The ever-present element that has struck me about Central America has been the music. Music is said to be a form of expression, compatibility, passion and human bonding, but never has it been more apparent to me than in Central America. The music has varied widely over my travels of the last six weeks and has always been a constant. Blaring from speakers in homes or stores, buses or public loudspeakers, this area of the world thrives on music.
In Belize, it was American hip-hop influenced and in Guatemala, our mini-bus driver had the salsa-pop mix turned up so loud I had to cover my ears. He saw my discomfort in his rear-view mirror and changed the radio station. Nirvana soothingly infiltrated the bus, then Eric Clapton. Two songs was all he allowed, then back to the brain-shattering rhythms of the local pop station. On our La Moskitia journey in Honduras, we frequently drove through small villages where local radio poured out from the homes. The buses in Nicaragua frequently blared reggae-ton, a Caribbean influenced hip-hop, while the international cafes in Granada played a soothing chill-out mixture.
In Tamarindo, anything goes. One night I found myself sweating and hypnotized by the reggae chants coming from a DJ in Babylon, a local bar near the ocean, while another night brought us to the super-slick Bar 1 where house beats and surf videos on a big screen behind the bar played side by side. Down the street from Bar 1, a gorgeous Columbian couple had set up a business, selling delicious pineapple infused burgers until the wee hours of the morning. An enchanting rhythm of salsa and merengue inspires those waiting for burgers to break out in a hip bump or two. In fact, the music everywhere inspires people to drop what they’re doing and dance. I saw grown men dancing together in the markets on Av Central in Panama yesterday when their favourite song came on the radio. Young men show off complicated steps, while women may join hands and sing a line or two. A group of girls from Argentina staying at our hostel in Tamarindo brought out a guitar one night and sang everything from the Cardigan’s Zombie to Fleetwood Mac and The Cowboy Junkies. Many of the songs transported me back to my own childhood, filled with warm, summer memories with my parents. I have always loved the power of music and the love of it in this culture makes me feel very at home.
Friday, February 27, 2009
La Pura Vida
I have spent the better part of the last two weeks in a small beach town in Costa Rica. Tamarindo was not my first choice for Costa Rican destination, thinking I would instead prefer the Caribbean coast. However, the coast was flooded and rain-drenched, so I chose the Pacific and Tamarindo, popular with ex-pats and tourists alike, captured me. Many chastise Tamarindo for not being the “real” Costa Rica. Many complain of the influx of tourists, development and general Westernization. These are facts yes, and truthfully the beach is not even that nice (by Costa Rican standards) but what held me there were the people I met: the human connection. And, of course, the chance to work on my fledgling surfing skills everyday was hard to refuse...
I arrived in Tamarindo on February, 6 after a hot and dusty bus ride or two from San Jose. Tamarindo has the most beautiful sunsets and at low tide, the dark reefs become visible, providing a sharp contrast to the fading pinks and purples. Tamarindo became a charmed place for me that evening when I received a text message from my best friend in Canada, saying she had become engaged that day in Banff, to another long-time friend of mine. Excited and ecstatic for the two of them, so perfectly in love, I immediately warmed to my surroundings and embraced Tamarindo as the backdrop for such life-changing news.
As the days unfolded and melted into one, I met people from all over the world, each with his or her own story to tell and all of us united by one common love: travel. Surprisingly, many of the people I met had quit their jobs, with nothing secured for their eventual return home. Throwing caution to the wind and in search of the next great adventure, these people were inspiring, yet grounded in their reasons and beliefs for their choices. We ventured off to remote beaches, Playa Negra and Playa Avionnas, where I was lucky enough to catch my first “big” wave and surf all afternoon into the setting sun. We sat around our homey, Argentina family-run hostel at night, exchanging laughs and speculating on the cow-friendly theme of the hostel: La Botella de Leche. We ventured out to one of the many bars around Tamarindo offering free drinks for ladies on any given night of the week and frequented local sodas, embracing the national dish casado (rice and beans with chicken or fish). Days were spent surfing at high tide, fighting off sandstorms at the beach and lounging at a nearby pool with a diverse and intellectually stimulating group of young women whose ideas and passion influenced my own direction.
