Ride the Wave

Ride the Wave
A Journey in Central America

So there I was. I had traveled three thousand miles to get there. It had been a dream once and, just like that, the limitless skies and tall palms were a reality. The world once again morphing into its bewitching playground form. It was a journey, starting so sweetly, gently, soothingly, treating me as an infant lolled to peace by the waves. There would be adventure ahead - broken bones, loss and sorrow, theft, and natural disasters peppered against a backdrop of infinite green. The green would entice and seduce, pulling me into its lush dark depths. But for the moment, I was just lying on a quiet beach.

This is a story of adventure, a story of romance and love, a story of passion, and, of course, a story of the ancient longing to explore and the need to know of and be imprinted upon by unfathomable and unforgettable cultures both near and far. This is a good story. The story begins here, in the sand, on the beaches, of Panama.

More accurately, I suppose, the story started five years ago when I first landed in the thick tropical air. I had been in these part before - Panama, Belize, Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay. I lived at a biology station on this island in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Panama. I studied rain forest ecology and conservation. A few years back, I zigzagged my way through Brazil, sipping caipriñas in the cosmopolitan cities of Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo, photographing the architecture and symmetrical city planning of Brasilia, and swimming in rivers deep in the Amazon, testing fate, piranhas, and anacondas.

This adventure was half a decade in the making, maybe longer, maybe a lifetime. This journey was to be a more thorough exploration of a region I had grown to love, focusing on the Latin American countries of Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Belize. Together with my companion, Chad, a tall, muscular man of twenty-five with disheveled blonde locks and an easy going spirit and creative soul, we would travel from Panama onward.
We carried only the most necessary of necessities, including knives, rain gear, a pot for boiling water, harmonicas, mosquito net, snorkeling gear, and the barest of clothing. At moments, our sensuality would lift us to enlightened states of pure poetry. At times, our bodies would ache and we would yearn for a warm meal and a soft pillow on which to rest our heads. We would test ourselves and each other, push, but always come back to rest within the story of our romance. These two free spirited wanderers were in love.

I had a family back home of three dogs, Eugene, Toro, and Roman, and two cats, Gargoyle and Skye. My mother and sister were affectionately caring for all of them while I roamed about. It was difficult for me to leave them. It always is, but it is in my nature to explore. So with a little money in the bank, things settled at home, and hands held tight, off we went.

We spent the first night of our trip in the Atlanta airport. I curled up in my sleeping bag on a loveseat in the atrium. Chad pulled up two chairs and contorted his long body to sleep next to me. Surprisingly, we slept relatively well despite the cold air conditioning constantly on the max, the loud noises of the cleaning crews, and the bright lights. Trips always start this way for me. I seem to always be exhausted before I even start an adventure.

We had a 7:00am flight with American Airlines from Atlanta, Georgia to Miami, Florida. From Miami, we flew into Panama City. The heat blasted us right out of the airport and drivers bombarded us with “taxi? taxi!” calls. We took a taxi out of Panama City proper into Albrook, where the domestic airport is located. We were feeling groggy and sweaty, but excited, holding hands and ready to experience.

At the airport, we booked a flight to the island of Isla Colon near the border with Costa Rica. This is where I did my studies already five years ago. We found a market and ate a fresh fruit dinner. The only hotel located in proximity to the airport was expensive. We decided to sleep outside. Our flight was scheduled for 6:00am the following morning.

As the sun began to set, we walked around the area searching for a place to sleep. The area was busy with pedestrians and traffic. It was difficult to tell if there would be a discreet spot to lay down. We went into a cafe.

I usually carry my cell phone with me during international travels simply to use as an alarm clock for early buses, trains, and planes. We had decided to pack Chad’s cell phone instead of mine and quickly discovered that it wasn’t working. The signal was too weak to establish the time. He offered to stay up all night and wake me in the morning when it was time to check in for our flight.

After he drank three or four big cups of coffee, Chad was prepped to pull an all-nighter. We walked away from the cafe in the direction of the airport. It was 11:00pm before we arrived at a large empty field. We headed towards one of the larger trees and set up camp underneath it. The ground was wet from an earlier rain, so we laid out the tent as a tarp. We put down our backpacks and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. The mosquitoes swarmed around us and we doused ourselves with an organic bug spray I had purchased from an all natural grocery store in the States. It seemed to help, a little, and it smelled like flowers. I lay my head in Chad’s lap and he sweetly rubbed my back and ran his fingers through my hair. After awhile, I dozed off.

The next day, Chad told me that after I fell asleep, the full effect of the coffee took siege. He was totally amped up and restricted to only minute movements. We were in a busy area of town and didn’t want to be discovered. His mind jerked around with nothing to grasp his attention. He began to rock slightly and the ghastly song, “La Cucaracha” played incessantly in his mind. At the hint of daybreak, he checked the watch and woke me. We marched on to the airport and checked in for our flight. Chad was delirious and exhausted.

