Though it can boast of a Pacific and a Caribbean coast, resistant jungles, obscure islands, puffing volcanoes and the largest lake in all of Central America, ultimately it is Nicaragua’s people that will leave the most indelible imprint on transient wayfarers. That’s not to say they were the warmest or most affectionate. They weren’t. Nor were they the rudest or least accommodating. What they were was perseverant, undaunted, desperate – but a desperation shouldered with admirable dignity. As a result, they were to a man, woman and unexpectedly often, child, unbelievably hard working, singularly purposeful in completing the task at hand and inventive in the extreme at scratching out a living in a country where scratching out a living is, by a wide margin, the largest employer.
This estimable work ethic was probably best exemplified in the person of the small girl– I doubt she could have even been ten – working the dusty central bus depot on the periphery of Granada, roving from bus to bus offering relief to parched clientele, meticulously emptying a freshly opened soda to fill three or four sandwich baggies into each of which she would delicately fit a straw, mindfully pass it to an eager recipient, collect her mark-up, then move on to the next with an economy of motion that reflected a respect for efficiency far beyond her years. I watched this as I baked for an hour inside the bus bound for Managua while she did the rounds on others nearby, then, responding to requests from ours, hopped on and stayed aboard until she had met everyone’s needs by which time the bus had left the depot and traversed a good quarter mile or so, where she at last pocketed her take, leaped off, and scurried barefooted at a full clip to her little make-shift stand back at the station, her bobbing tassel of light brown hair loosening from its band.
That was her world. Absent were jump-ropes or laundered apparel or socializing with anyone near her age. It was anyone’s guess how many hours a day or days a week she worked – possibly whenever the buses ran which, there, was almost perpetually. Never had one brief episode told me so much about a whole country, painted a more poignant portrait of persistence, or better demonstrated adaptation to hard economic imperatives. Having witnessed this same entrepreneurial spirit in numerous other youngsters doing anything that might generate income, it seemed if you were old enough to walk, you were old enough to work. And if you didn’t, you might not be eating that night.
And if there were no work prospects whatsoever, what then? Traversing the capital along one of its’ eerily desolate major avenues, I was detained by one of the few working street signals where a cloud of urchins swarmed my truck, begging. Some as young as five or six, some as old as ten or twelve – but none demanding or even disrespectful. Buoyant, hopeful little smiles behind smudged faces, modern-day Dickensian transplants imploring a little generosity from one of the fortunate few in that part of town with their own car. My reaction was to grab all the bills and change in my pocket and pitch it out the window, which resulted in a free-for-all I’m sure the bigger boys dominated. Even the more reserved ones standing curbside got in on the action.
The light turned green and I moved on, thinking I’d certainly made someone’s day, then wondering if I’d done the right thing. My guess – OK my hope – was that some of those funds would be used to procure cleaning rags or sponges so at least a semblance of effort to earn any remuneration was apparent to other benefactors. And if not rags perhaps shoe polish, chewing gum, whatever. Sometimes only a small infusion is required by those earnestly motivated to convey themselves on to more promising horizons.
I was probably kidding myself; that knee-jerk reaction might just as well have fostered longer-term dependency on strangers, leading to a lifetime of panhandling. At the time I didn’t know what else to do.
As instructed by the hitchhiking couple I’d helped along that morning and dropped off in the flatlands, about half-way up the central cordilleras I made a right at the dirt road junction made conspicuous by a Russian tank carcass. The countryside grew greener up this high and my mood pastoral as I wound through thickening coniferous forest. The Alpine ambience had lent itself to the ‘Swiss’ inn said to serve the best European cuisine in the still-recovering country, though the hitchhikers had never actually eaten there. I couldn’t have cared less – its proximity to untrammeled high altitude wilderness was what had inspired this diversion.
Converging on the trailhead when back-tracking from my first forest hike that afternoon I could just make out a figure with what initially suggested some serious camera gear and jungle garb until our closing proximity revealed an AK-47 slung over soldiers fatigues. But a beaming smile intimated a kindred spirit, and the fellow’s pleasure having someone to converse with on his usually desolate patrol, accentuated by animated gestures, allayed my initial concerns. Waxing poetic about the rainforest, he described with infectious enthusiasm some of its special inhabitants - pajaro’s linda, mariposa’s linda, flores linda, etc., all of which I’d indeed witnessed fine examples of. We agreed to meet later for a beer at the inn, where he showed up after hours still slinging his weapon. The packed cantinas’ other patrons cut us a wide swath.