And then I woke up one morning and checked the date and realized I had to leave in the next two days if I was going to make it to Panama City in time for my flight to Rio de Janeiro (via Caracas, Venezeula) for Carnaval. Where had the time gone? I had missed the chance to see some of Panama, namely Bocas Del Toro, but I was at ease with the decision to stay in Tamarindo. Sometimes a girl just needs to plant roots somewhere and stop for awhile. Meet some great people and get to know them long enough that they make her consider things she never questioned before. Give her a new outlook on old perspectives. The people I met in Tamarindo did just that and if it hadn’t been for them, I doubt I would have stayed more than a few days.
Michelle and I arrived in Panama City 3 days ago, with just enough time to visit the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal and tour through the historic, and wildly chaotic, neighbourhoods of Casco Viejo. We also met a couple of great people at our new hostel who had just gotten off the infamous 5 day sailing voyage from Cartagena, Columbia to Colon, Panama. Tales of days on the choppy water, snorkelling, sleeping on deck and drunken sailors made my head ache for a longing for this experience... maybe on the way home? And for now, I am on a layover in Manaus, Brazil awaiting the last leg of a 24 hour journey that will end in Rio de Janeiro and the greatest party on earth. I have been dreaming of Rio since I can first remember visions of travelling and it is hard to believe that in less than 12 hours I will be there...
I arrived in Tamarindo on February, 6 after a hot and dusty bus ride or two from San Jose. Tamarindo has the most beautiful sunsets and at low tide, the dark reefs become visible, providing a sharp contrast to the fading pinks and purples. Tamarindo became a charmed place for me that evening when I received a text message from my best friend in Canada, saying she had become engaged that day in Banff, to another long-time friend of mine. Excited and ecstatic for the two of them, so perfectly in love, I immediately warmed to my surroundings and embraced Tamarindo as the backdrop for such life-changing news.
As the days unfolded and melted into one, I met people from all over the world, each with his or her own story to tell and all of us united by one common love: travel. Surprisingly, many of the people I met had quit their jobs, with nothing secured for their eventual return home. Throwing caution to the wind and in search of the next great adventure, these people were inspiring, yet grounded in their reasons and beliefs for their choices. We ventured off to remote beaches, Playa Negra and Playa Avionnas, where I was lucky enough to catch my first “big” wave and surf all afternoon into the setting sun. We sat around our homey, Argentina family-run hostel at night, exchanging laughs and speculating on the cow-friendly theme of the hostel: La Botella de Leche. We ventured out to one of the many bars around Tamarindo offering free drinks for ladies on any given night of the week and frequented local sodas, embracing the national dish casado (rice and beans with chicken or fish). Days were spent surfing at high tide, fighting off sandstorms at the beach and lounging at a nearby pool with a diverse and intellectually stimulating group of young women whose ideas and passion influenced my own direction.
And then I woke up one morning and checked the date and realized I had to leave in the next two days if I was going to make it to Panama City in time for my flight to Rio de Janeiro (via Caracas, Venezeula) for Carnaval. Where had the time gone? I had missed the chance to see some of Panama, namely Bocas Del Toro, but I was at ease with the decision to stay in Tamarindo. Sometimes a girl just needs to plant roots somewhere and stop for awhile. Meet some great people and get to know them long enough that they make her consider things she never questioned before. Give her a new outlook on old perspectives. The people I met in Tamarindo did just that and if it hadn’t been for them, I doubt I would have stayed more than a few days.
Michelle and I arrived in Panama City 3 days ago, with just enough time to visit the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal and tour through the historic, and wildly chaotic, neighbourhoods of Casco Viejo. We also met a couple of great people at our new hostel who had just gotten off the infamous 5 day sailing voyage from Cartagena, Columbia to Colon, Panama. Tales of days on the choppy water, snorkelling, sleeping on deck and drunken sailors made my head ache for a longing for this experience... maybe on the way home? And for now, I am on a layover in Manaus, Brazil awaiting the last leg of a 24 hour journey that will end in Rio de Janeiro and the greatest party on earth. I have been dreaming of Rio since I can first remember visions of travelling and it is hard to believe that in less than 12 hours I will be there...
