Down a River in Nicaragua

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After two months of immobility, I shook the cockroaches out of my pack and loaded up the possessions I thought I would need for the next two weeks. The rest I left in a plastic container in the main house at the Ranch. I said farewell to the team of interns with whom I had shared the “winter”, promising to see them again at Thanksgiving, and headed to Esterillos, the preferred beach spot amongst the “Ranchers”. About two hours by bus on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, Esterillos offered a less-developed atmosphere than nearby Jaco or Parrita, and the owners and family of the Ranch had a friendly connection with a young woman who owned a precious hotel right on the beach. She had planned to take a vacation and offered caretaking responsibilities to the interns at the Ranch, so we each had picked dates when we would go to the beach and stay for free. As it turned out, she only ended up taking a short trip to Nicaragua, but still opened her place to whoever had planned on coming, seeing as it was the slow season and she got lonely, a Canadian women in the middle of a conservative, gringo-invaded community.
Ryan and I decided to ride with a woman who had been staying at the Ranch the past ten days. Rachel, a fiery, wiry, Ranch VIP (for all the group business she brought from Seattle university), was headed to the beach around the same time as us in the Ranch vehicle allotted for her visits. She agreed to take Ryan and I if we chipped in for gas, which sounded reasonable, considering buses would cost around $3, and how much could 20 miles worth of gas split between four people really come out to, especially if she had already been planning the trip without us and just wanted a little help. The ride would be shorter, and we wouldn’t have to leave at 6:00 am. It all sounded perfect...come to find out the vehicle wasn’t functioning so well, dirty gas, or something. Whatever it was, we were pretty much stop and go for four hours (a trip that should have taken half that long) as we lost power any time we tried to accelerate. Not to mention the $10 she asked from each of us when we stopped for gas, which I guess didn’t bother me too much until we were talking about restaurants and Rachel mentioned that she has more money than she knows what to do with. I have to admit that by the end of the trip, I was more than ready to put a border between me and that woman.
Already at the beach were two other Ranch friends. We spent the first day hanging out and preparing for our trip, hitchhiking into Jaco to buy groceries and ask about buses to the border. By the second day, Ryan and I were itching to go, and left early to catch the Quepos-Jaco bus. We traveled all day, getting off at random stops in the middle of nowhere, to wait an hour for the next bus to pass through. Our goal was to cross the border by boat at Los Chiles, and I had a rough route planned out from my guide book, that took us through small junction towns along the way. Our second to last bus took us through the countryside on dirt roads, stopping in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere for us to change to the last bus to Los Chiles. I found something charming about those little towns, somewhat removed from the popularized modernization of Costa Rica. We stayed in a small seedy hotel in Los Chiles, something I only felt comfortable doing accompanied by a traveling companion, and waited the next day until the boat left for San Carlos, Nicaragua. We loaded into the small lancha with a few other tourists, and other natives, and traveled down the season-flooded river to Nicaragua. The scenes along the route were of poor homesteads mostly flooded by the high waters, and I knew right away that I was entering into that “otherworldly” part of Central America not as easily seen on the comfortable tourist route.
Once in San Carlos, we were faced with somewhat of a shock upon discovering that there was no way to withdraw money from any of the banks. It was an interesting and humbling feeling to be so instantly disconnected from my main form of security. Throughout my travels, I had prided myself on respecting and immersing myself in the surrounding cultures, and learning to tolerate and almost enjoy the inconveniences that they tolerate every day. In an instant, however, I realized how different I was and would always be from those cultures, and how unfit I remained to ever truly immerse myself. For everything that I “tolerated”, I tolerated with the confidence of a security blanket that many of them never had. I always knew that if the shit ever really hit the fan, I always had an escape route. I would always have a place to stay, I would always have food, I would always have security, because I had money. Here in San Carlos, where my cash reserves had been spent, and Ryan’s were running thin as well, we were pretty much stuck, unable to go backwards, unable to move forwards.
