Category: Wanderings

Upon returning from Little Corn (thankfully, in a slightly bigger plane), we took a taxi to the bus station and then from there a chicken bus to the colonial legacy of Leon.

Paradise Found and paradise lost
Yesterday, we took a bus bound from Granada to the capital city of Managua in hopes of catching a short flight to Big Corn Island on the Caribbean coast. The airport itself is not much more than a giant air-conditioned hanger with a wall of glass on one side, but at least the last minute decision was not in vain as there were tickets available. Just to show how surprising adventure travel can be some times, we each got weighed individually along with our luggage. The reason didn’t seem obvious until we walked onto the runway and saw the “plane” that was literally about the size of two taxis. The interior fitted exactly 10 passengers in total, plus a crew of two. Despite its small size, the flight was not too rough and we touched down an hour later on Big Corn Island. We literally walked across the runway to get to the main road to reach hotel Beach View situated right on the turquoise waters of the beach. For $5 a night, you can’t get a better deal with wind-swept beaches.

The objective was to rest up for a night and then head to Little Corn island (population 700) a short distance away. Early this morning we boarded a boat (which, incidentally, was bigger than the plane yesterday) for Little Corn. This had to be one of the more death-defying rides I’ve been on: the boat was completely over-laden with cargo and passengers, listing to the left by 15 degrees; what’s more, as soon as we headed away form the island, the swells grew to 10-12 feet plus… rocking the boat with severe jolts and repeatedly slamming us into the water. 30 minutes of this was better than any possible roller coaster ride.

After docking and checking in to the hostel, I made a bee-line pass thick citrus and mango forests for the pristine waters on the north side of tiny Little Corn (one a can walk the entire rim of the island in less than 1.5 hours). After swimming in what seemed like untainted waters, I resolved to gather coconuts from the abundant trees flanking the beaches. Sadly, walking the coastline, its easy to spot the accumulated junk and plastic flotsam that have washed ashore from the ocean – there is scarce a place now in the world where the influence of humans has yet to despoil the natural beauty. In a sense, all that is beautiful will be lost to the ages soon as tourism and commercialism eventually trample on paradise … but what remains yet is so beautiful.

For the next few days, I relished in the natural beauty of the island and mingled with the local people, most of whom are descendants of Caribbean settlers and speak predominantly Creole and English. Life is really relaxed here, such that even walking fast seems to disturb the peace. On one occasion, walking back from gathering mangos, I passed a fragrant scent and followed its trail to a middle age woman selling freshly baked coconut bread from her home. After sampling a bite, I asked “What does it take to make this?”, to which she simply replied in a thick Creole accent “Ohhhh, only a lot of patience.”

Granada has a tendency to grow on you, it seems. I had not plan to stay here for three days, but such is as it is and I resolved to explore the city a bit more away from the others. Wandering away from the central area I walked towards the lake for a few hours. Children play in the bare feet on the dirt roads, sewage runs down the sides of streets, gnats and sand flies swarm unending, and I’m sure the stench I was giving off could evacuate a building. However, this is the best way to see how life is really lived by the common people away from the main tourist traffic.

In the quotidian humdrum, I passed graffiti on a wall that completely stopped my tracks. “Viva la poesia” was spray painted on a white background, translating to “long live poetry”. It gave poetic measure to the moment, and certainly circumscribed the bounds of what life must be like here, while shining a bit of hope on the situation.

I returned after reaching the lake, taking an alternate route behind the market. Poverty evinced there was even more poignant. In the afternoon, I went to buy bags of candy with “Tex”… we’re planning on surprising one of the girls traveling with us with a pinata for her birthday. Perhaps as a small gesture to dull the monotony for the children here, we rounded the local kids on the street at 7 in the evening and hung up the pinata.

Some of the kids were given turns at whacking the pinata in the middle of the street while the birthday girl cheered in delight along with the entire neighborhood. It was quite the happy occasion to be able to bring a bit of amusement for all the children as they scrambled for candy.

Granada seems to be perpetually find itself on any list of must-see destinations in Central America. The city itself is no more than 90,000 people, yet it bustles like any other. Today, a few of us traveling in the same general direction decided to venture to the near-by artisan town of Masaya to do some crafts shopping at the central market. Like most places in the third world, the trip there is an adventure itself as twice the capacity of people are crammed into a tiny minibus; the driver’s duty is to not get us killed, while the attendant runs from the vehicle to the roadside helping people on and off, the remainder of the time his body is protruding half way out the window as he yells “Masaya, Masaya, Masaya…” as everyone drips in sweat on the interior oven.