We boarded a plane at the small airport. We were chilled in the plane and quickly fell asleep. We woke to eat sandwiches and drink pear nectar. We pepped up as the plane began to descend after an hour. We were elated to see the green growing larger beneath us until the lush jungles and white beaches became discernible. We landed on a tiny airstrip surrounded by overgrown vegetation. Children played soccer in the grass that met the tarmac. Dogs ran alongside the plane as we reached the ground. We had arrived in another world.

I was eager to see what this town had become after the five years since my last visit. At that time, Bocas del Toro had been a small town with only a few places to stay- one hotel and the guest rooms offered in family homes. It was off the beaten track. We walked from the airport towards the main street in town with the central square. All Latin American towns have a central square with a park and green space. It is always a popular meeting place for locals.

Bocas del Toro had definitely grown in popularity. The main street was now lined with several colorful hostels. Scruffy faced backpackers stood on the hostel steps stretching in the early morning sun and smoking the day’s first cigarettes. We went to a new restaurant, probably owned by an ex-patriot from the States, for breakfast.

After checking in at the internet cafe, we hopped on a bus heading to Boca del Drago, a beach on the other side of the island. The residential areas surrounding Bocas town seemed to have grown as well. There were small houses and villas offered for rent for tourists. Further from the town, all seemed much the same. The beach was still stunning. Boca del Drago was the same. There were some locals living along the beach, the biology station, and one restaurant.

We set up our tent in the sand around the biology station. We were allowed use of the toilets, showers, and fresh drinking water supply. The only electricity on this side of the island is powered by a generator. The biology station was not offering any courses at that time, so we had the whole area to ourselves. Only the biology station manager, his wife, and their year and half old daughter were in residence. The little girl visited us in our tent and frequently followed us around on wobbly legs.

Our tent had a front door view of the Caribbean. The warm breeze, drifting off the Sea, blew into our tent and filled our lungs. Our days invariably began early with the sun. We woke and swam in the clear blue water. We hiked and tried to venture into the rain forest. There were no maintained trails. Without a machete we had difficulty going too far into the tangled mass of green. We heard the howler monkeys’ resonating calls each day at sunset and before the rain. The howler monkeys resided in the saturated swamp forests of palms directly behind the biology station towards the interior of the island.

We became quite stranded on this beach. There was a strike in town, a protest, something to do with safe drinking water. No buses were running. We were somewhat appeased knowing that we had nowhere to go and nothing to do.

We ate some meals at the little restaurant down the beach. It is owned by a local woman. The food consists of traditional Caribbean seafood dishes and Latin American staples. For most meals we chose coconuts. They were an inexhaustible source of nourishment. It took me nearly an hour to knock down my first coconut with a long bamboo pole. Chad was more successful and easily seized dozens each day. We husked them, drank the milk, and ate the sweet flesh.

It was the rainy season, invierno. It rained nearly every day, sometimes just a shower for an hour or less, sometimes in torrents all night long. Our tent mostly held out the rain. One day after the rain had been pouring for a full night it continued for a full morning. The station manager played his guitar, though we could barely hear it over the drumming of the rain. Chad played a sad song on his harmonica.

In the early afternoon, it began to clear. It was cloudy for the rest of the day but the threat of rain was gone. We went for a walk down the beach. We walked along palm fringed jungle. A family in a dugout canoe paddled past us. We came to a special place, I remember it from my last visit. It is a pristine beach, far from the little community of Boca del Drago, isolated. There were starfish, thousands of them, of all sizes and in shades of colors ranging from light yellows to dark oranges. They were everywhere we could see in the clear, calm water.

The colors were so vivid. I remember the bright green of the palms against the overcast sky, a warm coral colored sand, blue turquoise water, and the bright orange starfish. It was surreal, dreamlike. There were a couple sailboats off in the distance, anchored in the deeper waters to the west. I see one of those in my future. The scene was idyllic. After snorkeling, Chad and I held each other. We admired the life we’ve made for ourselves. We kissed and made love there in the crystal clear, turquoise water. It was perfect. Just seconds after, small black dolphins bounded into the air behind us. They leaped and played. The moment is etched into my mind forever. It was beautiful.

