- 'Do you think there are any parasites in this river?' Loren the Dubliner enquires as she lowers herself into the rock pool to swim.
- 'Only the Irish.' I inform her.
Lauren the Dubliner and Jen the Donegal Lass both laugh politely, whilst everyone else in our trek group to the Lost City laughs louder. The three of us are traveling with James from Essex, who says 'Like' and 'Yeah Man' quite a lot for someone that has spent the last seven years working as a fund manager for Coutts in London. Apparently he managed a three billion pound fund before he quit his job, grew a beard and went travelling. John is a bike messenger from Seattle. He has long blond hair, knows the names of all the best types of marijuana sold around the world, and openly admits early on that he hasn't had a shower for three days before the trek began. Celine and Mogitz are a couple from somewhere in Germany that I havent heard of, but that is close to someone else in Germany that I also havent heard of. The final member of our group of eight is a gordita Colombiana called Patricia from Bogota. She is the only one that I am not sure will reach the Lost City, as she already has the guides carrying her rucksack before we even start the trek.
The first 30 minutes of our five day hike to Ciudad Perdida, we tiptoe over rivers and through mud in the sun. Whilst we are cooling in a small rock pool that I hope doesn't have any parasites in it, it starts to rain. The next 3.5 hours are spent walking in the Colombian jungle in torrential rain. Ciudad Perdida beckons. So does a night sleeping in a hammock in soaking wet clothes.
