camping adventures in Gaspé

August 2011

It has been cold and rainy for a few days. We had intended to camp the whole week but after two days, the weather shifted and we have been staying in hostels in old schools. Again today, the weather is threatening rain and the temperature is dropping so we head to Auberge Festive Sea Shack, the cheapest place in St Ann des Monts.The pamphlet we found in an art gallery is a bit off-putting: "Partys therapeutiques" (therapeutic parties?), " Hot tub with or without bathing suits","Kurd with the hairy André", "Festive atmosphere". We are wary but curious. After seeing the International Hostel down the road with the very stiff and cold receptionist and the exorbitant prices, we drive back down the road looking for the Festive Sea Shack. It is down a side road heading for the beach. Lots of cars parked. We clamber down the wooden stairs. A rocky shore. An open bar with Jimi Hendrix playing a song I haven't heard in 30 years. People in hammocks. It feels like 12 degrees outside. This place could use twenty more degrees.

A smiling young man at the desk in the office. In the background, a guitar strummed gently. All the cabins are taken. He directs us to the dorm which is in the yurt. 8 beds - some single, some double, some bunk beds-spread around the edge. It is cold and smells of cat piss. $29 + tax per person. We agree that we will let this one pass. We land down the road at Auberge Micho. A very friendly man receives us. We will splurge $70 for a small room with bathroom and access to a kitchen. And it is warm.

decadence is relative

11/03/13

The howler monkeys roar at night. In the heat of the day, I lie in a hammock strung between 2 trees. I look up at the leaves, the red and black birds, the water down below. African music plays on my iPod. An iguana waddles by. Joy percolates up thru me.

In the morning, I wake to birds. The sun is just rising over the hills. I meditate and do my exercises. A couple of ripe bananas and mangos. Yesterday I chatted with a Dutch traveller. I loaned her my guidebook to help find a hotel. When she left, she bequeathed her leftover food to me. This morning, I ate pan tostada - Bimbo toasted white bread - with pineapple marmelade. And a coffee. I marvelled at the taste. How yummy! No wonder people love this stuff. Here I am - eating white bread and jam and coffee. Without guilt or disdain. Am feeling so decadent, so evolved.

I walk down to the water and swim out to the dock. I clamber up and flop onto it. It rocks in the waves and sun. I lie on it rocking blissfully.

lago de apoyo

11/03/10

I said goodbye to M. this morning. We had been travelling for over a week together. Up to Orinoco and Pearl Lagoon and then into the cowboy mountains. Now near Managua, we say our farewells. It is coming to the end of my trip here and I am heading to a crater lake to relax for a few days before heading north into the cold.

A collective taxi to Masaya and then a taxi pulls up to take me to the market. He ends up helping me buy fruit and presents and then transports me down to the lake. I am loaded with mangos, bananas, cucumbers, watermelon etc. I am tired of hunting for fruit in this country and so this time, I am prepared. He unloads me at El Paradiso, a resort by the water. Clean rooms. Hammocks. Wicker and cloth furniture. Internet. Palm trees. Tile floors. A beach. Lounge chairs. Kayaks. Birds. The water is a dark turquoise in the setting sun. it is warm and slightly salty. The French manager tells me it is an old volcano that filled with rain water thousands of years ago.

It is evening. I rock in the hammock. There is a breeze. I can hear the waves. A few loud Israelis pass. (I don't think I have ever been anywhere in the world without meeting Israelis. ) A few mosquitoes. What is Paradise without a few Israelis and a few mosquitoes?

cowboy country

11/03/08

We have come west from the Caribbean. Back in Spanish Nicaragua. We have landed in a little village in the mountains. All the men sport thick moustaches. Lots of cowboy boots, cowboy hats and cowboy shirts. Just the saloon is missing. We take a motorcycle taxi to a private reserve just out of town. The lodgings are very basic. A wooden building with dark windowless rooms upstairs, the bathroom around the corner. The kitchen downstairs billows smoke up to us. There are thick blankets on the single camp beds. The smiling housekeeper cum cook gives us comforters as well just in case. The dueño is surprised to see us. He is heading down the road soon and warns us that there will be no food tonight for us as he is not prepared. Nonetheless, Urania, the cook, finds us ample food for lunch and supper as well. She lives here with her two young children. Her husband left her 6 months ago. She had gone into the bigger town to work but found it too hard with the children. She has been back here for a couple of months cooking and cleaning. The man who takes care of the farm, takes us for a walk up into the reserve. He shows us coffee plants in different stages of growth - from sprouts to full grown trees. The plants grow in patches surrounded by forest with occasional banana plants here and there. We cross over streams, rocks and dry mud. He fashions 2 sticks with his machete to make our descent easier. On our return, the cold shower is a good shock. The coffee I drink at noon was harvested right here. It has a wonderful flavour but keeps me awake much of the night.

