Like Peregrine Roam

Yesterday, at the crack of early light, I left my company from Santa Ana, El Salvador for the border of San Cristobal; where, if all went well, I would have transferred buses and be in Antigua, Guatemala by 2pm. Well, all didn’t go as planned. By now, even the most patient of souls would have been tried by the tedious traffic delays and inefficient transport – but again, it’s just reminder that one shouldn’t visit 3rd world countries expecting world-class efficiency. Life is slow, and the locals like it that way. In the end, after two serious traffic jams due to road construction and raging thunderstorm, after costing me $23 dollars in buses and taxi fair (really think I got ripped off for the first time in Central America), I made it to Antigua at 6 in the evening!

The first impressions of Guatemala was an utter surprise. Driving through Guatemala City, I was struck by how modern the metropolis is, with high-rises looming everywhere. The thick clouds and raging thunderstorm added a tinge of mystical feel to a city surrounded by verdant hills. It was not the best time to appreciate as half the streets I passed was under half a foot of water. Still, it didn’t seem third world at all.

Antigua, however, is a different gem altogether. By the time I arrived on the chicken bus to the central market area, the sun had already set leaving the sky a dark shade of azure. Wandering at dusk to find my bearings, I was immediately struck by the colonial appeal of this town – no wonder all the tourist flock here. The steady drizzle of rain cast a veil over the town that scattering the lights of all on-coming traffic, much like an impressionist painting. Everywhere, school children formally attired with ties and sweaters marched through the side walks in groups prating with smiles. The cobble-stone streets all lay damped from the days rains and resounded with a staccato sound with every passing vehicle.

After checking in, I wandered the streets in the night as the herds of people thinned to a quiet. By 8:30 pm, not much stirred on the streets or in the park, save for occasional lovers huddled on a bench in the misty drizzle, softly cast by the spot-lit church adjacent to the central park, chatted the night away in soft romance.

After staying an extra day in El Zonte, I headed for Santa Ana early this morning. Again, the transit proved very frustrating due to the requisite bus transfers. At one of the transition town of Santa Ticla, I heard four rounds of gun shots as the bus pulled into the central market area – unusual of course, but it serves as a reminder that the country as a whole still sees a lot of violence; in fact, there is a heavy presence of semi-automatic firearms here, carried by the national police and private security personnel.

After arriving in Santa Ana, we decided to ride along Ruta de la Flores to go tothe weekend food festival in Juayua, some 25 km away – a trivial distance really, but again it took 2 hours to get there and a bus change. We didn’t reach the town until 3:30 pm and by then, the festival was already winding down. With a population of about 10,000, Juayua is another small town dotting the landscape. However, on weekends the ever popular festival attracts all sorts of locals from the surrounding towns along with a handful of tourists.

The center of town rises the famed church with the famed “Black Christ”. Adjacent to it is a lovely, small park replete with an old fountain in the middle. Life shuffles along here in merriment on the weekends as people sample all the indigenous food (from fried frogs to skillet rabbits) as the artisan crowd ply their bracelets and craft wares. The musicians serve up loud tunes all along the food stalls, singing at the top of their lungs all the old favorites, it seems. Children accost will accost you at every corner trying to sell anything from candy to local textiles.

It’s unfortunate that we didn’t have more time to enjoy the affair after arriving late in the afternoon. By 4:30 pm, the last bus bound for the transfer town of Sunate had already departed, leaving us stranded it seemed. However, after talking to some of the local artisans in the park, we were informed that one of the flower trucks would leave in half an hour – we could pay fifty cents to hitch a ride on the back Sunate to catch the bus. Thus I have chalked up another wild adventure of bouncing on the back of an old converted truck with 8 El Salvadorians, weaving through the misty hills flanked by volcanoes as the rain poured down at dusk.

