Where the track is barely beaten...

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North or south?

This was the tough decision facing Amy and myself when it came to deciding which part of the country we would tackle for our final road trip together in Nicaragua.

The south – the Lago de Nicaragua port of San Carlos, the contentious Río San Juan that forms the border with Costa Rica, the hidden depths of several natural reserves, the rarely visited Solentiname islands, and the historic Spanish fortress at El Castillo – was entirely unexplored by Amy, despite the length of time she had spent in this country. Juigalpa and the Parque Arqueológico Piedras Pintadas of the Chontales region was as close as we’d got. After all, San Carlos is at the other end of a 16+ hour boat trip or a bumpy 8-10 hours on the road (about six hours beyond Juigalpa), unless you take the tempting cop-out option and fly.

The north as at least as enticing. On an earlier road trip we’d touched the fringes of the immense, border-straddling and also rarely visited Bosawás Biosphere Reserve, but time had prevented our going further.

In the end, it was Amy’s son who inadvertently – on his part – made our decision for us. The south is reputedly hot and humid, whereas the north would be cooler and any dampness more likely to take the form of rain showers. It seemed too as if the attractions for a small child would be even more limited than in the north (though we well equipped with toys and books and pacifying movies to play on a laptop while we were in the car). So north we went.

This time we had company. Pretty essential company, too. Being vehicularly challenged by this point, we’d costed the hire car options, but concluded that even the best of these would result in a car inferior for our purposes. We were also concerned at the obviousness of rental cars, an easy target for police at roadblocks; “negotiating” our way out of being pulled over time and again would only add to the expense of the exercise. So we turned to Fruto Arevalo, a long-time friend of Amy’s in this country. As well as working on his father’s farm in the Pueblos Blancos region, Fruto has close ties with one of the local orphanages and has been involved in several of the foreign adoptions of its children, including doing a lot of driving/guiding for would-be adopters. He’s bilingual and, most importantly of all, a great guy. Infinitely better and MUCH more fun to pay him to come with us (and, um, do all the hard work…) than to add to the profits of Hertz and Avis and the suchlike.

So, at lunchtime on Wednesday, we hit the road…

… and didn’t un-hit it again until late on Sunday evening.

It was one heck of a trip. The first afternoon’s drive up to Jinotega was a breeze. The Pan-American highway was busy, but not as full of its dangerously crazy drivers as sometimes, and the new road over the mountains to the “city of mists” nestling in the valley was stunning.

But Jinotega was full. We’d tracked down the delightfully kooky Roco Rancho, its walls peppered with old musical instruments and other random bits and pieces, for a late lunch/early supper, and asked its large and welcoming French-Nicaraguan proprietor for his thoughts on possible accommodation. In the absence of too many other customers demanding his attention (there were only a couple of others in the bar at the time), he generously got on the phone to ring a couple of the places we’d asterixed in our guidebooks. And then he rang the ones we hadn’t asterixed. And then he dug out the phonebook. And sent one of his staff to run round a couple of places that weren’t in the phonebook. All to no avail. Some collection of American evangelists or other were in town for a conference and were occupying every last inch of space.

But our host was a man of enterprising nature. Hadn’t his wife’s sister always talked of opening a guesthouse or hotel in this area? Weren’t her children now grown and moved away? Didn’t she have a couple of spare rooms out back? Would that suit us?

We’d toyed with the idea of simply continuing on the road that night. After all, El Cua didn’t look that far away on the map, maybe another two hours’ or so. Yes, it would mean driving after dark, but there wouldn’t be too many people on the road at that time… But we were also keen to SEE this part of the world, and none of us had been on the Jinotega-El Cua road, so it seemed a shame to press on and miss the scenery. So we took up our host’s offer (he having, in the meantime, checked with the missus and her sister that this was indeed feasible, and what his sister-in-law might like to charge us for her efforts). If we didn’t mind waiting an hour or so while they got the rooms ready…

We were overwhelmed. The sister-in-law and her youngest daughter must have worked hard to turn these two rooms into something habitable by strangers on no notice at seven o’clock in the evening. Apart from a few boxes and mementoes of children’s things on the shelves and a photo or two, it wasn’t immediately obvious that the rooms weren’t regularly rented out. And in the morning, we had coffee and cake pressed on us before we hit the road again, even though we had risen before the sun. (Our hostess had pretty clearly only pulled on clothes top of her nightwear before coming out to serve us.)