On many days and on one in particular, I lay in the sunshine with my mind on love, depth, and the pursuit of an authentic life. I was in a beautiful world, with the turquoise waters beside me and the green darkness of the jungles nearby. I savored the moment and let words play in my mind and on my tongue dropping down onto the pages of my journal. There is poetry in simple moments. Hours passed and I was enchanted. Chad spent his time swimming in the waves, enjoying his first snorkeling experiences, and stretching on the sand. Watching him, I felt like a lucky woman. I knew that he, too, took care to notice the subtle romance in life; how the light radiates through the palm fronds and dances on our skin; how the birds fly in synchrony; the designs in the clouds. He hears music in the modest sounds of nature and in the creek of the hammock as we rock it softly and snuggle. His touch is filled with tenderness, loyalty, desire, and love. It is a sweet companionship and a reality that tastes of dreams.

We found ourselves in the evenings, sitting on a wooden deck just a few feet from the crashing waves or in a hammock under the tall iconic coconut palms, watching the sky, a cinematic spectacle of godly proportions. The day’s tranquil blue sky suddenly alight and ablaze with the sunset’s yellows and oranges. Then as the sun meets the sea, it’s slowly illuminated and flames in the dazzling reds. The sun visibly sinks deeper under the horizon and the colors in the sky are subdued with violet and crimson. The end of dusk introduces the coming of night and a blackness interrupted only by the unrivaled light of a million brilliant, sparkling stars and a smiling moon.

Just off the beach from our tent was a sprawling coral reef ecosystem. We spent many days toiling around with mask, fins, and snorkel observing the colorful undersea life. We felt as though we had the whole sea to ourselves, the only mermaids in a world of living rock and scaled and slimy tenants. We were always surprised with our view into the sea. We would be meandering around, face down in the water, and unexpectedly some natural wonder would catch us off guard - a nursery of a million small fish fry would appear in the cove of two large coral mountains or a shark, a tiburon, would stealthily swim past us or a ray would shake off the sand and soar out into the water. Once a bright yellow and black remora shadowed me, holding close to my belly, thighs, and chest in an embrace as if dancing with me while we swam. We watched the schools of black and blue damselfish, blue and green parrotfish, and silvery scaled grunts at dusk as they fed. We dove deep and peered into small nooks in the live rock for octopus and langosta. The waltzing butterfly fish, tangs, and surgeonfish delighted us. The wrasse fish defended the entrance to their dens like guard dogs. Rockfish lay in perfect camouflage. We saw wide eyed squirrel fish, flounders, and puffer fish; sea cucumber, conchs, and crabs. We propelled water softly with our hands over fan worms and watched them retract into their tube like stalks. There were different species of urchins, small and black with long pins or large with white stubble. We gently stroked the anemones and their tentacles grasped at our fingers.

At night, in total darkness, other than the stars, there was little to do. We usually went into the tent early. We heard the bell like sounds of bats hunting with echo-location. We cheered them on. In retrospect, the mosquitoes, sand gnats, and ants that covertly made their way into our tent were of small consequence despite the bumps and bites that riddled my legs and torso. Although, I became a master at putting on my makeup with one hand and holding the mirror and swatting away the gnats with my other hand, while simultaneously shaking the bugs off my legs. Once, we witnessed small ants coming in through the mesh holes of our tent. Instead of biting us, they each took hold of a gnat and carried it out of the tent. We were grateful. On a full moon night Chad found several toads. We had heard about their hallucinogenic properties. He licked them and in his daze followed the highways of ants around the beach, into the sand brush, to the bases of trees.

The pace was slow. We were on island time. Hours would roll by, like the waves, while we would just sit in the hammock or on the beach, contemplating or maybe just meditating.

We revisited starfish beach on several occasions. It was our paradise; a stunning, sunny stretch of privacy. When we hiked further on, we reached the harbor where the sailboats docked. The beach met a headland of mangrove swamp. The water was cooler and murkier here from the tannins draining off the land after a rain.

It seemed that there was always a natural spectacle drawn to our energy after making love- the dolphins, a shark, a stingray, for example. We always stopped at the spot on the beach where we first made love by the starfish. It was nostalgic. We often ended up falling into each other’s embrace and making love again. Once, we heard soft reggae music playing far away on an anchored sailboat. We swam and kissed and loved each other. The water rippled around us in rhythm with our movement. It was beautiful, orgasmic, and uniting. We looked around for a natural wonder. We giggled and mentioned a narwhal, but only a blue crab scuttled past us and the ever present starfish sat in apathetic repose.

We were informed that the bus strike was over in Bocas. We reluctantly made the decision to move on from Bocas del Toro and discover new frontiers. We left early one morning and made our way to town.

I had not had access to the internet since the first day we arrived on Isla Colon. I always think of my dogs and cats, my kids. Once we reached town, I headed straight for the internet cafe. I had no idea then that I would be crushed by the most horrific news imaginable. I opened the email from my mother. Her email started by saying how my babies have been so good, that she had been wanting to write me to tell me how wonderful they are, but then everything went wrong. Roman, my partner, love of my life, my right hand, had been in an accident. He had died the day of the most gloomy rain, the day of the sad harmonica song. He was playing with one of her dogs and was strangled by his collar. My mother was there, but it happened so quickly that nothing could have been done.