In the morning we take the bus into town. Moustaches and cowboy boots everywhere we look. We put our bags at the local hotel. I was hoping for an upgrade in our lodgings. But the room is the same windowless wooden box with 2 single beds and cracks in the walls for light. The bathroom this time is down the wooden stairs next to the kitchen. The sink is piled with the day's washing. Hmm. When I mention that it is so far from the room, the señora brings me a plastic container.

We head off with a young guide to climb to the local lookout. We pass the gold mine. They are using this antiquated process with 3 huge rocks turning round and round. It grinds the ore into a slurry which will be passed thru some kind of sieve to retrieve any gold. We pass a big cow shed. We are in grazing country. We climb the steep hill to the outcrop of white rock. Green countryside and mountains all around.

On our retrn to the hot dirty town, I decide that the accomodations are just too rustic for me. One night had been enough. We collect our things and go downstairs to wait for the bus. The owner pretends to be miffed but she has a lovely smile. She and I sit and talk in front of her hotel. Business is slow, she says. Only tourists and workers from away can afford to eat at her restaurant. She has lived here all her life. She has never climbed to the lookout. Is it pretty? She gives me a mango to eat.

The 1:00 bus never comes. We take the 3:30 bus which is packed solid. We sit on the 2nd to last seat in the back, the one over the back wheel. We take turns sitting with our knees in our chest on the wheel seat. It is a long 2 hour trip down the mountain. To Juigalpa with clean starched sheets, feeble air con and private bath. Just lovely.

Awas

11/03/05

Our hotel owner in Pearl Lagoon tells us that it is a nice walk to Awas, a Mesquito* village nearly. So off we trudge, It is 7:30 am but we are in full sun and already hot. In Awas, we sit down and are soon joined by a group of men and boys. They tell us a bit of the history of this village. It is only 30 years old. Built after Hurricane Juan destroyed a Mesquito village nearby. Again, it is a Scandinavian NGO, this time the Danes, that provided the junding. During the Contra war in the 70's, the men were recruited to fight with the Somosistas agains the Sandinistas. They had no choice. Some were as young as 15. Orlando tells me they they were given drugs to keep them from being hungry. Sometimes they did not eat for 5 days.

The village is on a green lawn facing the lagoon. The water is shallow, warm but refreshing in the heat. Children go in and out. Women wash and soak in it. They offer us breakfast. Coconut bread, fish and coffee. The children look healthy but the animals look very hungry. The cat helps us eat the coconut bread.

Orlando rows us back to Pearl Lagoon in his uncle's "dory". It is a wooden dugout canoe and has seen better days. He stuffs a plastic bag in a hole but must keep bailing thruout our trip. Water fills at my feet. The water is so shallow that at times, he draws out a long banboo pole to push us along.

*The Mesquito are Indians of the Caribbean coast. Over the years, they have intermingled with Africans and whites but have maintained certain Indian facial features.

orinoco

11/03/05

Orinoco. Population 1400 thereabouts. No cars. Lots of pangas. Lots of children. The village is clustered on the lagoon. The children fish off the quay with hand-made nets and string, They use big pieces of fish as bait. One has his string anchored with a blue Croc sandal. Suddenly the line is taut. When he pulls it up, he has caught a good-sized crab.

People greet us as we walk by. Good afternoon. How are you all today? A group is playing cards on a table in the shade. A little boy chases another. People sitting in front of their shacks. There is no hurry. In the morning the birds sing, squawk and chatter. In the night, the occasional dog barks. Sometimes we can hear a drumbeat in the distance.

We travel in a panga to Pueblo Nuevo further northwest on the Wawashang River. Here the people are Mestizos, have no African traits and speak Spanish. The town has a bustle to it. Houses are close together, the streets have some order to them and go in straight lines. There are many horses. Across the river there is a project funed by a Norwegian NGO, with an agricultural school, farm and plant nursery. It is completely run by Mestizos and seems to be a successful venture.