Monday, February 16, 2009
Nicaragua
February 3, 2009
After the adventure of La Moskitia I am ready for some downtime and Granada, Nicaragua has thusly provided. This city seems to be a “Little Spain.” Beautiful and colourful Spanish-colonial style building and cafes line the main street leading down to Lake Nicaragua, where people sit and eat crepes or drink coffee. A great yellow and white fringed church stands in the center and I one day I witness a funeral taking place. A black hearse, drawn by two horses covered in a white crochet blanket wait patiently outside. The mourners do not appear sad however. They are singing uplifting hymns in Spanish and many have smiles on their faces.
The main street in Granada is a furious bustle of women selling fruit and baking, men selling trinkets, and children selling small-handmade bracelets. Everyone calls out as you pass, hoping to entice you with whatever product he or she is selling. Loud hip-hop and American pop blares from many of the stores and skinny horses pulling wooden carts compete with tour buses and cars for a spot on the narrow street. As night falls this city becomes nearly unrecognizable from the daytime hustle. Shops close up and the street vendors disappear. People go home to families or gatherings with friends. Work for the day is done and if you want a late-night snack you will be hard pressed to find any “street-meat” in this town.
A few days later and we make our way to the Laguna de Apoyo and a little-Canadian owned hostel called “Crater’s Edge.” Dry rainforest surrounds the crater-lake, which set in a valley thirty minutes outside of Granada. I spend a day swimming in clear waters and wondering if the tales I’ve heard about crocodiles in the water are really true.
Moving along to Isla de Ometepe, Nicaragua’s ecological hotspot, but to get there we must first survive the bus ride to Rivas. It’s in a typical chicken bus (old yellow school bus) and it is packed 3 to a seat and 2 wide down the aisle. It is hot as hell and I have a man’s large rear-end in my face the entire ride. And just when I think it is impossible to fit more people on the bus, the driver stops as his assistant hangs out the door, yelling: “REE-vas, REE-vas” and more people cram onto the bus. On the ferry ride to the island we are followed by an ever growing flock of seagulls that dive-bomb into the water to catch bits of crackers we throw to them. They fly directly beside the ferry, watching intently for handouts and fighting in the air with each other over the scraps.
I catch my first glimpse of the beautiful peaks of Volcan Concepcion in the north and Volcan Maderas in the south, rising out of the water like giants guarding the narrow strip of land which joins them. Concepcion is the larger of the two and its’ top is circled by clouds, its’ sides covered in jungle and fissures where lava once flowed. This island was formed by the lava from the two volcanoes meeting and creating a thin strip of connecting land. It is really a place fit for fairytales: the ecological diversity present on the small island is a natural wonder.
Our second day on Ometepe is a Sunday and there is next to no public transportation, a fact Michelle and I discover the hard way. We decide to move hostels, to one on the other side of the island and set out walking with our packs, assuming we will easily be able to hitch a ride with a “collectivo” pick-up of some sort. Two hours and three rejections later and the heat is absolutely stifling, my shirt has melted to my back, and we are still a long way from our destination. On the upside, we’ve walked through a few villages and small farms and gotten some waves from stunned people. We finally work out a ride for $2 with a tourism office truck. Shortly after the bumpy ride begins (the roads are atrocious here) the driver puts in a CD of 80s pop and “Rains in Africa” blares out of tinny speakers. After that it’s Madonna’s “La Isla Bonita” and we laugh and sing along with our driver who obviously enjoys the music.
Later that afternoon, after safely arriving at our destination, I jump off an old concrete dock for a swim in the lake and marvel at the volcanoes in the background. The hostel we have chosen, Hacienda Merida, was a large coffee plantation for the family of the former rulers of Nicaragua, the Somozas. Tracks still run through the property to the concrete loading dock on the lake, where ships would be filled with shipments sent back to the mainland. After the Sandinistas overthrew General Somoza in 1979, the Hacienda was confiscated and in 2002 was revitalized and leased to its present caretaker, Alvaro Molina. I sat down for dinner one night with Alvaro and he told me: “This Hacienda can be compared to the history of Nicaragua: prosperity and wealth (for some) violence, abandonment, decline and then reconstruction, revolution, and a new life.” He describes himself as the caretaker of the Hacienda in more ways than one, explaining to me that “we try to be conscious of the environment here.”