I threw a dollar onto the cashier’s desk, ran from the cafe, sobbing, to find Chad. He was walking towards me. He was smiling at first until he saw my face. I told him and we cried together. I was in shock. I could not believe that this could happen, that I would never see him again. I doubted that I could cope with such a loss. The year before I had been hitchhiking through western Europe and received another dreadful email from my mother about my cat, Masai, who had passed away. I was a mess and decided to end my trip early then. I wondered now if I should go home. All I wanted to do was be with my other kids, hold my Eugene, Toro, Gargoyle, and Skye, and never let anything happen to them. I sat in the central square for hours, at a loss. I couldn’t fathom what had happened. I was in denial. I couldn’t believe it was real. I could no longer see myself prancing through Central America. I saw my pursuit of adventure as selfish and shallow and I longed to be home with my babies.

After speaking with my mother and talking it over with Chad, I decided to push forward and continue with the trip. I knew that I would only be a shell of what I once had been. Roman was such a light, such a good person, so pure. He brought joy to everyone who met him. We went everywhere together. He was so much a part of me.

We took a boat from Isla Colon to the mainland. I was disinterested and followed Chad, letting him call the shots. Once we docked in the town of Almirante, Chad arranged for a ride to the border with Costa Rica.

I was so distraught that I only remember vaguely the dirty border town, exhaust fumes, and trash. A sadness settled over me and everything I saw. The border crossing, at any other time, would have thrilled me. We had our passports stamped and walked across an old railroad bridge over a river into Costa Rica. The bridge had rotting and missing planks. With the weight of my backpack and my little frame, I felt I could just barely reach my legs over some of the gaps.
The dim Costa Rican border town, bus station, and cloudy sky are also a blur. I remember passing infinite amounts of banana fields on the way to San Jose. I wept and tried to sleep off the pain.

San Jose is a big city, dangerous at night, with bustling red light districts and heavy crime. We arrived in San Jose around 10pm. We began walking towards the center of town, looking for a cheap hostel. A group of people around our age stopped to help us when we began looking a little lost. They advised us to call a taxi, that it was very dangerous to be out at night, that even they always choose to walk in large groups. One of the men offered to walk us to a hotel. We were very grateful and followed him into the maze of unmarked streets.

We stayed in a great room with a queen sized bed with a colorful red and pink vertically striped bed spread, matching curtains over the large windows, two bedside tables with lamps, hardwood floors, a sitting room with a white couch and glass coffee table, and large bathroom with a full size mirror and hot water. It was luxury after the weeks we spent camping in Panama. I needed the comfort.

The next day I felt as if I had had a nightmare. I relived the shock and pain as I tried to swallow what had happened. Always there in the forefront of my mind, I thought about Roman. I thought about my kids at home all the time. The thoughts just kept swirling around in my brain, fruitlessly, dismally. I was like this for weeks. I could not fully appreciate my surroundings. I alternated thoughts on Roman, on home, and on what I was doing and what was around me.

In spite of this pain, I was able to enjoy San Jose in daylight. It is a bustling city, full of life and color. I was fond of the produce stalls and the people hawking their multicolored fruits and vegetables. I enjoyed the sodas, the small eateries, where local people come to eat good, cheap food. We tried a seafood soup at one soda. Everyone’s eyes were on the gringos, the tall one with the crazy blonde hair and the tiny one with the red eyes and the red dress.

We booked passage on a bus that afternoon from the city to the Nicoyan peninsula. We had to take a ferry across the Gulf of Nicoya. We caught the sunset cruise and the subtle colors of a saintly sky.

Once we arrived in the Nicoyan Peninsula, the air of the Latin America I love changed. Instead of the charismatic friendliness that I had grown accustomed to, we were assaulted by the indifference of people used to tourists, the same bedside manner as a rancher herding cattle. Boarding the bus in Pacquera, I had my backpack snatched off of me with only a “Disculpe” as warning. We went to a restaurant when we arrived in Montezuma that evening. The menu was in English. That’s a sign. We ordered a pizza and a calzone. The menu stated that for just 800 colones (US $1.50) more a calzone of the same toppings could be added along with the pizza. After some time only the calzone was served. It was large so we ignored the discrepancy on the menu. We ate hungrily. Chad began complaining that he was chewing on sand. I told him he must be imagining things. I began eating another piece of the calzone and crunched into a small rock! Chad got very upset and complained. He did not want to pay for this meal. The waitress and the owner got angry and threatened to call the police if we did not pay. We were exhausted and paid them the $10 for the awful meal. We went to bed distraught. Costa Rica was not making a fine impression.