At Pueblo Nuevo, we are given a simple lunch and put on horses to ride up to Kawka Creek. We had envisioned a meander by a tropical creek. Rather, it is a climb up a hillside on the back of a patient horse being led by the Mestizo guide. At the Reserve, we do wander down to a small muddy creek and take a meander on a forest path. We are exhausted by the heat and move very slowly.

the Garifuna of Orinoco

11/03/04

Everyone we meet, when we ask for some history, shrugs, smiles and says: "You must talk to someone older." We finally meet William and Ines Martin. He is 82 and she is 83. They are sitting together in a little shack next to the big one they are having built. They tell us about John Sambola. He is the founder of Orinoco. Every one we meet, it seems, is a grandson of John Sambola. After much questioning and many people later,we finally get some form of story. The Garifuna came over on a slave ship from West Africa, from Nigeria, mainly. The ship crashed on the Caribbean coast. In Orinoco, the story blurs here. All they know is that the original founder, John Sambola came from Honduras. He arrived in Orinoco, captured an Indian woman, "tamed" her, took her as a wife and had many children with her. Other Garifuna came to live with him and the settlement was begun in the early 1900s.

William and Ines sing for us. He plays his guitar and sings. She accompanies him in a high reedy voice. They sing gospel songs. Jesus loves us. Our home is in Heaven. Ines sings us a song to keep us safe in our travels. M. films it all to make a movie.

We finally get the clearest story from a Danish man living in Pearl Lagoon with his Garifuna wife. The research done shows that the Garifuna slave ship foundered on the island of St Vincent around 1720. There were no white survivors and those Africans who did make it to shore, lived on the island and mixed and mingled with the local Indian population who had originally come from near the Orinoco River in Venezuela. They lived peacefully together, intermarried, had children and grew their crops until the British arrived in the early 1800s. Seeing these free Africans, they saw an opportunity for more slave labour. They captured and took them to a British island nearby and attempted to put them to work. They refused to work. They beat the leaders to death. They still refused to work. They beat others. No effect. The local slaves watched with interest. The British decided these Garifuna were more trouble than they were worth. They decided to dump them off on Roatan Island in Honduras, figuring that they would be unable to survive. But the Garifuna had learned from their Indian ancestry how to live off the land here. They survived and survived well. The original populaton of 137 grew and multipled and spread north to Belize and south as far as Orinoco. There are now about 4000 in Nicaragua and they have a strong sense of pride in their community. They are teaching their children the Garifuna language lost over the years. They have annual festivals to celebrate their arrival on Roatan. They maintain their rituals of their unique way of cooking and ways of healing. The are proud to state that they were never slaves in the New World.

ferry tales part 2

11/02/28

It sounded like a good idea to visit Orinoco. This meant we would have to take the ferry back to Bluefields. I had said that I was going to fly back. No more ferry for me. Nonetheless, there I was preparing for the ferry trip back. To make the Orinoco connection, we would have to take the Sunday night freight boat from Big Corn Island. After horror stories from the Dutch jeweller that there was no shelter and no beds on board, we went to inspect the boat when it was docked at Little Corn on Saturday evening. I was reassured when I saw the bunk beds in an enclosed room upon the top deck. There were only 8 beds so we gave a deposit to reserve 2 lower bunks.

The ferry berthed at Little Corn all day Saturday and went back to Big Corn that evening. We took the 1:30 pm panga the next day and went onboard after a relaxing swim and supper at a local beach. It was 8 at night. Quiet onboard. We sat on the deck outside and rocked gently in the waves. We congratulated ourselves on our great decision. A woman came by and sold us ginger coconut cake - grated ginger, grated coconut and sugar. At 9:30, people were starting to settle in their bunks. Some women spread some mats on the floor and were lying down. My bunk was right near the door and the cool breeze felt lovely. At 10 o'clock, 3 European women came in. They had put their backpacks on those mats which were now occupied by the women. They now had one mat between 3. People kept coming onboard. A big truck was parked on deck, blocking the entrance so a plank was laid across the hull to cross over. The security man, William, tells me there are about 75 people now onboard. The lights are switched off and it is quiet in out little room. The Europeans have retrieved one more mat so 2 are spooning on one and the other occupies the second. At 12 midnight, we leave the harbour. I am dozing off and on, the passage is relatively smooth. Around 2, it starts to rain. The rain is blowing in and I am getting progressively wetter. I yell to someone to shut the door but no one responds. The girls on the floor near me are drenched. We try to close the door with little success. M. says to me to come to her bunk. I lurch over and land in a crash. She makes room for me. The boat is rocking wildly. She says: "It has stopped. We have stopped." It is true. The boat has stopped. It is pouring rain. Pitch black. No electricity. The boat is lurched back and forth. We wait. Someone manages to close the door. 3 people are now sitting on my wet bunk. The German woman tells us that the lifeboat attached to the back of the boat, has gotten snarled in the waves and they are trying to sort it out. In the waves. In the dark. In the rain. In the middle of the Atlantic. About 45 minutes later, to our relief, the engine kicks in and we move on. The boat evens out to a steady rock. A few minutes later, it again stops and starts to lurch. This time, we wait over an hour and a half. I am not afraid but I am definitely uncomfortable. We munch on soda crackers to keep the seasickness at bay. Eventually we get going and I manage to sleep till 5:30 light. It has rained all night.The people on the decks stayed as dry as possible but look pretty soggy. We had arrived at le Bluff, and were half an hour from Bluefields.

