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.