The hostel we were staying in was right on the beach. Our room was small and filled by the bed and fan. In the morning, as I walked to the shared bathrooms, I saw a blinding light coming up the hall from the beach. I put on my bikini and headed out for my first view of the dazzling sun reflecting of the grand Pacific Ocean.

We took refuge from the manufactured backpacker Disney World that is Montezuma by staying on the beach and away from the town itself. Surprisingly all the tourists stayed in one localized area.

We walked up the beach, over the hot sands and jagged rocks, to a waterfall. On the way up, we met a sweet, tan female puppy. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven months. She was so thin. At this point we had not seen the skin and bone versions of animals in the more impoverished countries of Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. She was thin enough. We left the waterfall and headed back to the hostel. We gave her the rest of the cereal we had eaten for breakfast. She followed us everywhere during our stay in Montezuma. She would only leave when we would go into our room for the night. But no matter how long we were apart or where we went, she would find us when we left our room. She brightened my days after the loss of my Roman.

About an hours walk past the waterfall, there was a natural reserve and thick jungle, supposedly filled with monkeys, jaguars, sloths, and other creatures. We sometimes heard the calls of distant monkeys, but did not see anything when we headed up and down the trails. The jungle faced a beach and the huge, crashing waves of the Pacific. We had this distant beach mostly to ourselves. Occasionally someone on horseback would trod past, but otherwise we were once again alone to enjoy nature. I lay topless in the black sands and on the tall rocks. Chad went skinny dipping in the ocean. The waves were so strong that he could barely get past the breaks before getting shoved closer to shore. All along, the sweet puppy stayed beside us.

On some stretches of beach or jungle paths, there was insurmountable amounts of trash. I think some of it may have been washed up from the ocean, but most of it I think was dumped. For a country famous for its ecological conservation, I was very disappointed. This was typical of all Central America. Here, however, where the town was spotless for the tourists and the jungle was labeled a reserve, I found it inappropriate and unacceptable. It is difficult to get into Costa Rica’s protected jungles and reserves without paying an entrance fee of $20 or more. I wonder how much of their environmental dedication is for show.

Even though I found the natural beauty of Costa Rica breathtaking, other than the trash, I was not one hundred percent present. I still fell into moments of despair and could cry at the drop of a dime. Perhaps my perception of Costa Rica was tainted by my sadness. But my opinions are in accordance with those of other serious travelers. Costa Rica’s hustling, tourist trapping, manufactured paradises repel me. Many towns are only created for tourists. It takes away from the genuine charm and peculiarities that enchant me in this region of the world.

We left Montezuma eagerly, ready to get out of Costa Rica entirely. We took a bus from town to Pacquera. In Pacquera we rode the ferry over the Gulf of Nicoya to Puntarenas. We had a little difficulty finding the bus station in town. By the time we found it, we had just missed the last bus west to take us towards the Nicaraguan border.

Puntarenas is a small port town set on a peninsula and surrounded by water on three sides. Like most port towns, it’s a little dingy and gets sketchy at night. At the bus station, moments after we realized that we had missed the last bus, we heard an American voice boom at us and ask us if we need any help. I turned to see an older man, unshaven with sores all over his body, wearing loosely hanging clothes. He was obviously homeless and likely drunk. He said he had been living in Costa Rica for the last sixteen years. He also said he could help us find a cheap room for 1700 colones, that’s about US $3.50. In Costa Rica, that was highly unlikely. I would have liked to ignore the guy, but Chad is a green traveler and I like for him to take charge and learn things as he goes. So we end up following the guy around town. He takes us to a hotel that seems clean and simple at the entrance. I know that he will get a cut if we choose to stay here. I don’t so much mind that, but I don’t like being scammed. The homeless man tells the woman in strained Spanish with a sarcastic intonation that “Los gringos necessitan uno cuarto barato.” The woman at the front desk tells us the cheapest room is 8,000 colones, US $16. Predictably, it was more than what the bloke had quoted us. I tell Chad that we should see the room before making a decision. It is a joke. The woman brings us to a room facing the outdoors. It has two rotten mattresses on the dank wood plank floor. There are no windows and no ventilation or security. It was clearly a cheap place to bed a hooker, but we saw better rooms in brothels for less than half the price in other cities. I told the woman “No”. She expected it. The bloke looked vexed and offered to show us another hotel. Chad nearly said OK, but I kindly sent the man on his way with a coin for his trouble.

On our own, we were able to locate a lovely hotel with excellent security. We had a bright clean room with a powerful ceiling fan and barred window covered with a white curtain. The shared bathrooms were some of the cleanest we would see. We even had a TV with cable in our room. All of this for the same price, US $16. After showering, we snuggled close and watched American programs, such as Law & Order, House, & Scrubs. I fell asleep in Chad’s arms and dreamt of my babies.