San Carlos is located at the southern tip of the Lago de Nicaragua, and is the starting off point for several exploratory routes. There are ferries that leave for the Archipelago de Solentiname, as well as La Isla de Ometepe and Granada, all located in or around the lake. The town also sits at the mouth of the Rio San Juan, and boats leave down the river towards the Caribbean outlet every so often, passing a small sightseeing town with an old fortress. Although our plans had been flexible from the start, Ryan had been interested in seeing the Archipelago, an artist community that appealed to his artistic mind and education. We also knew that we somehow wanted to arrive at the Corn Islands, 70 Km off the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua, and then possibly circle around in time to meet another Ranch friend on the Island of Ometepe. My ideal plan took us down the long river on the twelve hour boat ride, to a small isolated Caribbean town, where we would take a chance of catching a cargo boat to Bluefields, the launching point to the Corn Islands. Then we could circle back by bus up and over the lake to Granada and Ometepe. This was bound to be many hours spent on boats, and many unsure situations, as we didn’t even know if there were cargo boats passing through San Juan del Norte, or if they would even agree to let us ride along. I can understand why Ryan didn’t seem to be very animated about this plan, although to me it seemed like just the sort of adventure I had been craving.
As it turned out, however, our plans took us in a completely opposite direction than either of us had expected. Our gringo advantage made our little money dilemma (that had at one point seemed so insurmountable) a minor inconvenience, as we found a couple of tourist locations that were more than willing to give us cash back on credit card “purchases” with a 10% fee. The ferry schedules and high cost of the Archipelago sent us in the other direction, down the river towards the Caribbean. We passed communities that fulfilled my imagination’s expectation of Central America, half-naked locals fishing out of tippy canoes, living in shacks on stilts, with the wetlands and jungle wrapping in around them, like they all belonged in the same place. One of the most precious scenes I witnessed was that of a little boy no more than six-years-old, in his undies, rowing a massive canoe, with his little sister in an old princess dress dragging an empty soda bottle behind the boat, both of them smiling and laughing although fulfilling responsibilities unheard of to children of richer societies. Part of me wanted to get off the boat and find some niche that would allow me to stay forever with those people.
We got off in the small town of El Castillo, named for the small fortress that overlooks the rapids just past, a strategic defense location for the Spaniards that conquered the region. The town was small and quiet, no cars, just small paved walkways, not many tourists, especially being the slow season, but enough to warrant some nice habitations, one of which we found for $5 each. We stayed a couple nights, walking around and relaxing, and trying to assess the journey to the Caribbean, asking the locals’ opinions about finding a ride from San Juan del Norte to Bluefields on a cargo boat. Once again, our cash reserves kept us hesitant about taking too many risks. Some said there may be a boat, but we may have to wait a while, others said there were none, except expensive yachts that neither of us could afford, so we might end up stuck in San Juan for a while, or having to come back right away, after the nine-hour boat ride from where we already were. Seeing as Ryan had a time limit, we decided to head back to San Carlos and take the overland route to Bluefields. The bi-weekly Caribbean ferry pulled into El Castillo the same morning we were planning to leave, and I tried to curb my disappointment as I stepped into the boat taking us in the other direction back to San Carlos.
From San Carlos, more buses. My guide book had mentioned the 6-hour route between San Carlos and Juigalpa to be one of the roughest stretches of road in Nicaragua, a statement which I shouldn’t have underestimated. Considering there were no other roads out of San Carlos, we were destined to tough out the 6-hours of rutted, 15mph school-bus riding. We got off at a junction to wait for the west-bound bus to Rama, where we had hoped to arrive in time to catch a boat to Bluefields that night. We were planning on taking a ferry the next day from there to Corn Island, and were pretty concerned when we arrived in Rama too late to catch a boat to Bluefields. But after talking to some locals in Rama, we learned that luckily all the schedules and pricings in our guide book were incorrect...as rough as our journey had been to get there, things seemed to be kind of falling into place. After a night in Rama, we traveled the hour and a half by speedboat to Bluefields.