From where the bus dropped us, it was an easy 20 minute walk across a field of trash to reach the market. The market itself is much like the central open market in Thailand, except smaller by some measure. Despite the immense heat and humidity, the vendors ply their trade with welcoming smiles as they fan themselves. Other people, too poor to have their own shops, set up stalls on the main concourse selling foodstuffs and water packaged in plastic wraps (and their is a lot of plastic). It’s not difficult to see the severity of the poverty here – one can only imagine how bad it can be in some of the more remote regions. Even the horses stopped by the road show tremendous signs of wear and age; most of them have their heads completely dipped in the swelter, showing multiple open sores on their skins flocked with flies. It’s hard not to feel sympathy for the suffering animals here; but such is life in these parts and people busy themselves around it.

Inside the market, it’s a colorful scene throbbing with energy and commotion. Prices here are almost rock-bottem for all sorts of local crafts. After some hard bargaining, I bought a hammock for $8.

After the noon ferry back from the lake, I boarded a chicken bus bound for Granada. The 50 minute wait in the baking heat inside the bus at the “terminal” afforded some time for observation and reflection of the local scene. Nicaragua is a very poor country; what’s more, unlike Panama and Costa Rica, it’s recent history was filled with strife and civil war that subsequently either destroyed the old or prevented development of the new. Consequently, it’s rather stark how backwards it is. Poverty is palpable from the people lying lethargically on the steps to fend off the heat and humidity on the rural streets – after all, this is still the land of horse drawn buggies and where corrugated tin roof is prevalent. However, the bus terminal was a chaotic scene of humanity struggling to survive. Children as young as five or six are already put to work, either by their parents or by necessity (probably both). While sitting on the bus waiting, it’s not easy to watch the kids get on and off as they walk up and down the isle trying to sell water, food, peanuts, even socks. One boy, who could not have been more than twelve, tried to sell me “musica” DVD’s – they were definitely not “musica”, but rather porn. The Israeli girls and Texan and Brit all had a good laugh over the incident. It didn’t seem too auspicious a beginning heading into Granada.

Stories from travelers speaking of its dangers didn’t help. Upon arrival in Granada at a gas station… a group of hawkers plying the backpacker crowd approached us. One man offered to take us to a “grande” hotel with a kitchen for $5 per person. As we had five people in total and the gentleman seemed nice, it felt reasonable safe. He kept saying it was “one block” away, to which it never seemed. After rejected the first hostel by consensus, he offered another to show another one with the same price. As the girls were about to pass out from the heat, he kindly offered to call a “friend” to pick us up to drive us to the hostel for free, saying that it was the “best car”. Joke is on us, right? A few minutes later a Nicaraguan man in his mid forties pulled up the curb in a huge, brand new, white Suburban SUV with all the trims that dwarfed all the other bicycles, horses, and scooters. What’s more, with his half burnt complexion and heavy pot-marked face and wearing pale blue medical scrubs immediately gave us pause. After all this is still Central America, corridor of the drug trade from Columbia to Mexico. It didn’t pass our minds that he looked like a coroner driving the head cartel’s car and that we’d might be taken to the countryside, executed and our bodies stuffed with coke to be smuggled some where. I’m sure it was the imagination running wild, but it really looked that odd.

In any case, sure enough he drove us to a hostel the size of a mansion, for free. It really was $5 a person with private bath and shower in each room, a huge kitchen and beautifully tendered tile flooring throughout. People can still be honest and genuine.

After checking in, we walked pass the central market area – really just a collection of dilapidated wooden stalls vending all sorts of fruits and local meats. Passing that, we walked the old relic street lined with beautiful colonial buildings as the sun faded into the west. After that, everyone opted for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Such is another day.

Left San Juan del Sur on chicken bus to Rivas, then bus to San Jorges to catch the ferry to Ometepe Island in the middle of the lake. From the ferry head on the island 4 of us hired a collectivo driving along the rim of the island to reach Santo Domingo beach. The island is sparsely inhabited, but there is certainly a palpable sense of human habitation. Fortunately, the quaint charm of small town feel is still prevalent as one can continually see children driving cattle down the main road and men riding on horses – which still seems to be the preferred mode of transport here. The island itself is formed from two dormant volcanoes that jut from the center of the lake. The water is murky but tepid to the touch and absolutely refreshing – it would be most agreeable to stay here for a bout a week or so and just explore the island’s wonders.

After some trouble securing a room for the night (we didn’t book ahead) we wounded up having lunch at a little make-shift shack “restaurant”. Julia, the daughter of the proprietor was incredibly amiable and extended warmth and open smile… chatting up the tourist in rapid Spanish and a few phrases of broken English. I’ll likely never come this way again, but for the day it was about as perfect as perfection goes. The food was almost gourmet… still prepared on a wooden stove. Late into the night, I swung on the hammock to enjoy the lake breeze.