The following morning we rose early and headed for the bus station. We planned on catching a bus to Liberia. While I waited at the bus station, writing in my journal, Chad left to find a panaderia and breakfast. The bus station was positioned along a beach. I wrote about the lucky dogs playing in the surf with a man friend behind me and the pretty ladies I saw on the ferry the day before. A vendor was setting up shop by the bus station, selling watches and refrescas. We chatted for a little while. He asked me if I am Italian. That’s not far from the truth. I have a lot of Italian blood in my veins. I would believe that I do not look American, although my boy toy is definitely all American. Chad soon returned with pastries. For me, he had chosen a delicious cream filled, soft pastry coated with sugar. He knows just what I like.

We caught the 8am bus to Liberia. We spent the better part of the day on the crowded bus. We liked to sit in the very back of buses, so we could get a view of all the activity going on. There were always people talking loudly and friendly, vendors walking up and down the aisle at each stop selling sweets and snacks and the most random merchandise.

Liberia was the first city in which we had to completely rely on our Spanish speaking skills. Although we had been speaking Spanish consistently for quite a while already, we were always able to find English speaking people and could ask for assistance if absolutely necessary. Here and beyond through Nicaragua and El Salvador, we rarely found anyone who could speak English. Gone were the days of translated menus, thankfully. In Guatemala, only people who worked in tourism related fields spoke English. After leaving the tourist world, we would speak only Spanish unless speaking to each other until reaching Belize, where English is the official language.

From Liberia, we took another crowded bus to the border of Nicaragua. After having our passports stamped on the Costa Rican side, we passed into Nicaragua and had our passports stamped again. Then we quickly caught a packed chicken bus as it was departing towards Rivas.
Riding into Nicaragua, I felt a change within myself. We were discovering something authentic, something beautiful. We passed the Lago de Nicaragua on our right with the Isla de Ometepe and its two volcanic peaks rising up in its center. It was breathtaking.

I was intrigued by the city of Rivas, its narrow pot-holed streets and Sandinista spirit. From the bus, we saw hundreds of people walking around, bicycle rickshaws, horse-pulled buggies. There was so much energy in the town. We arrived at sunset to the end of a busy Saturday market. The bus route ended at the epicenter of the open air market with stalls and vendors lining the streets. We were the only white people in town. Everyone watched us as we wandered around. We were a novelty. Men and boys reached for me, blew kisses, and winked. I wasn’t flattered, but I was happy to be somewhere seemingly untainted by tourism. We were mesmerized by the color and the sounds.

We checked into a hospedaje in the home of an older woman named Hilda. The building was shabby and run down, but the woman was warm and friendly and gave the place a homey feeling. When I recorded my name and passport number in her guestbook, I saw that all the other entries were made by Nicaraguans, uncorrupted. Our room had three rickety beds, a fan, and a private bath. It was unfinished and at ground level. The darkness of the space made me feel as though we were in a basement. The hospedaje had a 9pm curfew and Hilda had to let us in and out of the building each time with her key.

In the evening, we walked around in search of somewhere to have a bite to eat. Vegetative waste covered the streets from the market. The last rays of the sun peaked over the tops of buildings and cast shadows on the street. There were skinny dogs searching for a morsel of food. The horses were also skinny with exposed rib and hip bones. They were overworked and overheated.
For dinner we found a small restaurant. I ate a delicious lightly breaded fish dinner with rice, green salad, and papas fritas. We decided to stick around town for awhile. We were really enjoying the change of pace. It rained that night, a heavy, cleansing rain. The pitter patter lulled me to sleep.

Rivas is an interesting town. Our days were rambling, lazy. It was an event to do laundry and have our clean clothes swaying in the breeze. We mostly spent our time wandering around, sampling food from the vendors on the streets, or lounging in the central square. It delighted us to see this loud and different culture. Chad still talks about the time we saw a man standing on the street by a huge block of queso advertising it on a microphone to everyone walking by.

Locked in after 9pm, there was nothing to do but talk and tell stories, read, write, or make love. Sometimes, tired from the day with disjointed thoughts, I felt not really into to making love. Chad would kiss me, sweet, soft kisses. Always but especially this once, I let myself surrender completely, no resistance. I lay in observance of his touch, at first soft, his breath in my ears as he kissed my lobes, the feel of his hair and scruff as he kissed my face, neck, and chest. A moment uncharged by sexuality for me quickly became erotic. Soon his touch had more force and I became aroused. We kissed passionately. Writhing, panting, and moaning, I lay letting him pleasure me. To allow myself no resistance, not even in thought, objection, or expectation, left me there only to observe and be open, which led to me being very turned on. I watched him and touched him and admired him like a god. By the time he placed his perfect body on top of mine, I was primed to climax. He moved his hips in delicious circles. I held back the orgasm and the feeling intensified. When I shifted on top of him and my hips moved forward and back, up and down, it was a mere moment before I came. “Enjoy it” he said, “Just enjoy it, baby” as I moved purposely over him, twisting my hips slowly. He got behind me and soon his moans echoed in the small room. It was some of our most passionate and erotic sex.