Left Suchitoto en route to the black-sand beach town of El Zonte, El Salvador at midmorning. It’s a mixed blessing most times when traveling, one has to learn to take the good as well as the more unsettling elements. The unfamiliar and rough environments hones one’s alertness, such that, despite the surface calm one must project, one should always have full awareness of one’s surroundings. On today’s particular bus ride, the good and the unsettling showed. Half way through the ride, a local sat down next to me – tall and tanned russet by the years in the sun, he projected quiet confidence. Speaking fluent English, we engaged in an interesting conversation ranging from economics, social order, politics, environmentalism, philosophy, to travels. He brimmed proud of his culture, but is one of the lucky few El Salvadorians to have had a chance to travel a bit of the world. He confessed that he lives part-time in California and that he farms marijuana to finance his livelihood. At the same time on the bust, seated a couple seats in front, a young kid was sniffing glue and smoking out of a make-shift crack pipe (to which the bus attendant eventually alerted a police officer at one of the stops to remove him from the bus). The interesting part was listening to the marijuana farmer castigate the kid for sniffing glue and smoking crack; it seems that that which is considered approbate or condemnable is subject to matters of gradation. I do empathize with the kid who probably started sniffing glue just to stave off hunger pangs; but, unfortunately, it’s far too easy to lose one’s way.

El Zonte is not so much even a town but merely a group of huts and cabanas erected on a stretch of beach between two cliffs. Nothing much happens here except the steady trickle of surfers coming from the world over to ride the waves; although, some party-goers venture to the adjacent town. Like all towns in these parts, roads are non-existent save for a few dirt paths. Everything shuts down by eight in the evening. The nights are balmy and lonesome with the waves lapping the shoreline accompanied by a steady drone of crickets chirping, punctuated by the occasional baying of hounds in the distance. Tonight, the half moon hangs attending my thoughts, peering intermittently from the clouds as palm fronds sway soughing in the sea breezes, lulling me to easy sleep.

To say El Salvador is a tiny country is an understatement – it´s only about 150 km wide – yet, transportation is utterly inefficient here as no bus runs any long distances. Today, I ventured into even more remote regions off the tourist trail by going into Suchitoto near lake Suchitlan. What should have been a 45 minute drive took 5 hours and 3 bus changes.

This small town nestled by the lakeside has a real rustic feel to it, with most buildings plastered with white walls and orange tile roofs. The streets roll with the terrain covered in cobblestones. The sleepy town feel is only punctuated by occasional locals walking down the streets (the men often carry a machette and women often balancing heavy baskets on the heads) or, when passing the side of a grade school, small children chanting after their teacher in unison.

This region had long been inhabited by indigenous peoples, and relics of their civilization are easily uncovered. After eating an expensive lunch ($5, more than twice the average here), we took a long stroll down the hill heading towards the lake, along the way passing all forms of farm animals and barefeet children at play running through the accumulated trash. It´s easy to enjoy the natural beauty from the commanding hillside overlooking the lake, yet life does seem hard here for the locals also, especially with the economic downturn. Everyone is just trying to eek out a livelihood here as with the rest of humanity.

Upon reaching the lake, we met some local descendants from the indigenous peoples: kids playing by the shore, men fishing, women tending to vending stalls. One gentleman showed us relics of millstones he had uncovered. We talked him into renting us a row boat for a few hours for $4 and floated out onto the serene lake under the searing sun as the cattle roamed the shoreline and children swam by the moorlines to escape the heat.

By evening, the scorching heat turned suddenly into a raging thunderstorm lasting 4 hours. With the rainy season is just starting, the laundry I had washed and hung earlier was completely drenched. Life is slow here and adapting to the local way of life, one doesn´t mind doing things twice.

Rough travel and long bus rides have taken a toll on this weary traveller wandering afar. By now my skin has been kissed golden by the tropical sun and my limbs have seen the battered scars of countless insect assaults. Yet, some how it´s all worth it to see a glimpse of the extraordinary ordinary of simple life in trying enviroments. The surprise is always recognizing the triumph and resilience of the human spirit inspite of all that might be hurled our way.

Such like last evening, after having spent the entire day traversing from Leon, Nicaragua through Hondoras, then crossing the El Salvadorian border, changing busses twice just to get to San Miguel, and finally a taxi ride up the hills to an unspoiled town of Alegria. The altitude here is about 1,500 meters – after being exposed to weeks to the fiery sun, it´s good respite to have a hint of temperate weather. Again, in these parts the towns are not much to speak of, but the people, as with everywhere else, make all the difference. They know you´re passing through only, but it´s still a blessing to greet them as they greet you; and for a moment, enjoy the humbling experience with unaffected smiles and forget the troubles of the world. Most everyone in these parts will go out of their way to help you. And despite what the travel guides might caution, thus far I´ve seen not the least iota of trouble.

As with all the passing fancies of life, I´m not sure how long I´ll linger here, but locals speak of a legendary mermaid in the laguna thirty minutes from here, formed from an extinct volcano.

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.