My most ambitious plans for this entire trip – to venture deep into the southeastern wetlands region to immerse myself amidst the country’s theoretically highest concentration of wildlife were uniformly thwarted by adamant warnings not to even consider it owing to what had of late become a ominous pattern of hostage taking in that area, that if I dared go through with it a close relative would surely receive a ransom note along with an ear or an index finger in the mail, or some equally unsavory parcel. All were in accord that no one would risk their boat undertaking such an expedition or, that if they would, might well be in collusion with the perpetrators. So, if I ignored the advice my ambitions appeared foolhardy at best. And as this would be the only occasion I’d hear Nica’s denouncing fellow countrymen for anything, such warnings couldn’t be discounted.
I invariably run up against discouraging, trip-altering dilemmas on my travels, but few were more disheartening than having to forego my cardinal objective. That big blank space on the map was the principal draw enticing me down here to begin with. Unlike its neighbors, Nicaragua had never given much import to ecological considerations, certainly nothing like Costa Rica, its southern neighbor, or even Cuba, its nearest political/economic role model. And therefore, opportunities to tap into its scattering of untouched areas required much more effort, now compounded by the very real possibility that once in their proximity no deeper penetration would be possible. As far as I could determine, few protected areas had been designated. And who could afford a boat? Even if they could it’d be relegated to fishing duty. After all, it wasn’t often someone like me comes along desiring the services of a wilderness guide. In no region I’d ever graced previously had the locals been more puzzled by a visitor’s agenda or, just as often, a visitor. Throughout the entire trip I’d met hardly anyone knowledgeable enough with even the most common local species to identify any of them. Sure, this all meant the country was terra incognita wildlife photography-wise, but it also signified a reality that tended to favor undertakings which favored or facilitated economic survival, and it’s difficult to argue with that. It’s certainly always high on my list.
I watched with envy as the nubile stewardess on the small east-bound plane wedged her lithe form between the pilot and co-pilot during takeoffs and landings, longing for such intimate contact myself, trying to make out panty lines or any other suggestion of what lie underneath that skin-tight skirt. Watching her work her way up the isle, she became the epitome of everything desirable, everything I value in womanhood; sweet, giving, unpretentious, possessed of a strong work ethic, singularly feminine. I could envision her returning home to some ramshackle tenement each night after work, imagined her having beautiful sisters and doting parents relying on her steady income, and I bet I wasn’t far off. But I feared embarrassing her in these close quarters with such personal inquiries, so I kept my theories to myself, my banter to small talk, and drank in the scent of her perfume and the shine reflecting off the nylons swathing those flawlessly sculpted legs. My imagination goes off on these tangents often while traveling - a vital form of entertainment, if a prime source of frustration.
The huge fellow squeezed in next to me was an amiable kid returning to Bluefields on the country’s east coast just following nine consecutive months laboring as a carpet cleaner aboard a Caribbean cruise ship, work I likened to a prison sentence but which he described with pride and in detail, going on to explain how steady, legitimate employment commands high prestige in his home town, the local economy being what it is or, more to the point, never was. His entire extended clan was there to confer a heart-warming welcome home – a Norman Rockwell scene not unlike what returning GI’s of WWII experienced in their day, back before American families had better things to do than actually interact in close proximity with one another.
The little plane was no match for the islands neglected runway – but I had no grandiose expectations about Isla de Maize at all, and from this first bumpy impression on, it met them splendidly. The claptrap town was right off an old Hollywood ‘B’ western back lot, including few structures you’d dare lean up against and an equal ratio of town folk to free-roaming goats, poultry and piglets. For a few centavos the taxi toted me and my gear a few blocks to some two-dollar digs.