An intelligent and passionate man, Alvaro scoffs at the so-called attempts at “ecotourism” found all over Nicaragua and Costa Rica. He says few establishments have succeeded at a fully ecologically aware business, while all of them claim they are eco-friendly. One of the worst is a very expensive hotel, twenty miles outside of San Juan del Sur in the south. It purports to be an “eco-lodge” but does not pay local taxes or employ local people.
Alvaro runs a bilingual school on the farm grounds, using donated lap tops and volunteers from the hostel. Children who get good grades can work on his other project, a bold idea to educate both the Nica’s (Nicaraguans) and tourists. He is making colourful, yet indestructible fibreglass and wood road signs aimed at raising awareness. He sadly tells me about the decline in sea turtle populations because the eggs are eaten for fertility and the loss of many native bird species in Nicaragua to pet industries overseas. The fanciest hotels in Managua have nearly extinct scarlet macaws in huge cages on their lawns but Alvaro says people need to consider where these birds have come from. Alvaro introduces me to a beautiful ten month old girl and says “I have a daughter now and I have to make sure the future is better for her.”
After the adventure of La Moskitia I am ready for some downtime and Granada, Nicaragua has thusly provided. This city seems to be a “Little Spain.” Beautiful and colourful Spanish-colonial style building and cafes line the main street leading down to Lake Nicaragua, where people sit and eat crepes or drink coffee. A great yellow and white fringed church stands in the center and I one day I witness a funeral taking place. A black hearse, drawn by two horses covered in a white crochet blanket wait patiently outside. The mourners do not appear sad however. They are singing uplifting hymns in Spanish and many have smiles on their faces.
The main street in Granada is a furious bustle of women selling fruit and baking, men selling trinkets, and children selling small-handmade bracelets. Everyone calls out as you pass, hoping to entice you with whatever product he or she is selling. Loud hip-hop and American pop blares from many of the stores and skinny horses pulling wooden carts compete with tour buses and cars for a spot on the narrow street. As night falls this city becomes nearly unrecognizable from the daytime hustle. Shops close up and the street vendors disappear. People go home to families or gatherings with friends. Work for the day is done and if you want a late-night snack you will be hard pressed to find any “street-meat” in this town.
A few days later and we make our way to the Laguna de Apoyo and a little-Canadian owned hostel called “Crater’s Edge.” Dry rainforest surrounds the crater-lake, which set in a valley thirty minutes outside of Granada. I spend a day swimming in clear waters and wondering if the tales I’ve heard about crocodiles in the water are really true.
Moving along to Isla de Ometepe, Nicaragua’s ecological hotspot, but to get there we must first survive the bus ride to Rivas. It’s in a typical chicken bus (old yellow school bus) and it is packed 3 to a seat and 2 wide down the aisle. It is hot as hell and I have a man’s large rear-end in my face the entire ride. And just when I think it is impossible to fit more people on the bus, the driver stops as his assistant hangs out the door, yelling: “REE-vas, REE-vas” and more people cram onto the bus. On the ferry ride to the island we are followed by an ever growing flock of seagulls that dive-bomb into the water to catch bits of crackers we throw to them. They fly directly beside the ferry, watching intently for handouts and fighting in the air with each other over the scraps.
I catch my first glimpse of the beautiful peaks of Volcan Concepcion in the north and Volcan Maderas in the south, rising out of the water like giants guarding the narrow strip of land which joins them. Concepcion is the larger of the two and its’ top is circled by clouds, its’ sides covered in jungle and fissures where lava once flowed. This island was formed by the lava from the two volcanoes meeting and creating a thin strip of connecting land. It is really a place fit for fairytales: the ecological diversity present on the small island is a natural wonder.
Our second day on Ometepe is a Sunday and there is next to no public transportation, a fact Michelle and I discover the hard way. We decide to move hostels, to one on the other side of the island and set out walking with our packs, assuming we will easily be able to hitch a ride with a “collectivo” pick-up of some sort. Two hours and three rejections later and the heat is absolutely stifling, my shirt has melted to my back, and we are still a long way from our destination. On the upside, we’ve walked through a few villages and small farms and gotten some waves from stunned people. We finally work out a ride for $2 with a tourism office truck. Shortly after the bumpy ride begins (the roads are atrocious here) the driver puts in a CD of 80s pop and “Rains in Africa” blares out of tinny speakers. After that it’s Madonna’s “La Isla Bonita” and we laugh and sing along with our driver who obviously enjoys the music.