Tomorrow we’ll take the ferry back to San Jorges, then to Rivas, and catch a bus to the colonial relic of Granada.

Made my way to a sleepy little surfing town on the southern Pacific coast of Nicaragua aptly named San Juan del Sur. It’s really not much but a collection of small shack houses and a few “hotels” catering to a burgeoning tourist crowd. The local life is already a bit disturbed from it’s former quiet feel, it seems. There is no better evidence of this than the fact that a pair of sandles is marked at $20 plus. Yet, it still holds plenty of charm as the “central” market is still only 3 fruit stands and an occasional ox cart will move down the cobble stone streets. The natural inlet bay here serves as a harbor for local boats anchor just off the beach where children play in the evening sun.

After arriving from La Fortuna, Costa Rica through the lengthy bus ride, I settle to sit by the beach simply to watch the sun go down once more. Either tomorrow or the day after, I will head to the volcanic islands in the middle of Lake Nicaragua.

Strange how our moments are occupied with endless inanities when one is in the city. It’s a full-time affair just to manage the noises that assail our senses when we crowd with the multitudes in cramp spaces. But, a wonder it is to be able to get away into the trees and pastures where man does not intrude. Yesterday morning, a friend of an acquaintance for whom I had done some work came by to pick me up to visit his “farm” in rural Costa Rica. After taking a circuitous route pass two volcanoes, cloud forests, rain forests, and pastures, we arrived at Mr. Gardella’s 180-hectare vanilla farm. The scenic route was absolutely breathtaking and a world apart from the capital’s bustle. Driving through cloud forests is an almost mystical experience of unimaginable beauty.

The open escape to pastoral scenes takes to my heart with facile adoption. The farm is not really a farm, but a rain forest; replete with all forms of flora and fauna. Plants grown on top of plants that grow on top of other plants. We prattled on various topics as we wondered through the thick jungle with a machete, finally reaching the 7000 vanilla vines 2pm. Methinks I have new-found appreciation for the work and skills involved in maintaining a farm – especially having helped about all afternoon with manual labor. No complaints here as its been a fancy of mine to return to the idyllic and simple ways of life; but alas, notwithstanding my pleasures, I can’t remain forever. We visited some of his friends – all retired expatriots from different parts of the world – and had dinner by a river as gnats and mosquitoes swarmed about on a balmy night; where the scent or orchids and hibiscus floated in the night air … such is paradise for one night.

We returned through rural, unpaved roads late into the night completely exhausted. The highlight so far on the trip was taking an open cold shower with water channeled from a mountain stream… in the middle of a rain forest jungle; that’s right, I was bare naked in a rain forest.

I spent the night sleeping there in a cabin with cicadas, birds, and insects ushering me to dreams. No troubles flocked to my mind on this night. But as with all things, it must end. Tomorrow I head to La Fortuna to visit an active volcano, up close.

Sadly, the cities thus far in Central America don’t offer much to write home about. Though I’m sure the rustic beauty of the protected reserves is truly amazing, areas where man wields influence generally degrade in appeal. Today I walked downtown San Jose for a few hours – really uninspiring. The central market did offer a bit of color, but aside from that the banal reared its ugly head everywhere. McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, Wendy’s, KFC, Payless Shoe Source are everywhere… it’s like one never left. I’m not sure what it is about Latin American culture that clings so readily to fast food, surely a papaya salad would be better! Failing to find anything interesting, I returned to the hostel to sit in a hammock by the pool to read and plan ahead.

If beauty isn’t available, one has to shift perspective and look elsewhere. At evening I went to restaurant area and was enthralled by a lamp. Really. This was the most beautiful thing I saw all day.

Imagine my luck, heading to one of the top hiking trails in Panama without a camera. Luckily, the Spanish girl pities my crest-fallen state and offered all the photos from her camera for the duration of the day (she also made for a great translator). Having seen photos of the quetsales bird, we were willing to take any risk to get a chance at seeing one. The danger is part of the adventure I suppose.

The trail is in total about 23 km long, we opted to go the long way from Boquete to Cerra Punta, total elevation gain 1000 meters, over course of 13 km. The remainder of the distance is just the road leading to and from the trail from the respective towns. We woke at 5am and got to the trail head by 6:30am before paying the $3 requisite fee to enter the park (part of the Volcan Baru national park). Lush indeed is the dense tropical rainforest with orchids and resplendent birds singing the entire way. However, it’s sad to report that the trail itself has fallen into disrepair as neglect compile with a freakish storm this pass November has cause massive amounts of landslide to the point that the trail is altogether destroyed at two places. It was quite dangerous at those junctions as one can’t even find the trail, and unless some serious repair work is done, some on is bound to be seriously injured soon.