In Bluefields, we staggered off the boat, looking for a restaurant to use the washroom and have some breakfast. There was nothing open near the dock. A guard lets us into the local casino. It is 7 am and there are people already sitting at the machines. I recognize the lady in the the green curlers from the boat.

We wash up and trudge back to the dock.We have a 2 hour wait for our panga to Orinoco. I can still feel the boat moving under my feet. My body is still feeling the waves. At 10, our panga shows up. The boat man is wearing a brown T shirt that says: I don't conform. He gives us a gold toothed smile. His boat is called "The Hard Way".It is a long hard 3 hour panga to Orinoco. The boat hits the waves like a bucking bronco. We are definitely happy to arrive.

the police visit

11/02/25

I am sitting on my veranda with M. We have just come back from the village. It is 8 at night. We had gone to a restaurant to eat the rondon we had ordered yesterday. A fish and lobster stew cooked in coconut milk with lots of root vegetables and plantain. M. has bought a small bottle of rum. I have cut a plastic bottle in 2 to make glasses. We are sipping rum and lemon juice. Up come 3 men. They are in uniform, carrying rifles, revolvers and handcuffs are swinging on their belts. They stop to chat. They tell us they are doing their nightly walk around the island. I haven't seen them before because usually by this time I am inside reading a book. I ask how many policemen are on the island. Three, they say. We wish them a good night and the three walk on.

eating well

11/02/22

Restaurant food is expensive here on the ilsand. Prices are in US$. A fish meal is close to $6. Lobster on the other hand is cheap at $8. Nonetheless, after several days of restaurant meals, I am starting to figure out where to buy my own food. Stores are few and far between and their stock is minimalist. Fresh fruit and vegetables are hard to come by. I found the store that sells bananas one by one. 3 cordobas each makes 15 cents a banana. Not cheap. I buy for the next meal or two - supper and breakfast - and hang my purchases in bags on the wall to discourage ants.

Today, as I was exploring the island, I found another store . I buy bananas for 2 cordobas each and coconut bread, cheese, tomatos, a cucumber and a carrot. At someone's house, I buy a bag of cooked beans. I feel well-stocked. When I get home, after a swim, I sit down to eat. I carefully puncture the bag of beans and spoon them out. They taste smokey like a wood fire. I soak coconut bread in the bean water. A white dog comes and sits and looks hopeful. I offer him bread and then beans. He is not interested. I peel 1/2 a cucumber and eat the carrot. I am full. Half a bag of beans is left. There is only so much beans I can eat. A young boy passes. He is selling johnny cakes. I ask him if he wants my beans. He says he will get them on the way back. When he returns, I ask him if he wants a piece of cheese as well. Yes, he is willing. I cut a piece and put it in with the beans.

rainy sunday

11/02/20

It rained all night. In the morning, the sky was heavy grey. A good day to find a new book. I took the book I had just finished and headed to Casa Iguana where I had heard, there was a book exchange. There I met Leo, a Dutch woman in her early 40s. Sh was just wrapping up her wares and we began to chat. She has been living here on the island for over 5 years. This is home now. She lives in a similar cabana to mine but shares a bathroom. She lives on the profits from her handmade jewelery and recycle art. She targets an upscale market and her prices reflect that. Her cabin is filled with bags of plastic and glass she gathers on the beach. He work is meticulously done and quite beautiful She tells me that she walked away from her regular life in Holland 11 years ago when she lost her job in a downsizing moment. She had a little inheritance from her mother, too small, she said, for a house or a business venture so she left for India with a one way ticket to Bombay. She eventually returned to Holland for a visit and then headed to Mexico. It has taken her years to get to this island and here she stays. She is living the life I thought I wanted years ago when I left with Tamara from Florida heading to the Caribbean. We only got as far as the Virgin Islands. I ended up returning to university and our lives took a different path.