Now, I’ll put up with some pretty bare bones accommodations, but the hovel I was shown would scarcely qualify as a stable. Sure, I could utilize my hammock - it was getting pitifully little camping use anyway. But flooring and a locking door I can’t do without, and the daylight making its way through the ceiling could just as easily be rain. Determined to upgrade even if it cost me twice as much, I set out on foot and happened upon a most homey roost right off a very clean beach- the backroom of a local matron’s home endowed with such extravagances as a mattress and coat hook.
Perhaps the most striking thing about Isla was its unexceptionalness, if such a word exists. Certainly the condition does. I doubt I’d ever seen a more classless society or less stratified economy – the kind that would have done Karl Marx proud had it been leveled several notches higher. But no one was complaining. They were each and everyone the status quo, they all had better things to do, and they all set about doing them unhindered by the hand fate had dealt them and unimpressed with eccentric outsiders, of whom I was the sole example at the time. Blending in quite effortlessly, I found it noticeably liberating being free of any social standing – it made the place much more interesting than it might otherwise be. Minus this signal characteristic one only had to contend with personalities – an invariably more entertaining exercise.
Contemplating the mysteries of the universe as the sun dipped below the islands largest bay late one afternoon, a harmless drunk materializing out of nowhere invaded my space touting his services as a diving guide specializing in pirate booty, extolling extensive and exclusive knowledge of nearby shipwrecks and burial sites, sites which - I was assured - absolutely no one else knew about except him, and maybe a cousin or two who both had stopped by earlier with suspiciously similar proposals – and therefore, I concluded, probably every fisherman between there and Panama.
But incoherent talk grates on me after a while. My preference tends toward complete sentences with some continuity of thought, and when the recipient cannot reciprocate I grow frustrated, bored, annoyed, and begin looking for ways to extract myself or simply lie about getting together later. So I tasked him to draw me up a map in the sand of a meeting point and some of the secret treasure burial sites, assuring him the tides would wash any evidence away long before dawn, by which time I’d be on the other side of the island pursuing photo ops of the flora and fauna – my notion of treasure. The next morning, following my nose and a few hunches, that’s exactly where I could be found.
I rant about the little island but, like my self, it had plenty of charm in its own roguish way. The people were most accommodating, often even admirable in their patience and hopefulness. The ambience was an unglitzy tropical I prefer - the variety that’s becoming increasingly harder to find on Caribbean islands. And my total expenses for the entire four days there was less than a dinner on Antigua.
The late sixties Chevrolet that served as my taxi to distant Grenada was on its last legs, or so I’m certain many of its patrons over the past several decades had likewise thought. I was impressed with the city’s genuine old world charm – the kind advertised unabashedly by too many community boosters elsewhere to lure the uninitiated in to what is often contrived, if not totally fabricated. This was as real and as almost as old as anything still standing in Europe. I was vaguely aware of Granada’s central role in the region’s very early history, so it was unexpected and moving to find myself surrounded by this semi-obscure inland port’s imposing architecture – colonial landmarks that had witnessed and survived insurgent mobs and marauding armies, to say nothing of high-Richter scale cataclysms lesser places had completely collapsed under.
Granada’s central park bares a perfect likeness to the one in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre where a down-at-the-heels Fred C. Dobbs, portrayed by Humphrey Bogart, first meets a doleful fellow American and their gritty adventure ensues. Strolling its paths brought to mind a pal back home who, so enamored with this classic, could quote the dialog line-by-line, and who had tragically drunk himself to an early grave only recently, to the shock of our mutual acquaintances, though the obituary discretely offered no such details. I could easily envision encountering him here stretched out on a bench and starting off on some cockamamie escapade of our own, were he still among the living. He was always up for an impulsive quest, even if only for such ‘treasures’ as locating ancient Indian petroglyphs in California’s upper desert, where our paths last crossed. Perhaps they will again some day my friend, on some park bench in the next life.
The dense cluster of mostly uninhabited rocky islets off of Granada’s nearby lakeshore held a promise of unique scenery and uncountable migrating shore birds, and the armada of Jungle Queen-style vessels to choose from, each offering intimate day-long route-of-your-own-design excursions for ten bucks did nothing to dissuade me.