Later that afternoon, after safely arriving at our destination, I jump off an old concrete dock for a swim in the lake and marvel at the volcanoes in the background. The hostel we have chosen, Hacienda Merida, was a large coffee plantation for the family of the former rulers of Nicaragua, the Somozas. Tracks still run through the property to the concrete loading dock on the lake, where ships would be filled with shipments sent back to the mainland. After the Sandinistas overthrew General Somoza in 1979, the Hacienda was confiscated and in 2002 was revitalized and leased to its present caretaker, Alvaro Molina. I sat down for dinner one night with Alvaro and he told me: “This Hacienda can be compared to the history of Nicaragua: prosperity and wealth (for some) violence, abandonment, decline and then reconstruction, revolution, and a new life.” He describes himself as the caretaker of the Hacienda in more ways than one, explaining to me that “we try to be conscious of the environment here.”
An intelligent and passionate man, Alvaro scoffs at the so-called attempts at “ecotourism” found all over Nicaragua and Costa Rica. He says few establishments have succeeded at a fully ecologically aware business, while all of them claim they are eco-friendly. One of the worst is a very expensive hotel, twenty miles outside of San Juan del Sur in the south. It purports to be an “eco-lodge” but does not pay local taxes or employ local people.
Alvaro runs a bilingual school on the farm grounds, using donated lap tops and volunteers from the hostel. Children who get good grades can work on his other project, a bold idea to educate both the Nica’s (Nicaraguans) and tourists. He is making colourful, yet indestructible fibreglass and wood road signs aimed at raising awareness. He sadly tells me about the decline in sea turtle populations because the eggs are eaten for fertility and the loss of many native bird species in Nicaragua to pet industries overseas. The fanciest hotels in Managua have nearly extinct scarlet macaws in huge cages on their lawns but Alvaro says people need to consider where these birds have come from. Alvaro introduces me to a beautiful ten month old girl and says “I have a daughter now and I have to make sure the future is better for her.”
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Journey into La Moskitia: Honduras
The 5 day trip into the jungles of Honduras, into the remote region of La Moskitia is described to me as an “adventure” by a travel agent in La Ceiba, Honduras. She tells me Jorge Salaverri is a man entirely capable of organizing what she deems a somewhat dangerous and unpredictable trip. After meeting with Jorge and being reassured of the itinerary and guides who will meet us along the way, Michelle and I set out before dawn the next morning on a bus to the jump-off town: Tocoa.
After some haggling with drivers (known of whom I trust) we hunker down in the back of a pickup, on planks laid across a full load of supplies people are “shipping” back to their villages. Mr. Salaverri had supposedly arranged for a specific driver who would take us to the mouth of the Rio Platano, but this man never shows up and I begin to doubt Mr.Salaverri’s business management skills.
The road simply goes from bad to awful. It is so bumpy that after two hours I think I will not be able to hang on any longer... only 4 more to go. The truck swerves often to miss the bigger potholes and the driver seems to think that speeding up to a hole in the road and then slamming on the brakes is an effective technique. At least he (who I think is drinking beer) makes frequent pee stops.
We come to a stop at a river crossing and a ferry, which is just random pieces and sizes of wood all nailed together and floated on large plastic rain barrels. One pickup at a time is carefully driven onto this contraption which is then pulled across the river by the two ferrymen by a rope attached to the other side. After the crossing, the truck meanders down a sand trail and turns onto the coastline. The road has officially ended and the ocean occasionally splashes the side of the truck as we speed through the sand. I think those hard and painful hours were worth it for this unreal view: for miles in either direction all that is visible is the ocean and the coast and it is beautiful.
Three more “ferry” crossings, a few villages, and more heinous driving and we have arrived at our destination: Pueblo Nuevo. Here a man finally knows our names and directs us to his collectivo boat, a taxi for the waterways. Our destination is the village of Raista where we will stay with a family who works with Mr. Salaverri and his company. Along the way, dusk is settling in and a mist shrouds the distant mountains. I nod off into an exhausted semi-conscious state, half way between dreams and reality. I am jerked awake by the water hitting the boat and remember where I am.