So we adopted a little of that generosity of spirit ourselves. In this part of the world – beyond Jinotega – hitchhiking is a way of life. Before too long we were to discover that the old school-bus style of public transport that dominates Nicaraguan roads further south simply can’t cope with the roads of the north, and gives way to open-sided, cram-packed trucks. People walk miles for the chance to board the truck while there is still room on the wooden benches inside the truck. Others count themselves lucky to get space on the roof, rather than hanging dangerously off the back. Hitching, on the offchance that a vehicle both comes past in the next few hours and is prepared to stop, is, relatively speaking, the comfortable option. Rarely did we speak to any of our hitchhikers. We’d simply come to a stop, and they’d scramble onto the back of Fruto’s pickup, making themselves as comfortable as they could amidst our luggage and any other folks who might already be on board. When they wanted to get off, they’d bang on the roof or whistle, and disembark, waving their thanks and farewells.

We didn’t stop for everyone. After all, there were Bad Guys in this area, and ambushes weren’t unknown. But we were rapidly out of mobile phone range, so the risk of a “hitcher” ringing ahead to alert his mates lessened, and most of the folks waiting at the side of the road seemed to be old men or women, with or without children. None of them could afford to be in too much of a hurry, though I think that our photo-stops were viewed with some amusement, particularly by those we carried for any length of time. All I could say was “Muy bonita!” as I waved expansively and appreciatively at the scenery, as they failed to hide their bemusement at these gringas’ antics.

Our first hitchers were a trio of professional-looking women, two teachers and an administrator at a nearby nature reserve. We didn’t envy them their daily commute. They were with us a good hour, over bumpy road, and, every day, dependent on someone stopping for them before the next already-packed bus appeared. Makes you take a second look at the crowded Tube in the morning… Later that day, we picked up a young woman with a babe in arms and two small children at her side. We dropped them a little later at an old lady’s house – her mother’s, we assumed – and stopped to chat to them all and a couple more kids who emerged from the house. It would be such fun to stop there again, sometime in the future, to give them copies of the photographs we had taken… In the meantime, Fruto had found out that the young woman was going further, so, at our insistence, she and the baby got into the front seat, while Amy joined the growing gaggle of kids in the back of the truck, until they reached their destination, or as far as we could take them. Our hearts ached for the young woman who still had a mountainside scramble ahead for her and the baby and the younger kids. She couldn’t have been much over twenty.

Our final lift the next day was to an old man whom Fruto had stopped to ask directions. In this country of minimal signage, it’s always a good idea to stop from time to time to confirm that you’re on the right road, and this applies ten-fold in the unmapped north. It transpired that he too was heading to our destination, so we got ourselves an on-board guide, as well as accommodation and restaurant recommendations for that evening. (For the record, we agreed with his restaurant recommendation, returning there for lunch before we left for Jinotega, but “Hotel Central”, with its virulent pink and purple décor and dividing walls that didn’t reach the ceiling, was An Experience, “enhanced” by the return of a large crowd of partying Sandinistas in the wee sma’ hours of the morning…)

Just after we dropped the teachers, we passed a second signpost and turning to Reserva Natural Datanli-El Diablo. We were on the road; we had no particular destination in mind; how about we take a look down this track, see what we could see? Fruto turned off… and almost immediately put the car into 4-WD. This was decidedly bumpy and steep and narrow; a foretaste of what the main road was to become later that day, if we’d only known.