The Caribbean side of Central America differs substantially from the central and Pacific regions. These areas have a lot more British and Caribbean influence, and so lend themselves to an almost Jamaican-like culture, with a Creole-ish language that supplements the Spanish. The people are loud and outgoing, just as the West-Indians, with similar food cultures. Bluefields felt like a different country entirely, and it was hard to imagine the locals as Nicaraguans. We crossed the bay to a smaller point called the Bluff, where the $10 ferry to Corn Island would pick us up the next morning. Even now, looking at pictures from the Bluff, it seems more like Cuba than Nicaragua, unattached from mainland Central America, more Caribbean than Latino. We stayed in a small “hotel” that we found through asking around, I, Ryan, and a French woman we had met and decided to travel with named Celine. The next morning we were down at the dock at 5:45, waiting for the boat that showed up around 8:00.
The boat that greeted us was nothing like the speed, luxury liner that I had paid $50 to take me the one hour from mainland Honduras to Roatan. This chariot presented as a tugboat-sized rig loaded to the brim with cargo, from cartons of beer to baskets of vegetables. As for passenger seating, we sort of scrambled on board and found a sturdy location wherever we could, trying not to crush the cargo upon which we sat. From the cross-bars that structured the cloth roof hung about a dozen hammocks in which some locals snuggled to ride out the journey to come. There were about five foreigners among the twenty-or-so locals, but we all were pretty much united by the extremity of the trip. No more than a half hour out to sea, and we were caught in a squall that blew cold rain in through the open sides of the boat. We all migrated and huddled towards the middle, some of the more boisterous women laughing and cracking jokes. Many of the passengers went through bouts of vomiting throughout the trip, including my buddy Ryan. To be out at sea again, though, filled me with so much excitement, and the only part of the trip that I didn’t love was the fact that I hadn’t eaten all day.
We arrived on the Big Corn Island around 3:00 pm, in the middle of a huge rain storm. I have to admit that it had passed through my head several times since leaving the Ranch whether traveling to a Caribbean Island at the tail end of hurricane season was a good idea. We roamed around looking for a cheap place to stay, once again disappointed by the information provided in my travel book. Finally, un-enchanted with what the Big Island appeared to offer and encouraged by Celine, we decided to take the last boat over to Little Corn Island, about seven miles away. The boat ride was one of the most exciting yet, lasting only about a half hour. I sat with Ryan and Celine, behind a little girl with her terrified mother. The boat headed straight into the oncoming waves, which launched us into weightless moments, followed by slamming landings that made our teeth shake. I was laughing hysterically from the adrenaline that left me giddy. The little girl with an adorably dimpled smile kept turning around to laugh with me, in part from the ride and in part at her mother who was dramatically and comically terrified, in a way that only Caribbean women can be.
Stepping off the dock at Little Corn Island filled me with the sensation of arrival, like I had finally reached where I meant to go all along. We were greeted by a British women handing out flyers for her dive shop, and she sweetly directed us to the path that led to the other side of the island and cheap lodging. We followed the car-less road until we came to the dirt path that took us five minutes across the island to another, quieter beach. The first set of lodgings we encountered was alive with festivities, the local owners approaching us, drunkenly and aggressively selling their cabins and talking down those of the women next door. We decided, despite threats of not being allowed to come back, to continue on to the next option, and found Grace’s Place, fifteen or so small “cabins” and rooms set on the beach surrounding a small open-aired restaurant that never served anything but beer the entire time we were there. The owner, Grace, was celebrating her birthday, hence the festivities next door. She offered the three of us a room for $15 and use of the “rustic” kitchen, consisting of two working burners on a camp stove, a pipe for water, one pan, one plate, and precisely two utensils (a fork and a knife I believe). We settled in and made ourselves a meal with the scant supplies we had picked up on the big island, awaiting the next day to swim in the beautiful Caribbean Sea by daylight.
As it turned out, the rain and wind that had plagued us the day before and throughout the night didn’t let up with the dawn. I awoke early, a little unsettled, and went to the beach to walk off my grogginess. The ocean was brown and rough and after walking a ways, I sat down to watch the storm progress. Down the beach I spotted a lanky old local approaching, with a laid-back energy that signaled me he was in no mood to pass by without a greeting. Our salutation turned into a pleasant, relaxed, very “Caribbean” conversation, and he even sat down for a while and chatted. He stood up to leave about the time a younger local showed up, introduced himself, and took me on a barefoot tour of the small island, through dirt paths and fruit tree groves. From the top of an old light-tower, we saw in the distance a wall of weather approaching.
