“There is a brave traveler who dares to venture into the dense tropical forests of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta to admire a pre-Hispanic city…the type of hike undertaken by hardy individuals with legs resistant to mud and heads that are not so sane if they truly enjoy the situation.”
So it was written of the Lost City, an ancient city rising on the steep slopes of Cerro Corea in the jungles of northern Colombia. Following the Spanish’s arrival in the 16th century, the city’s inhabitants, the Sierra Nevada’s indigenous tribes, deserted it, and their descendants kept it a secret over the centuries. They revere it as Teyuna, the heart of a network of villages inhabited by their forebears, the Tairona. Then in 1972, a gang of looters on the hunt for Precolumbian artifacts stumbled across it. They called it the “Green Hell” for the heat, the mosquitoes, and the arduous trek required to get there. Words slowly leaked out as gold figurines and ceramic urns began to turn up in the local black market. In 1975, it was finally revealed to the world as La Ciudad Perdida, or the “Lost City.”
Hidden away in a vast, fifteen-thousand-square-mile expanse of thick jungles and mountains, the only means to reach the Lost City is walking: a 44-km 5-day hike into tropical rainforests, crossing steadfast rivers. Rain comes daily after noon, filling mountainsides with mud, making it all a little more treacherous. In the villages, little indigenous children stare along the fences with inquisitive eyes. Then finally, the city unfolds itself in ruins, of stone walls veiled in moss and vines twisting along as if swallowing them all into the heart of the forest. Those who live here call it the “heart of the world.” Another 1200 steps of steep climb rewards a bird eye view of the forest shrouded in mist and mystery. To behold the power of the forest, witness that which is made by man be consumed by its forces – of water, of trees, of earth, and of time. The spirit of the forest reveals itself in man’s ruins, reclaiming his concrete to the mysterious, bringing him back to nature, his ego back into humility.
Twelve-thousand miles across the Pacific Ocean, another building stands in ruins in the heart of the Southeast Asian jungle: the Buddhist temple Ta Prohm, a part of the Angkor Wat complex in Cambodia. A Sanskrit inscription on stone, still in place, gives details of the temple’s inhabitants. Built in 1186, it took almost 80,000 people to maintain the temple, including 18 great priests, 2740 officials, 2202 assistants, and 615 dancers. Among the property belonging to the temple were a set of golden dishes weighing more than 500 kilograms, 35 diamonds, 40620 pearls, 4540 precious stones, 876 veils from China, 512 silk beds, and 523 parasols. Following the fall of the Khmer Empire in the 15th century, the temple was completely abandoned and not rediscovered until 1874 by the French naturalist Henri Mouhot.
If Angkor Wat demonstrates the genius of the ancient Khmers, Ta Prohm is a testament to the depth and power of the forest. Untouched by man over the centuries, the temple is overtaken by fig, banyan, and kapok trees, spreading their roots over stone footings, fracturing walls and terraces. Tree trunks coil stone pillars, their branches and leaves entwine to form roofs. In 1934, H.W. Ponder wrote in Cambodian Glory: The Mystery of the Deserted Khmer Cities and Their Vanished Splendour: “Everywhere around you, you see Nature in its dual role of destroyer and consoler; strangling on the one hand, and healing on the other; no sooner splitting the carved stones asunder than she dresses their wounds with cool, velvety mosses and binds them with her most delicate tendrils; a conflict of moods so contradictory and feminine as to prove once more, if proof were needed, how well “Dame” Nature merits her feminine title! So the temple is held in a stranglehold of trees. Stone and wood clasp each other in grim hostility, yet all is silent without any visible movements indicating their struggle as if they were wrestlers suddenly petrified, struck motionless in the middle of a fight. The rounds in this battle were not measured in minutes, but in centuries.”
If abandoned cities and temples crumble beneath the forces of nature, gardens, left alone over time, transform into forests themselves, a particular kind that is no less fantastical and mysterious. Such is the Sacro Bosco, a garden not too far from Rome with a story shrouded in mystery and myths. Built in 1542 by Vicino, Duke of Bomarzo, it was said that the Sacro Bosco was born out of an embittered affair between the Duke’s wife and his younger brother. The duke had his brother murdered and then commemorated the saga and his life with his garden through a collection of monstrous monuments and their terrifying symbolizations. But no one really knows for sure. In Les Monstres de Bomarzo, André Pieyre de Mandiargues wrote, “One is baffled by so tenacious an obscurity…From the moment one undertakes to dig a little into questions that are posed by the monuments of Bomarzo, the darkness that lies at their feet is so thick that it would seem that it has been accumulated intentionally.” Untouched for four centuries, the garden became a jungle of shrubbery and creeping vines. Lichens dressed weathered statues, standing in tarnished decay.
At the entrance to the Sacro Bosco stands the Mouth of Hell, the Ogre, a grinning monster with a gaping mouth that seems frozen in a cry of terror, to symbolize the entrance to hell. It serves as an illusion, that the door opening to the realm of the dead is led back to the world of the living. On the upper lip of the ogre is inscribed, “Ogni pensiero vol [?]”, or “Every thought flies”, with the last word of which now defaced. Other inscriptions are equally astonishing and symbolically puzzling, such as the writing on one of the crouching sphinxes: “He who with lifted eyebrows and lips compressed does not go through this place does not even admire the seven wonders of the world.” Throughout the garden, statues appear seething and terrifying, such as the chilling statue of Hercules, some 26 feet tall, calmly tearing apart another giant. At the other end is the Leaning House, a two-story pavilion purposely built askew, suggested by scholars as to intentionally challenge the cultural and artistic ideals of Renaissance architecture.
Since 1954, the garden has been restored, attracting curious visitors from around the world. It became a delightful find for surrealist artists such as Salvador Dali. Now locals come here to relax, to stroll, and to picnic on Sunday. Perhaps it serves as a reminder that man’s fury and murderous tragedies, even those written into stone, shall fade over time. What’s left behind are fables and fairy tales, and spiritual enchantments. Inspired by the spirit of the forest, this dress is crafted from a silk rectangle, adorned with a silk square of butterfly and bird motifs, feathers and quills, gliding above a dense, deep forest.
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