The signpost had said “1 km” to the Reserva, but we took this with a pinch of salt and stopped to ask farm workers from time to time. This was coffee “finca” (farm) country, and we passed endless rows of scruffy-looking coffee bushes, sheltering under the banana palms that are planted with them to give them shade. Later on, we encountered cocoa bushes, hedging in the coffee and bananas. I could live here – all that a girl needs growing right on the doorstep! But after half an hour of lumps and bumps, we encountered a second signpost… which also said “1 km”. Had they had a job lot made? This time, however, it transpired that we had actually reached our destination; it just wasn’t immediately apparent. We got out of the car to stretch our legs, photograph the acreage of coffee beans drying on raised racks, and chat to the locals. Fruto spotted a green parrot in a nearby tree, and went off to chat to its owner about a possible sale; he was looking for a mate for his beloved Lorena, but wasn’t exactly taken with the suggestion from this parrot’s owner that he should sell Lorena to her. The quest for Lorena’s mate was to provide an excuse for several more entertaining breaks in the coming days, though he sadly went home empty-handed.

Backtracking the way we had come, we stopped at another finca’s buildings to see if the owner was around. A woman emerged from an outhouse, and explained that he was away at the minute, but, if we’d like to wait, she was sure he’d be back shortly; he hadn’t had his breakfast yet. We all got out of the car to wait, but Fruto was already peaking around the door of the outhouse and had spied what the woman had been doing. She was the finca cook, and had been in the middle of preparing food for the workers; fresh tortillas were toasting on a vast metal sheet balanced on top of flaming logs. Fruto asked if we could buy some… and before we knew it, we were being presented with platefuls of fresh gallo pinto and tortillas. This was breakfast like no other. (Gallo pinto is almost a national dish in Nicaragua, a mixture of rice and red beans, and a staple breakfast dish.) Only a few mouthfuls in, the owner appeared, beaming at the appearance of strangers, and offering us coffee and seats at his own table. He disappeared almost immediately to see to finca business, but a young lad scuttled between the dining area and the kitchen, bringing us more food and a huge flask of coffee. We could not have been made to feel more welcome.

In El Cua that night, we chatted at length to José Ramón. Fruto had already befriended him in the search for something car-related that afternoon. Now his brains were being picked on the subject of roads and distances into the Bosawás and over in the next departamento, Nueva Segovia. But Fruto, who had been interpreting some of the conversation for me, had to leave the table for a few minutes to take a call and Amy was away seeing to her son’s bedtime. So I resorted to that classic fallback subject of conversation when language is a barrier: football. Nicaragua’s main sport is baseball: I’ve seen smart baseball pitches in the least likely of towns, and had run into a kids’ game in the street earlier that evening. But José Ramón’s first love is football. Football supporters in Nicaragua tend to support one of two teams: Barcelona or Real Madrid; José Ramón supported Real. Enchanted that I could talk about a few players and their origins pre-Real or their destinations post-Real, he presented me with his Real Madrid key fob: I was charmed.

Distances were becoming illusory. We’d been told that the journey from Jinotega to El Cua would take two hours. Even allowing for our couple of hours in the Reserva Natural Datanli-El Diablo and chatting to the owner of Finca Santa Lucia, it had taken us more than four. We set off for San Juan de Bocay the next morning with some trepidation. But this stretch was a good road – untarred, but evenly and only fairly bumpy, as it were. We were in Bocay within a couple of hours, and, although we checked out José Ramón’s accommodation recommendation, the delightfully-named “Hotel Five Star”, we contented ourselves with a second breakfast at El Polo Norte (our minds boggled at the choice of name in the Tropics) and got back on the road.

However, the road to Wiwilí on the border with neighbouring Nueva Segovia and on the shores of the Río Coco was not so good. Fruto engaged low range 4-WD to tackle the steep ascents and descents as we wound our way through, and up and down, the mountains of the Bosawás. Yes, we had finally crossed into the Bosawás Biosphere Reserve itself, pausing to pose around the sign as we recorded the event for posterity. Here the road was single track at best, and Fruto had to pull off into what passed for a verge anytime we encountered traffic. However, this wasn’t often. We were the only private vehicle we saw that day, and it was only the occasional lumber- or people-carrying truck that necessitated this. More commonly, we were passing people on horseback or, occasionally, motorbike: infinitely more practical forms of transport for this part of the world. This was the dry season; I couldn’t begin to imagine what this “road” would be like in the wet.