No interesting books at Casa Iguana except for a possible Elaine Pagels and so I head to the village on the suggestion of Leo. The Dive shop has a collection for book exchange. I find a Mario Vargas Llosa and a Peter Mathiesson but I am not convinced. I stop in for lunch at a local eatery. There is no one at any of the tables when I arrive but friends stop to talk: a British couple; the young family from Nfld. whose kids I babysat yesterday. Other people start to arrive. I meet a young man from NYC, He tells me I sound like a New Yorker. I say that is because I am a Montreal Jew. Turns out he is Jewish too. Has gotten interested in Chabad after a stint in Buddhism. We chat a bit. Time to go. The rain has stopped for a moment. I walk down the muddy path towards my cabana. The rain starts again. It has been raining in fits and starts all day. I take shelter in a banana grove. The big leaves give good cover. It rains and rains. A man motions me over to his porch. I wait there until I think there is a break. Nonetheless, I am drenched by the time I get home. I change clothes and wait. The sky is finally clearing. Just down the beach is Carlito´s. I hear there is a good book exchange there . It is my next stop. I do find a book I want. In fact there are 2 to choose from. I give in my book, and take the first. I will read it and then exchange it for the next if it is still there.

the underbelly of paradise

11/02/19

It is 8:30 at night. I have just come back from the Friday night $2 fish meal in the village. People lined up for a paper plate of rice, salad and a big slab of fish grilled in foil over a makeshift BBQ. I am sitting on a log on the beach enjoying the full moon. Severiano comes to sit with me. He is 17 and works here clearing the beach and running errands. He has a beer bottle with him and smells of alcohol. He asks me a few questions. I respond and ask a few of my own. The conversation is easy, interspersed with silence. The wave, the moon, the breeze. Nearby are 2 female workers drinking rum and laughing and staggering about. He suddenly asks me to buy him a beer. I am surprised and say I didn't understand. He repeats himself and my first response is to say no. As I am sitting there pondering my decision, "Was it a good one? Should I have said yes?", he mumbles that he is sorry and gets up and goes to sit with the women. Was he apologizing for asking or was he saying he was sorry that I said no? I don't know. After a moment, I go inside. The mood of tranquillity is broken. A man, a tourist, comes by and sits with them. He is talking loudly in an obviously drunken way. I can hear him buying rounds of drinks. The silence is broken by intermittent shouting and laughter. By 11, it is quiet again but the pristine paradise of my fantasy has changed colour. It is clear to me that my vision of paradise has no people in it. At least not the human kind.

little corn island

11/02/18

Little Corn Island. Population 515 and lots of tourists. 1.5 square km. No motorized transport. Goods are moved by wheelbarrow. People move on foot. I am sitting on a wooden deck chair on my veranda facing the beach. The water is turquoise and warm. The birds are singing. The wind is blowing. There is a constant flux of movement around the island and my cabana sits on the beach along the main road . So people walk by on a regular basis. They smile and nod. There are also paths thru the trees which are loaded with fruit. There are so many tourists that fruit is expensive to buy and accomodation can get pricey. For my very basic but clean and adequate cabin with private bathroom, I am paying $20. The bed is on a raised platform with a good mosquito net. The floors are wooden slats. For some reason, I have a sofa squeezed in as well which makes for a comfortable reading spot at night. An open square hole in the wall is my window with a wooden shutter which I close at night for security. I even have a thatch roof.

ferry rock and roll

11/02/17

Just the day before yesterday, I was reading a book called Complications. T. gave it to me before I left. It is written by a surgical resident about different quirks in the medical world. I had just finished the chapter on nausea. So I had a theoretical understanding of the mechanism before embarking on the ferry. This in no way prepared me for the physical reality of it.

I am normally not prone to sea sickness. I sat outside until it started to rain and then I went inside. Reggae music videos were playing on the TV monitor. I sat on a plastic lawn chair and watched for a while. Behind me, the wooden bunk beds, each with a woman in it. The men were sitting in the chairs drinking and talking. I noticed one young man kept going between the bunk beds and mopping the floor. It hit me that these women were all throwing up. I sat there feeling smug. I am not seasick. The ferry pitched and rolled. The men continued to drink. I got tired of sitting and went to lie down. This was not a good move. Over time, it became a very unpleasant experience. Because of the violent pitching, it was too hard to get up. I turned to one side - a woman vomited into a plastic bag in front of me. I turn to the other side - the same thing. Best to close my eyes. It was a 5 1/2 hour trip. I was happy to disembark.