The next morning we set out with a smiling boatman, Don Ovidio and his eager-to-please son, David. The journey today will bring us to a village called Las Marias where we will stay with another family and is scheduled to take seven hours, up-river. I settle down into the little wooden chair placed in the dug-out canoe for my comfort and use my life-jacket as a cushion for my bruised seat bones. The ride up the river has me jumping between fantasy and reality. The river is narrow at the beginning and winds through jungle so thick I cannot see the sky overhead. Birds and monkeys can be heard and farmers pass by with boats laden with bananas, melons and, even chickens. Then the river opens up and the sun is beating down on us. As the early afternoon approaches, I think the heat is absolutely unbearable and make a make-shift turban out of my scarf to attempt some protection against the sun’s rays reflecting off the river. Just as I am beginning to pass out, in a state of sun-induced stupor, we stop. We have reached the village and the matron, Rotillia warmly greets us and shows us to our room. The day is spent appreciating the rustic but comfortable surroundings. I indulge in a “bucket bath” using deliciously cold water that makes me gasp each time I throw a bucket over my head.
Day Three of our journey is described by Mr. Salaverri as the most special day and for good reason. We set out with a new guide, “Davis” who shows us around the village and takes us to his home, in the process of being built, and introduces us to his family. We then meet up with our boatmen for the day, 2 young but shy men from the village who will be pushing us upriver with large poles in a traditional, dug-out mahogany canoe. This time, the upriver journey is slower and I feel like I have literally stepped back into time. We are entering the heart of La Moskitia and this place is untouched by humans; the few that live here barely make an impression on the jungle that surrounds their tiny huts on the river. It is raining, so lightly I cannot feel it on my face but can see the moisture in the air. Giant trees protrude into the river, vines hang down and I feel like a guest in this somewhat welcoming jungle. The rapids along the way are only Class 1 or 2 but Michelle and I get out often and walk so the boatmen can push the boat up through them easier. I have never before seen a boat pushed up a drop in the river.
At one point the river gets more aggressive and we depart with Davis for a two hour walk through the rainforest where we will meet the boat on the other side. It is raining more now but the trees play tricks on my mind, effectively sheltering all but the largest of raindrops from my head. The humidity in here is unbelievable, as are the plants and monkey calls. Davis leads us to a look-out tower high in the trees, joined to the edge of a cliff by a suspended wooden bridge. He cautions “peligroso” and I bound across to get a view of the entire jungle spread out below. Later, on the walk down to the river, Michelle screams and jumps back. A small black and red snake lies before us, its head swivelling side to side. We ask Davis if it is dangerous and he doesn’t understand but says yes. Eventually the snake (which we later find out is harmless) slithers off the path and we jump over the spot.
The culmination of the river journey is the petroglyphs, which Davis has been talking about all day. The most impressive one is carved into a rock jutting out of the river and is believed to be 1000 years old. While no one knows who carved it, Davis speculates it was the Maya and that the carving represents a two-headed crocodile. I am more excited for lunch, which is rice and fried plantains, left-over from our dinner last night. Michelle grabs some banana leaves for plates and we fashion chopsticks out of twigs and all three men stare as we eat, obviously surprised at our skills.
Day Four and time for a shorter canoe trip downriver back to Raista. I cannot help but think that this place is special and untouched for a reason. The only roads here are the river and the farther into La Moskitia one goes, the harder it is to traverse the waterways. Nature is the ruler here, humanity merely takes a back seat and one cannot help but be in awe. We stop for a break at a village and see a hillside completely covered in laundry. All the women in the village are doing their washing today and the smell of soap lingers in the air. This village is perched on the shores of the Caribbean and the Rio Platano on a small strip of land. Everyone stops and stares as Michelle and I get off the boat but they are friendly and most smile or wave.
For our last day of the trip that will eventually take us back to La Ceiba we must catch the collective boat at 3 am. As I sit huddled against the wind in a pink sarong, I stare at the stars still brightly visible. I have never been out on a boat in the dark before and the driver skilfully negotiates coming into shore, with the aid of a small flashlight, to pick up others. At the cusp of dawn the air suddenly becomes wet and cold. The sky is pink already but the sun has yet to come out. I pray that it will soon because it is very cold on the water.
