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.