Nicaragua was already reviving me. I was finally able to look around, take in my surroundings, and be present. I still thought of Roman constantly. I often thought about mortality and what a sad game it all is. I often thought about my own mortality and about the kind of life I want to live. These are not new thoughts for me. I remember thinking in Boca del Drago about this need to feel alive. I wished that I could live forever like the sea. I was looking at the waves and thinking about my mortality and life and death in general; how all the people, animals, bugs, trees around me would all die and their elements would return to the elements.

In Rivas, one morning, we woke to find that there was no running water. The owner gave us a bucket of water to flush the toilet. We weren’t able to brush our teeth or shower. We decided that it was time to move on. We took our time and ritualistically packed our few things back into our packs.

As we checked out of the hospedaje, Hilda told us that she had a villa in San Juan del Sur that we could have at a discounted rate. She wrote us a note to give to the hotel staff saying that we should have the room with the view for a specified price. We said our goodbyes and went on our way.

The bus ride from Rivas to San Juan del Sur was characteristic of the region. The old school bus, retired from the States, was filled with people, three to a bench seat. The rear of the bus held large bags of rice and flour and other bundles. Our backpacks were thrown on top of the pile. The aisle quickly became full of people standing closely together. Chad gave a young girl his seat. He enjoyed being packed in with the locals, holding on as the bus changed direction, jerked around corners, and weaved through traffic. Everyone leaned with the turns of the vehicle. At times it seemed that we were only driving on two wheels. We developed our “bus legs” over time and improved our balance. The bus slowly emptied stop by stop as we approached San Juan del Sur. We got off at the last stop in the center of town.

We wandered in search of Hilda’s hospedaje, Villa del Sol, with the vague directions she gave us in mind. We were lost and nearly aimless for a surprisingly short period of time before we saw the sign up on the hill. We walked up the hill and checked into the hotel. After being shown the room and the amazing view, we decided to stay here and make this our home for awhile.

The room was small with two twin beds, similar to those in Rivas. They had foam mattresses set atop feeble metal frames. There was a private bathroom with a basic shower, sink, and toilet. There was a window with a vent over it and another vent in the bathroom that allowed for air flow. There was a great breeze high there on the hill. The best part of the villa, however, was the view. The room was positioned at the roof level of the hotel. We sat on the concrete deck and had the whole town of San Juan del Sur at our toes. The beach and the harbor with the dozens of anchored boats were off to the south, perfectly visible to our right. The town was made up of tin roofed homes and shops built side by side with brightly painted fronts, a colorful collage.

We spent hours every day watching the town from our bird’s eye point of view. We could see the grid work of streets and squares and the pedestrians, cyclists, and cars that meandered through it. I came to know the proprietor of a boutique from above. She had two dogs, one small cocker spaniel and a black lab. I watched each morning as she opened the shop and each evening as she sat outside with the dogs surveying the commotion on the streets. It was nice to see healthy and happy dogs that were clearly someone’s family. One day, I went down to meet the dogs and the lady. I had imagined a gently spirited woman with depth and a big heart and her two equally matched companions. The dogs didn’t disappoint my fantasy. The woman, on the other hand, was not at all to my expectations. She was sour and disaffected by my tenderness towards her dogs and tales of my loved ones at home. I did not revisit, but I kept a close eye on her treasured hounds from my stoop at the sky.

Some days I left my post only to wander myself in the grid of streets, to gobble up a rich meal of locally caught fish or gallo pinto, or to savor a cooling ice cream in the hot sun on the beach. The town of San Juan del Sur squats in a valley between a gathering of mountains. The harbor is bordered on both sides by mountains and their accompanying canyons and cliff-faces.

On the east side of the harbor, the fishermen gather on the rocks and fish with hand lines. Some fishermen spearfish off the coast. We watched their tan, sculpted bodies as they unraveled the twine and cast it into the sea. I am the daughter of a fisherman. The smells of the sea intoxicate me.

We came to watch their work at sunset. The sun dipped down from the sky towards the ocean in a molten sphere of brilliance. As it reached the horizon, it glowed in deeper oranges and reds. The fishermen’s dark silhouettes were framed by the celestial fire. Nature and man seemed in harmony.