We get very lucky for the rough ride back to civilization. We are allowed to sit in the front of the truck and do not have to bounce around in the box. This is like five star luxury compared to the ride out here. Our driver is friendly and jokes with friends in the villages and at the ferry crossings. Men walk by and stare into the truck and ask if we are married. Our driver laughs and I attempt in my limited Spanish to say we have husbands waiting in La Ceiba. These ferry crossings make me think of a time forgotten, when things were done by hand and the brightest colors in the world were made by the rising dawn.
Twelve hours later and we arrive in La Ceiba. We have arranged with Mr. Salaverri to stay the night in his guesthouse but when we arrive he is not there and an employee lets us in and tells us Jorge will be returning within the hour. He locks up the compound against intruders, also effectively locking us in. Jorge does not return for 3 hours and, as claustrophobia sets in, I begin to study the razor wire atop the high, concrete walls that surround the buildings. He finally arrives in a flurry of explanations and kind words: he has been out fishing with his family. I learn he opened this business 17 years ago with a partner in Germany and is expanding as we speak. A look at his bookcase tells me he is an authentic explorer as faded copies of maps of the jungle and archaeological texts stare back.
The trip has only taken 5 days but I feel as if I had touched down on another planet. Civilization shocks me. The jarring noise of horns and dogs barking is unfamiliar. 5 days in the jungle, without a mirror and I hardly recognize myself anymore. I hope I will never grow old in a concrete jungle.
After some haggling with drivers (known of whom I trust) we hunker down in the back of a pickup, on planks laid across a full load of supplies people are “shipping” back to their villages. Mr. Salaverri had supposedly arranged for a specific driver who would take us to the mouth of the Rio Platano, but this man never shows up and I begin to doubt Mr.Salaverri’s business management skills.
The road simply goes from bad to awful. It is so bumpy that after two hours I think I will not be able to hang on any longer... only 4 more to go. The truck swerves often to miss the bigger potholes and the driver seems to think that speeding up to a hole in the road and then slamming on the brakes is an effective technique. At least he (who I think is drinking beer) makes frequent pee stops.
We come to a stop at a river crossing and a ferry, which is just random pieces and sizes of wood all nailed together and floated on large plastic rain barrels. One pickup at a time is carefully driven onto this contraption which is then pulled across the river by the two ferrymen by a rope attached to the other side. After the crossing, the truck meanders down a sand trail and turns onto the coastline. The road has officially ended and the ocean occasionally splashes the side of the truck as we speed through the sand. I think those hard and painful hours were worth it for this unreal view: for miles in either direction all that is visible is the ocean and the coast and it is beautiful.
Three more “ferry” crossings, a few villages, and more heinous driving and we have arrived at our destination: Pueblo Nuevo. Here a man finally knows our names and directs us to his collectivo boat, a taxi for the waterways. Our destination is the village of Raista where we will stay with a family who works with Mr. Salaverri and his company. Along the way, dusk is settling in and a mist shrouds the distant mountains. I nod off into an exhausted semi-conscious state, half way between dreams and reality. I am jerked awake by the water hitting the boat and remember where I am.
The next morning we set out with a smiling boatman, Don Ovidio and his eager-to-please son, David. The journey today will bring us to a village called Las Marias where we will stay with another family and is scheduled to take seven hours, up-river. I settle down into the little wooden chair placed in the dug-out canoe for my comfort and use my life-jacket as a cushion for my bruised seat bones. The ride up the river has me jumping between fantasy and reality. The river is narrow at the beginning and winds through jungle so thick I cannot see the sky overhead. Birds and monkeys can be heard and farmers pass by with boats laden with bananas, melons and, even chickens. Then the river opens up and the sun is beating down on us. As the early afternoon approaches, I think the heat is absolutely unbearable and make a make-shift turban out of my scarf to attempt some protection against the sun’s rays reflecting off the river. Just as I am beginning to pass out, in a state of sun-induced stupor, we stop. We have reached the village and the matron, Rotillia warmly greets us and shows us to our room. The day is spent appreciating the rustic but comfortable surroundings. I indulge in a “bucket bath” using deliciously cold water that makes me gasp each time I throw a bucket over my head.