We never did see the quetzales, but heard the through the thick canopy. It took us about 7.5 hours of strenuous hiking to finish the trail. The pain was well worth it. This has to be among the top five trails I’ve ever trekked! At the end, we hitched a ride from a friendly local to Volcan, then took a 2 hours bus back to David, then another hour bus back to Poquete. Exhausted.

In your life, what memories will you keep for all innumerable moments forgotten? On night of April 8th, after a long wait at the bus terminal, I bought a ticket for the express midnight bus bound for David along the Panamanian highway. As it happened, the moon hung full in transit and illuminated the forest canopies in a mystical silver glow through the entire night. Unable to sleep much I stared out the window only to see my subfusc reflection superimposed on the forested hills. It was a most surreal existential and ecstatic experience of which only another having traversed the share route can appreciate. How can one describe in words a beauty that is only experiential?

Having arrived in David at 6am, I boarded another local bus to the hill-nested town of Boquete, population 5,000. The town is replete with heavily forested hills, coffee plantations, gardens, low-drifting clouds kissing the hillsides, and the river Caldera meandering all the above. Having settled to the hostel, I wandered the circuitous road that winds around the vicinity; pass lush jungles, tropical gardens, small farms, and coffee-scented plantations as the road wended up the hills and back down – in a word, picturesque. It was much needed escape from the urban capital.

Ecstasy seeks like company. Upon returning after the 4 hour hike, I met some other travels – a Spanish and a Dutch, both of whom were staying at the same hostel. On a lark, I joined them on an afternoon excursion to a natural hotspring (heated by the Baru Volcano nearby). The 25 km drive and trail there was just spectacular, idyllic scenery. The springs themselves where next to the Caldera river downstream and seethed at a soothing 40 degrees C (102 F). Unfortunately, in my haste and excitement I sat in the hot pool with my camera still in the pocket! Oh the agony. Anyway, I was in such high spirits and the incident did not dampen my mood at all. We all swam in the cool river after the hot springs dip before heading after sunset. As we did not arrange a ride back to town from the remote location, we walked out of the trail as darkness descended. To everyone’s surprise, fireflies started lighting up on all sides… just amazing experience. However, getting back to town was a story in it’s own.

All in a long day’s adventure. Tomorrow I shall hike the famed 23 km Quetzales trail to try to see the quetzals.

So, it’s only fair that I learn some Spanish along the way – actually, in retrospect, Spanish would have been most useful. Irregardless, some things culturally specific to Panama just gets lost in translation altogether: e.g., the “Chicken Buses”, which are basically yellow U.S. school buses sold and repurposed to the third world. What’s unique is that they’re graffitied all over in spray paint a la urban “art”. Yesterday I saw one bus named the “Ghetto Life”, on the front of the bus was spray painted in big words “Pussy Hound” (I can’t make that up). I find them grotesque but some how it just blends so harmoniously to scene.

Other cultural oddities strike me as well; for example, having wander a long way on foot down Avenida Central today, I noticed that the street vendors sold Chinese incense along with their candles for Roman Catholic worship. Now, this is decidedly odd… it’s not being sold to Chinese but to the local Panamanians in general. I have no clue what they do with it.

Back to Spanish, I’m heading off to the main bus terminal to try to buy a night ticket to David City with my limited Spanish. The plan is then to Boquette; perhaps I’ll ascend the volcano, or else head to Costa Rica after a couple days.

In the late afternoon I decided to take one last round down the corridors of the old colonial part of the city. Through the crumbling facades of many of the buildings, one can imagine the faded glory of things past. The halcyon of Casco Viejo was long gone until recent urban planning started a revival project. As it is now, most of the buildings are still in ruins and occupied by poor residents, but gentrification is coming and quick. Many have been bought and renovated to the old Spanish colonial architecture.

Such urban decay is juxtapose with spectacular views of modern Panama City, which is by far the most cosmopolitan of all of Central America.

Where ever we go, it seems we tend to absorb a bit of the local flavor, but also leave a trace of ourselves behind. Where we are is where we are, the question is how to make do with what is presented. What use pining for things lost when there is yet life to live and a thousand paths untried? Besides, what is pleasant now can be a pain come the morrow. Every step one ventures leads to it’s own beauty.

Such like today, having taxied all the way down the Causeway, I discovered the boat to Isla Tobagos was sold out. Plans never work out much anyway, so I ended up on a local bus for 2 hours to some Coranado Beach with a couple travelers I met along the way. Unfortunately, as it turns out, the beach is private. We snuck in from an adjacent beach and walked back. As it were, wondera lead to wondera and I’m now sitting at a resort pool near some nice hotel, under a cabana and enjoying the nice breeze and the expensive facilities for free. Let the world be as the world is.