That night, I got to experience my second queazy moment. In the early evening, I encountered a big (one could say gigantic) cockroach wandering across my floor. I hate to kill cockroaches - they seem so alive and intelligent. But I judiciously closed my suitcase and backpack and put my fruit inside. When I had been asleep for a short while, I was awoken by something crawling on my back. When I turned on the flashlight, there was the cockroach. With a feeling of revulsion, I instinctively flicked him off the bed. Now I was willing to consider killing him. However he had disappeared under the bed somewhere beyond my reach. I fell back asleep and he did not return.

Boats and ferries

11/02/16

I am sitting on the ferry waiting to go. We are heading to Great Corn Island. I am sitting on the deck outside on a plastic lawn chair. Inside there are more lawn chairs and some bunk beds with questionable bedding. Down on the deck below, a pig snoozes. On the side deck, a big pile of gravel. The young man who sold me my ticket tells me it is the express boat - only 3 1/2 hours. That remains to be seen. I have yet to see the bathroom facilities. I will save that for later.

We left this morning from the hotel at 7:45. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. A clean room with tile floors and decent mirrors, a very clean bathroom and the most comfortable bed I have slept in, in the past 2 weeks. I could have stayed in Rama just for that bed.

Nonetheless at 7:45 out we went. We headed to the municipal dock to catch the panga going to Bluefields. The ferry takes about 8 hours but the panga, a small wooden boat which fits aobut 13 people, takes 1 1/2 hours. At the dock, we had to pass a kind of customs and then we went down to the quay. When there were enough passengers, we would leave. The panga was loaded with an amazing amount of boxes. They were covered in plastic sheeting and then we boarded. Wtih all the cargo, there was room for only 8 passengers. I was travelling with a Finn woman and a Swedish man. The local people piled in and took the middle spots and refused to move over for us. We had the side spots. Nonetheless it was a dry trip. The boatman handed out life jackets which helped with the wind. When it started to rain, we unrolled the plastic sheeting at our feet and rolled it over ourselves.

An hour and a half later, we are at the dock of Bluefields, named after a famous Dutch pirate. I ask a local man about catching the ferry today to Corn Island. He says it is possible but I have to go to the other dock in a taxi and then take another panga for the Bluff to catch the ferry there. His friend puts me in his taxi and off we go thru the crowded streets of Bluefields. I am hearing Caribbean English for the first time.

At the dock, again I wait with a group of others.The rain comes and goes, then we load onto the panga, this time with 13 people and are taken to the Bluff. After another wait, we are allowed onto the quay and onto the ferry. Heading to the Corn Islands. And off we go.

on the bus to Rama

11/02/15

The bus is full as we leave Managua. I had come in from San Juan del Sur in the morning. The slow bus was just leaving. I needed to use the washroom after my 3 hour journey so I did not attempt to catch it. The express bus was leaving in 3 hours. I settled in with a book, ate snacks and watched people. Coming into Managua, the bus conductor had asked me where I was going to. I said: the Mayoreas bus station. He said: I will get you a trustworthy taxi driver.

Managua taxi drivers have a bad reputation. Managua itself has a bad reputation. I keep hearing horror stories but so far my luck has held.

Before we reach the bus station Remon Huembres, the bus stops and the conductor motions for me to get off. Here is the taxista for you, he says. You can trust him. I am put in the taxi and driven to my destination. On the way, he regales me with more horror stories, then takes me on a back road because, he says, there is a hole in the main road. Now I am mildly nervous but he takes out his IDs and hands them to me. The other guy in the front seat keeps nodding and smiling. He says I can always make a complaint to the bus company which p0roves that he is reliable. Right. Like I know the name of the bus company or the bus driver and when I am lying there bleeding and robbed, that will be the first thing I do.

So we get to the Las Maoreas with no trouble and eventually I get on the bus to Rama. It is a 5 hour trip and so I settle in again for the duration. The road is smooth, the scenery is beautiful, first - green trees and then, brown severe mountains and bluffs. And then there are the vendors. At each village we stop at, the women and girls come on the bus with their wares: drinks in plastic bags, corn cobs, fruit, tortillas with different toppings, the candy, the gum. They stay on for a couple of kilometres and then get off. Most entertaining are the male vendors. With them, there is a sales pitch. They stand at the front of the bus and tell of the marvelous properties of their products. One is selling key chains and bracelets. Another is selling a soap that cures dandruff, foot odour and skin infections. He also has a cream that gets rid of pain, all kinds of pain. He gives the example of when you are lying in bed at night next to your beloved and suddenly you get this awful pain. You reach for the magic cream and suddenly your pain is gone. If you buy the soap and the magic cream, a present for you. A sheet of vitamin B complex supplements. Good for all your ills. My neighbour buys a cream. I smell the green gel. It smells like wintergreen.

