept in hammocks under an open shelter, listening to the steady rhythm of rain pounding against the jungle. Despite the downpour, we explored the ancient ruins by torchlight, feeling as if we had stepped back in time. We even swam in a natural rock pool, once believed to be the private bathing pool of the Tayrona king.

Aside from a few Kogi Indians passing silently through the ruins, we had the entire Lost City to ourselves. Over the five days of trekking, we encountered no other hikers—until the very last day as we made our way out. To have such a magnificent, ancient place entirely to ourselves was an experience beyond words—one of those rare moments where adventure, history, and pure wonder converge.

Ancient Staircase Climbing to Tayrona

View from Lost City

Terraces of the Lost City Maintained by the Kogis