The rain hit just as I was returning to Grace’s Place, and lasted for the duration of our stay. Every night I would wake up hoping the wind had eased, only to hear a big gust that shook our cabin. Each day the ocean got higher and higher, until it occasionally washed onto the floor of the restaurant. None of the fishermen were fishing, none of the destination diver tourists were diving, and none of the hippie travelers were spending all day swimming around the island. So what did we do? You know, the usual...I cooked a lot and everyone else drank a lot of rum, and we all played a lot of cards. We ended up staying for five days. I was planning on taking the boat back to Bluefields, since it was about $100 cheaper than flying off the island, but it appeared that there were no ferries coming or going due to the stormy weather.
Every night Ryan and I counted our cash, set aside that which we already owed for the room, and tried to determine whether we could afford a boat ride back to Bluefields if we had to stay one, two, three more nights. Ryan was pretty set on flying back, considering his return to the US was set in less than a week, and the ferry would set him back considerably. Finally, we decided to make a break from the Little Corn, and find a place to stay on the big island where we could pay with credit cards. Upon arrival at the dock, we discovered that the lancha was charging almost double the usual rate due to the extra gas and danger of crossing in rough seas. Annoyed, I shelled over my last bit of cash, grateful that I hadn’t decided to stay an extra night on Little Corn and been unable to afford the boat. I grumbled about what I considered a scam, until we got out of the harbor and were side-swiped by our first 6-foot swell. Wave after wave approached the boat from every angle for the next hour, soaking the passengers, as the captains skillfully sped up to surf the faces or to avoid a nearby destructive break. At first I was thrilled, before realizing how dangerous of a crossing it really was. We arrived, drenched, and found the nearest hotel, more than willing to pay $40 for a room and a restaurant dinner (the menu was considerably limited due to the weather embargo the island was facing).
The next morning, Ryan was up before me and went for a walk to the airport where he discovered that there were two seats left on the morning flight. By time he returned, we had fifteen minutes to catch the flight. I immediately started getting my stuff together and hurried to catch a cab. With the cab ready, door open, my bag in the back, Ryan told me that he preferred to wait for the afternoon flight, a statement that hit me out of left field, as I was so ready to leave that instant. I had to ground myself and think about what I really wanted to do, how much I wanted to be in Granada that day, back in the same hostel I knew and loved, with the comfortable beds and amazing kitchen. So I hugged Ryan goodbye and wished him luck on the rest of his journey, and caught another cab directly to the airport. As it turned out there was only one seat left on the plane, so it was destiny that Ryan and I parted ways on Corn Island, and I flew away from the island, and the storm, with a sense of nostalgia and relief. I arrived in Managua (the Nicaraguan capital), and caught a bus directly to the terminal from where I could get to Granada. Once in Granada, I walked to the Kalala Lodge, and was greeted by the same receptionist who recognized me from three months earlier. I made a good meal, and settled in for a nap. Refreshed, I walked out to the courtyard and met the two people who would be my new traveling companions for the next couple weeks.

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Photos

Esterillos.
Full moon over the palms.

Riverboat crossing.
The watery border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica.

Rio San Juan.
A small river community at high water.

El Castillo.
What the outsiders come to see.

El Castillo.
What the outsiders come to appreciate.

El Castillo.
That's about it...what more do you need?

The Bluff.
Sleepy evening in small town Cuba-whoops, Nicaragua.

The Bluff.
Playing with shadows in our hotel.

Crossing.
The boat ride from the Bluff to Corn Island. I didn't realize this lady was awake when I took the picture.

Crossing.
The lucky ones had hammocks.

Little Corn.
Grace's Place...the view of the ocean from our front "door".

Little Corn.
The "restaurant" at Grace's Place as seen from our cabin.

Little Corn.
Part of the path leading to the other side of the island and "town".

Little Corn.
Miles away from the ordinary.

Little Corn.
Jealous yet?