A day of heart

I moved upstairs and suddenly everything is all right. I am so influenced by my environment: elevated by beauty, depressed by ugliness. My Libran colours. My room upstairs is small with 2 beds in it. Just enough room for a yoga mat on the floor. A small bathroom. And a window in each concrete wall. 3 windows. Looking out onto mountains, sky, palm trees and sea. Again, I am just under the roof. The wind blows up here and I do not need to use the standing fan. On a balcony nearby, a woman coos to her baby.

I went to swim this morning. It is Sunday and many Nicaraguans have come from the city for a day at the beach. I sit in the shade with a friendly woman. She has brought her son and neighbour´s daughter and her mentally disabled sister from Granada for the day. They came on the local bus. They will leave by 2 pm so as to grab a moment in San Jorge to swim in the lake before heading home.The son tells me he is a lottery ticket vendor in Granada. When I ask him if he lives with his mum, he proudly tells me that he is married and lives with his wife. They are expecting a baby very soon. His mother tells me that her daughter in law is delicate so they did not dare bring her today. She is to stay quiet until the delivery. They know it is a girl and seem very happy.

Despite resting in the shade, my brief time in the water has left me hot and burnt. This with SPF 30 sunscreen.

I then went to the market, had a fish taco, a papaya licuado and then bought the makings for supper. The bakery is just around the corner. Open till 9 at night. Looks tempting. They make good cakes and squares here.

So I sit in the public square. Children run around. Their parents sit on benches.The wind blows. I spent 2 hours this afternoon reading a romance novel I found at the hotel. In honour of Valentines Day which I thought was today. Pretty cheesy stuff. Now to practise my Spanish verbs.

a little zen

A hundred flowers blossom in the spring,
the moon shines in autumn,
there is a fresh breeze in summer
and there is snow in winter.
If your mind is not occupied with trivial matters,
every time is a good time.

A fresh breeze chases away the bright moon;
the bright moon chases away the fresh breeze.
If heart and mind are wiped out,
fire itself becomes cool.

At that time, a human being can truly be a human being.
Nothing to be worried about.

Wuman

san juan del sur

11/02/12

Well, I have left the tranquil wind-swept island for the beach town. I had no great expectations. However, it still is a shock to the system. For a beach town, it is better than some. I have definitely seen worse. It has yet to rival Asia or Mexican beach towns. Still, there are the ubiquitous beach bars, the bathing suit and surf shops, the kiosks with hand made friendship bracelets and coconut necklaces, sunglasses and other beach paraphenalia. Hotels and restaurants abound. Even fancy real estate advertisements. Accomodation is expensive and nothig can rival the pretty little room I left behind on the island. A good lesson in impermanence.

I am looking for a swimmng beach. Given that this is the Pacific coast, this demands a bit of research. The town beach is just down the street. Small waves. Some people were swimming in it today but it doesn´t attract me.

isla de ometepe

11/02/09

I am on an island in Lake Nicaragua. About 35000 inhabitants. Lots of little villages along the coast and inland. Two volcanos. The land used to be so rich with all the volcanic earth that no fertilizer was necessary to grow their food. Now most do use the chemical fertilizers. There are a few farms that advertise organic food but as elsewere, to live and eat there is expensive.

The island is shaped like a dumbbell with a volcano in each circle. I am staying in the isthmus between the 2 circles. It is called Playa Santo Domingo. St. Dominique`s beach. However there is no beach. There were such heavy rains last winter that the water now has covered all the sand and comes right up to the hotel.The thatch roof parasols are inundated. The water however is delicious to swim in. I walk from the hotel directly into the water, sand under my feet.

I have been here for 5 days. It is hard to leave. The food is pricey but accomodation is clean, pretty and cheap. I swim, walk, visit the lagoon, the waterfall. It is sunny, hot and the breeze blows constantly.

The other day, some men were clearing the coconuts from the neighbouring trees. One young boy clambered up to throw down the coconuts. Another gathered them and the older man husked them. They gave me a couple of green ones to drink. When I returned at the end of the day from the local swimming hole, the man was sitting with 5 big bags waiting for the bus. He and his crew had been working all day. We talked for a bit. He explained that he would clear a few other trees, collect about 10 bags and then transport them to Managua to sell them to the factories that make candies. After paying the owners for taking their fruit, his profit will be around $50. With this, he will pay his crew, the bus fare, the ferry and the young guy on the bus to help him load and unload the bags. He will be back in 2 months for the next harvest.

aguas agrias

11/02/04

Aguas Agrias is the name of the river and also the name of the small agricultural cooperative that lives by it. My guide is 21. She is already married with a 15 month old baby. She explains to me that the community consists of 16 families - about 100 people. She has lived here most of her life. She leaves the community very rarely and the furthest she has been is 2 hours away. No computers. No TV. No education beyond primary school. She appears very contented.