Day Three of our journey is described by Mr. Salaverri as the most special day and for good reason. We set out with a new guide, “Davis” who shows us around the village and takes us to his home, in the process of being built, and introduces us to his family. We then meet up with our boatmen for the day, 2 young but shy men from the village who will be pushing us upriver with large poles in a traditional, dug-out mahogany canoe. This time, the upriver journey is slower and I feel like I have literally stepped back into time. We are entering the heart of La Moskitia and this place is untouched by humans; the few that live here barely make an impression on the jungle that surrounds their tiny huts on the river. It is raining, so lightly I cannot feel it on my face but can see the moisture in the air. Giant trees protrude into the river, vines hang down and I feel like a guest in this somewhat welcoming jungle. The rapids along the way are only Class 1 or 2 but Michelle and I get out often and walk so the boatmen can push the boat up through them easier. I have never before seen a boat pushed up a drop in the river.
At one point the river gets more aggressive and we depart with Davis for a two hour walk through the rainforest where we will meet the boat on the other side. It is raining more now but the trees play tricks on my mind, effectively sheltering all but the largest of raindrops from my head. The humidity in here is unbelievable, as are the plants and monkey calls. Davis leads us to a look-out tower high in the trees, joined to the edge of a cliff by a suspended wooden bridge. He cautions “peligroso” and I bound across to get a view of the entire jungle spread out below. Later, on the walk down to the river, Michelle screams and jumps back. A small black and red snake lies before us, its head swivelling side to side. We ask Davis if it is dangerous and he doesn’t understand but says yes. Eventually the snake (which we later find out is harmless) slithers off the path and we jump over the spot.
The culmination of the river journey is the petroglyphs, which Davis has been talking about all day. The most impressive one is carved into a rock jutting out of the river and is believed to be 1000 years old. While no one knows who carved it, Davis speculates it was the Maya and that the carving represents a two-headed crocodile. I am more excited for lunch, which is rice and fried plantains, left-over from our dinner last night. Michelle grabs some banana leaves for plates and we fashion chopsticks out of twigs and all three men stare as we eat, obviously surprised at our skills.
Day Four and time for a shorter canoe trip downriver back to Raista. I cannot help but think that this place is special and untouched for a reason. The only roads here are the river and the farther into La Moskitia one goes, the harder it is to traverse the waterways. Nature is the ruler here, humanity merely takes a back seat and one cannot help but be in awe. We stop for a break at a village and see a hillside completely covered in laundry. All the women in the village are doing their washing today and the smell of soap lingers in the air. This village is perched on the shores of the Caribbean and the Rio Platano on a small strip of land. Everyone stops and stares as Michelle and I get off the boat but they are friendly and most smile or wave.
For our last day of the trip that will eventually take us back to La Ceiba we must catch the collective boat at 3 am. As I sit huddled against the wind in a pink sarong, I stare at the stars still brightly visible. I have never been out on a boat in the dark before and the driver skilfully negotiates coming into shore, with the aid of a small flashlight, to pick up others. At the cusp of dawn the air suddenly becomes wet and cold. The sky is pink already but the sun has yet to come out. I pray that it will soon because it is very cold on the water.
We get very lucky for the rough ride back to civilization. We are allowed to sit in the front of the truck and do not have to bounce around in the box. This is like five star luxury compared to the ride out here. Our driver is friendly and jokes with friends in the villages and at the ferry crossings. Men walk by and stare into the truck and ask if we are married. Our driver laughs and I attempt in my limited Spanish to say we have husbands waiting in La Ceiba. These ferry crossings make me think of a time forgotten, when things were done by hand and the brightest colors in the world were made by the rising dawn.
Twelve hours later and we arrive in La Ceiba. We have arranged with Mr. Salaverri to stay the night in his guesthouse but when we arrive he is not there and an employee lets us in and tells us Jorge will be returning within the hour. He locks up the compound against intruders, also effectively locking us in. Jorge does not return for 3 hours and, as claustrophobia sets in, I begin to study the razor wire atop the high, concrete walls that surround the buildings. He finally arrives in a flurry of explanations and kind words: he has been out fishing with his family. I learn he opened this business 17 years ago with a partner in Germany and is expanding as we speak. A look at his bookcase tells me he is an authentic explorer as faded copies of maps of the jungle and archaeological texts stare back.
The trip has only taken 5 days but I feel as if I had touched down on another planet. Civilization shocks me. The jarring noise of horns and dogs barking is unfamiliar. 5 days in the jungle, without a mirror and I hardly recognize myself anymore. I hope I will never grow old in a concrete jungle.
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