This corner of the incomparable lake proved a visual feast, though its beauty mandated careful navigation given the plethora of submerged hazards and jutting outcroppings. My captain - portly and easy smiling - brought along his adorable eight year - old daughter as first mate, dressed more as if for her first communion on this bright Sunday morning in a frilly pink dress and dainty pat and leather shoes. Any silly joke I cracked triggered the sweet squeal of her laughter, endearing her to me immediately. Given this package of cuteness and gaiety, I was flummoxed as we pulled up to one of the first of several docks we chose for shore excursions along the way as she gamely hopped off the approaching hull and tied a flawless bowline knot around the dock cleat leaving exactly enough slack, then scurried aft to repeat the task astern. She then reached out her tiny hand out to me, as if to imply the goofy gringo needed assistance disembarking.
Lago de Nicaragua’s scale commanded respect and implied my next island destination was much more isolated then any maps had suggested. But then, I’d never crossed a lake that went clear over the horizon. As the ferry drew near, Ometepe stood out on the horizon dominated by its prominent, twin symmetric volcano’s - too evocative not to bring Fiji or Maui to mind, or a favorite Monty Python expedition satire (“…aloof, forbidding…the mountains with the biggest tits in the world…”).
Swaggering off the ferry in a wide brim hat and cigar, I once again assumed my patented Stranger in Town persona, ambling up the middle of its’ empty coble stone main drag, which only lacked tumbleweeds and a smirking Lee Van Cleef for full effect. Sauntering in to the first bar like I was no one to be trifled with, it required but a few rounds of cervezas to win over both the keeper and his one patron before I’d acquired sufficient details, directions and reference points to kick-start this little quest to uncloak the islands secrets. Of course by then I’d dropped the macho façade.
Getting the lay of the land following a few days in the one tired jeep available wasn’t proving all that productive and certainly not worth the tab I was running up. I’d all but given up how best to access the islands untrammeled sectors – few of the numerous side roads I’d diverted down had lead to wilderness - only farms. So I relinquished it in exchange for the services of Raul, a friend of my innkeeper with a four wheel drive, thoroughly knowledgeable and rightly proud of his village, his island and most especially his son, about to turn nine, who we brought everywhere with us.
During my first call to his outwardly humble dwelling, I sat stupefied at the museum-quality assemblage of pre-Colombian pottery, jewelry and amulets adorning the place, an exhaustive collection that should have brought him considerable and conspicuous wealth, or so I thought until he explained Nicaragua’s Draconian methods for dealing with anyone attempting to black-market culturally significant artifacts, however loosely defined.
We made fast friends circumnavigating the island, sharing much common philosophical ground. Raul truly appreciated his native heritage, plus he knew every beach and bayou, road and rancher, and our traverse was intentionally slowed to a casual pace to best appreciate the context of each interesting distraction mutually enthused over. His embarrassment not finding many of the promised primates and reptiles was compensated for with forays into prickly jungles and swamps, an assortment of bird life, ancient sacred sites and almost inaccessible beaches. This is not to downplay the introductions to the islands female inhabitants, of whom there appeared a disproportionate ratio, to our shared glee.
I have to confess a perverse delight with some of the island’s local holiday traditions, particularly the women folk getting all dolled up for New Years Eve night – one of the very rare occasions when they ever traded their jeans and work aprons in for evocative skirts and clingy dresses - attire they were wholly unaccustomed to. And it is because of this the gals were ever unmindful – often totally oblivious- to the immodest exposure potential their ever-rising garb provided appreciative onlookers. And I wasn’t about to remind them. I’ll bet I saw more beaver that one night than the entire Lewis & Clark expedition.
While at first just following along as the midnight candle-light parade got under way, someone thoughtfully offered me a candle of my own, wanting, I’m sure, for their guest to benefit from the blessings the islands patron saint supposedly bestows upon all participants – highly doubtful given my disdain for Papist doctrine. Then, several convoluted side street diversions later and before I even realized what was happening, I somehow, someway found myself leading the extended procession – the whole burg of several hundred faithfully following every impulsive turn their grand marshal/adopted gringo took. After bumbling through much of the towns’ more forgettable quadrants, in a rare moment of clarity I got the inspiration to direct the assemblage back to the church. Finally terminating the march appropriately on holy ground, the crowd slowly dispersed by which time I felt as though an honorary citizen, if remaining an unrepentant heretic.