It is an idyllic spot. The river meanders thru the forest. There is an area where water bubbles up from a spring below. This is where I swim while she waits patiently on the shore. The water has a slightly sour taste, thus the name. Until they got piped in water from another cooperative a few miles away, this was their only water source. After many years of drinking it, they recognized that it was hard on the kidneys, I presume because of the high mineral content.

To get here, I took a local bus, then a motorcycle taxi down a long tortuous road. Along the way, different farms and the occasional little shacks. Around them, children play on the packed dirt. People sit on chairs and stools and watch as I go by.

granada

11/02/03

I am sitting on the veranda in front of my room. I am on the 2nd floor looking into a palm tree of the courtyard below. Around me: stucco roofs, a plastic blue water tank on a metal framework and in the distance, church steeples. It is a pretty scene. In the distance, I can hear music and voices and occasional bells but it is tranquil up here. Some very thin kittens yowl and chase each other on the roof. One comes to visit. A couple of geckos on the wall. It is evening. After a hot day, the breeze is refreshing. It actually rained a few drops today. Given that the corners of the tin roof which acts as my ceiling seem to be sealed with plastic tape and that I can see the holes through it, I am glad the rain was so fleeting. Whatever runs across it, whether geckos or cats, makes a thunderous noise.

Granada is a pretty colonial town. Tourists abound here unlike Managua where people are rare on the streets and all doors are locked. There is a bustle here. Lots of stores selling mainly to locals. In the central park, there is an area with artisanal wares. I recognize some Guatemalan items. Someone has just told me that these are Guatemalans selling their wares. The vendors are listless and don´t press for sales. A couple of boys try to sell me honey. But what I see is mainly Nicaraguans selling to Nicaraguans. The ladies selling cut mangos, bread, little cakes, fresh cheeses; the watch repair man, the candy and gum vendors and all the many stores. Interspersed are old churches.

las huellas de acahualinca, managua

11/02/02

The guidebook said it was not to be missed. "Managua's most intriguing site" "an international treasure" . Off I went. What can I say: a roof protecting what looks like a big dry mud flat with several lines of footprints in it. Could have happened last week. But it seems that it is the fossil prints of people and animals from 6000 years ago. One theory - they were running from an erupting vocano. Another theory - they were meandering. I was not overly impressed.

I have changed hotels for a nicer and cheaper one after a restless night with bugs. No bites this morning so maybe they were phantom bugs. Tomorrow I go with Manuel to Granada. Heading southwest.

arrivals

11/02/01

There is someone waiting at the airport with my name written in large letters. His taxi appears held together with wire and he has to coast to jump start the car. No problem. It is hot and humid. My hair is already starting to curl up. As we approach the city, he informs me that my hotel is full and he is to take me to another around the corner. It looks dark and shabby. I insist on going to the original hotel which looks a shade better from the outside. But a man comes out, smiles and shrugs and says, yes, it is full. A group came in and took all the rooms. I can come back tomorrow. So I am in your typical shabby room with 2 beds. It is clean. But no frills.

panic america

11/02/01

All the flights to midwest US have been cancelled because of a snowstorm. The departure area is eerily quiet. Nonetheless it takes 45 minuted to move to the front of a 6 person line. My boarding pass is scanned no less than 5 times at the different checkpoints. and I get to choose between the xray scanner and the full patdown. I choose the patdown. I had expectations of hands up into my crotch and a full breast exam. I am disappointed , A good eaxmination of the waistband of my trousers and my ribcage. My fruit and vegetable lunch pass through the scanner with no comment.

art absurd

I am so happy to announce that I don't have to travel to find absurdity. It is in my own hometown!

Yesterday I went to a benefit concert. An earnest choir sang songs from around the world. Earnestly. We told ourselves that it was for a good cause. We were in a big old church with naves and stone sculpture. We sat in a pew on the side. I noticed this painting on the wall. An amateurish rendition of two faces, a young man and a young woman not meeting each other's eyes. The background - white sky and black ground. Nothing else. Just the heads of two people. The title: "Jesus entrusts Mary to John" Now I ask you: am I missing something here? It was the first time I desired an IPhone. Just to photograph that painting to share it here.

In 48 hours, I will be in Nicaragua.