Soon after leaving Bocay, we found ourselves driving across low bridge over a small river. I begged a brief photo-stop, so we all got out. I’m not sure who first suggested it, but within a few minutes, we were all changed into swimsuits and sitting in a natural plunge pool a little way downstream. Just across from that was a very mini set of rapids in which I could lie, the water massaging my back… and mosquito larvae making themselves at home on my skin. We giggled and splashed and, lizard-like, sunbathed, relishing the freedom of our adventure. Not much further downstream and visible from a couple of hundred metres down the road when we set off again, we spied an incredible waterfall and a plunge pool that would have put our own to shame. Here the water was channelled into a narrow outlet and crashed downwards, carving itself an ever widening hole in a stone shelf below, before it splashed into the pool. We were in love: with it and with our adventure. We imagined owning the surrounding finca…

Sadly, Wiwilí was to be the furthest point on our adventures. Although we’d discussed looping through Nueva Segovia, Nicaragua’s northernmost departamento, this would have required yet another long, long day in the car. Fruto seemed tireless, but this was more than could be said for his passengers. In an ideal world, we would have had the next day off – we had a river and nearby nature reserves to explore – but time was running out and we knew we’d have to be well into the return trip to Managua by the next night. But that didn’t stop us enjoying a leisurely morning. Amy and I meandered down to the Río Coco early the next day. Pangas – as African-style mokoros or dug-outs are termed here – were already ferrying passengers across the river. Had we continued further, we too would have crossed in this manner while Fruto took the vehicle further downstream to a point at which the river was shallow enough for him to drive through: no bridges or tunnels in this part of the world. Later in the morning, we picked up ten-year-old Enier, the son of the lady who had cooked our breakfast at the home-from-home café opposite our hotel, whom his mother had already volunteered as our guide for getting to a nearby nature reserve on the grounds of Finca La Joba. He did a great job, and happily bounced along on our subsequent tramp through the trees, taking out my binoculars, which were already hanging round his neck, at every opportunity. Amy’s son quickly became his acolyte, earnestly replicating Enier’s action with my binoculars by putting a small water bottle up to his eye in the hope of working out what his mentor was doing.

But time was moving on, and after lunch we hit the road once again, destination Jinotega. We weren’t going back on the same roads as had brought us laboriously north; the return road through Pantasma was a little quicker, and almost as scenic. Pantasma itself provided a welcome break, a store owner going off to brew us up some coffee specially, and Fruto engaging in one last attempt to find a mate for Lorena (the little girl who owned this parrot looked aghast at the idea of selling it, even to this jovial countryman). However, it was still well after dark by the time we returned to Roco Rancho, and a surprised but warm welcome from our French-Nicaraguan host. No need to bother his sister-in-law this time. There was room at the inn, and we treated ourselves to the smartest one in town. Boy, did that hot shower feel good…

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Photos

Nicaragua's national bird, the guardabarranco
(less interestingly known, in English, as the turquoise-browed motmot)

Comments

[Boyd]

Great Report
Fantastic report. Thank you for taking the time to document your trip in such detail. I have never been to Nicaragua but your report makes has me wanting to book a flight. Keep up the great reports and most of all ENJOY!!!

[ABNayve]

fire tree
Here in our country, the Philippines, we call it a "fire tree" because the color of its flowers look like fire.

[Ramz]

Good snaps
Hi Elizabeth, I am from India. Just went through your blog. Your Nicaragua - Northern highlands trip seems to be superb. The snaps are indeed too good. The sun burst is photo is stunning, Thsi could get a prize, no jokes its simply class. keep travelling and post blogs. do visit my page, best wishes, Ramz

[Eduardo]

Where is this water Fall
Dear Elizabeth, allow me to congratulate you for the pictures you have taken of Nicaragua. I live in Nicaragua and I would like to get to this water fall... Where is it? Thanks

[Jairo López]

su visita a nicaragua
hola Elizabeth, un gusto conocerla. estaba buscando información sobre jinotega y me econtre con su blog. la felicito excelente trabajo. gracias por venir a nicaragua y conocer nuestra cultura. he tomado como referencia algunas fotos de usted para una clase. un gusto y mucho exito en sus proximas giras, bendiciones