The blossoming offspring of visiting Russian advisors from a few decades earlier qualified as some of the most beautiful women I had ever encountered anywhere, imbued with the finest features both races had to offer. Raul confided that Ruskies getting involved with the local women was the rule, not the exception, just as many US servicemen had in Vietnam. But here there was no social stigma whatsoever, even if illegitimacy was obvious, as is readily verifiable in such close-knit enclaves. The Russians were, after all, comrades. These things happen. Isn’t it a beautiful baby!
For his birthday I presented Raul’s son a soccer ball – the only suitable gift the one general merchandise store had on offer – but that was before I learned that Nica’s are, contrary to most of Latin America, obsessed with baseball. He and the boy appreciated it immensely all the same. Just prior to my leaving the island he presented me a delicate, centuries-old necklace of jade segments with a flat round boar tusk centerpiece I will cherish always, and have since kept under sealed glass. I love to think of it hanging around the neck of one of Raul’s ancient ancestors, a reward for daring, a gift for service, a token of esteem, a symbol of status. And as such, I never have worn it myself. I was just passing through –hardly anything praiseworthy. My reward had been the kindness of strangers.
My trusty hammock/net cocoon again came to the rescue at the ‘fabulous’ Uni Hotel on quiet San Juan del Sur bay on the Pacific coast. I was quite convinced my bleak clapboard room had served and served well as a coal bunker in a previous lifetime, definitely qualifying for what I affectionately refer to as an ‘acid test’ accommodation, wherein if I were ever to find a woman who could deal with that level of squalor and deprivation - even for one night - I’d marry her.
The sleepy bay’s pelicans and herons were most cooperative, allowing my intrusion on their afternoon siestas and morning fishing forays close enough to fill the frame. The town leaned toward small-scale industrial, yielding a measure of unintentional quaintness. The whole scene more than hinted at one-time big plans, lost opportunities and grandiose schemes fallen flat or gone awry. Abandoned warehouses, dock pilings thick with bird droppings and rust imbued ships servicing the little port all showed character bordering on neglect. Funky enclaves like this are perfectly suited backdrops to intrigue and romance - motif’s often employed in old movies and, of course, colorful travelers tales. They must be appreciated for exactly what they are, not what they could be, and they can only be happened on to and hopefully kept a fond secret. It’s an unfortunate but accurate truism that any special place you’ve already heard of has long since been ruined by pretentious updating.
The mountains crept right down to the sea along this coast, tapering hillsides that slide right under the ocean. Happily, such topography resists impositions such as the unnatural straightness of highways or anything else lacking organic form. The waves that curled up here did so in huge walls that closed out uniformly and, as such, were perilous propositions which produced mile after mile of unpeopled seashore.
I was remiss not exploring the Pacific coast further, as both the possibilities and the road looked endless and endlessly inviting. My only excuse was that I had saved this for last, and had now run out of time.
There’s an undeniable calm-after-the-storm feel to this country. After decades associating its name with revolution, the serenity you find so easily can catch you off-guard. But it takes but a handful of new friends – an objective easily accomplished on a single bus ride or over a few beers - before all those outdated and absurd notions disperse with the prevailing winds.
It might seem curious that these accounts – essentially about people - are accompanied by photos absent of them. That’s not really so peculiar. My primary motive is, through images, to offer glimpses of the natural world, which I like to think I’m getting better at, as it is these I hope can serve some longer-term, possibly even noble purpose with. There’s no telling how it’s going to be affected by our voracious, burgeoning population, but the outcome can’t possibly include things improving. Competently conveying that world in writing has never been my strong suit and, as far as that goes, any attempt to describe exotic spaces and life forms in words is, to be sure, futile. Their essence is a visual, if not a tactile, experience.
Conversely, capturing someone’s character in photographs is a talent very few possess, and ultimately really only conveys their physical countenance, however radiant - not the redeeming human qualities we all admire and never forget. Describing them is infinitely easier. For starters, each has a story. Therefore, each is a story.
As a rule, I keep the friends I make in distant lands in a special place in my heart, filed under Those I Met Along The Way – often recalled, invariably inspirational, easily accessible - right where each belongs. Hopefully some of this is reciprocal.
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