Each morning, I began my day in a small soda with a mug of cafe, a plate of granola, yogurt, and local fruits, bananas, watermelon, and piña. We felt healthy and fit. Our skin had the sun-kissed radiance of those accustomed to an easy life in the tropics.

We hiked regularly. We trekked up each mountain surrounding the town. We hiked to the west up a mountain with a large statue of Jesus, a hand held out in blessing. We hiked to distant and deserted beaches. We hiked through rain, dripping down our backs, and midday sun, baking our shoulders.

I am a flatlander at heart, born at sea level in the uninterrupted flatness of the southeast coast of Georgia. Chad, on the other hand, is a highlander, raised in the snowy mountains of Maine. On one intense hike, we both were pushing ourselves onward through the intensity and the unrelenting heat. We hiked up and around four mountains. We found ourselves without cover on a nearly vertical incline in the noontime sun. Sweat drenched us, blood pulsed in our veins, and we just nearly burst into flames. The dirt was red and arid. The dust settled behind us in the breezeless air. It was a relief to reach the edge of the mountains. The cliffs dropped off with a view of the deep blue Pacific Ocean. We saw a small stretch of sand off in the distance and hiked along the ocean towards it. When we got closer, we slid down the mountainside through the vegetation. The beach had a small band of white sand curtained by a kaleidoscope of smooth stones tinted in colors of blue, green, red. We undressed and dove into the water together. The waves refreshed and invigorated us. The current dragged us over the submerged rocks and tried to pull us out to sea. After our swim, we lay under an overhang in the cliff face and took a siesta. The sand stuck to our damp skin. Chad wrapped his arms around me and I drifted to sleep with my head on his chest. We woke feeling rested and headed in the direction of home. It was cooler in the late afternoon. The hike back seemed much less demanding.

One evening we returned to our room to discover that we had been robbed. Our bags were unzipped and had been rummaged through. Chad was missing some cordobas and a bit of American cash. We went to the police station to file a report. They came to do an investigation and speak with the chicos who staffed the hotel. We were suspicious that it was they who came into our room with a key and stole from us. Not much was settled that night, but several days later Hilda came into town. We were on our way downhill and bumped into her at the foot of the mountain. She was excited to see us and said “Es bonita aqui, no? You like it here? It is nice, no?” I assured her that yes it was lovely. “Solo una problema...”

Chad explained to her what had happened. She was visibly upset and called the staff to attention. She pulled record books and scraps of paper from drawers in the lobby and proceeded to scold them intensely. She ushered us out of the hotel and instructed us to follow her into town. She hailed a cab and the next thing we knew we were back at the police station. The police filed a second report and said they would return to the hotel later that afternoon. They never showed. All was resolved, however, when Hilda offered us a free stay equal to the thieved amount. On the walk to the hotel, we saw a man carrying a large silvery fish by the tail. She flagged down the guy and bought the mackerel for our lunch. She ordered the thieves to cook for us and clean up after us. We were quite content with the resolution. The fish was delectable, breaded and served with pickled carrots. We ate together, the three of us, as Latin talk shows and soap operas played in the background.

We had a favorite spot in San Juan del Sur. We would walk down to the beach and to the east past the fishermen. We headed towards the ocean along the cliffs that curved towards the horizon. It was stunning. The sheer vastness of the ocean met with the austerity of the cliffs was breathtaking. We were on our own to explore. In seclusion, we were able to prance around naked and take it all in.

We also hiked up the westward mountains, starting with the mountain crowned with Jesus. From there, off in the distance, we could see another small white beach. We liked the idea of finding personalized beaches created just for us. We set off one day towards this westward beach. We hiked for a few hours. We took a couple wrong turns, but finally found it. From the main red dirt road we passed between the posts of two adjacent barbed wire fenced properties. There, we found a small trail. At the very end of that trail was a hint of turquoise water. We sped for the beach and it did not fall short of our expectations. The beach was stunning. Blue, turquoise water, gently rolling waves, canyons and cliffs on the extremities, and a soft curve of smooth pebbled beach. We saw a few black tarps set up like small tents on the beach immediately in front of the trail and other than the man asleep at the base of a tree, the beach was empty and all ours. We couldn’t believe how lucky we were to find such seclusion. We walked to the left and began making ourselves at home on the boulders that met the ocean. We undressed and dipped our toes in the water. Just as we’re about to wade in, a man in uniform with a shotgun comes out of nowhere and approaches me. He explains that the beach is not open to the public on this day and we are prohibited from being there. The “strong arm of the Nicaraguan Army” is training here, shooting practice, he says, among other things. He escorts us back to the trail and tells us that the beach will not be open for another month. We walked away with our tails between our legs and laughed thinking about the soldiers, with their shotguns and us in their sights, scoffing “gringos”.

At night, we pulled the foam mattresses out of the room and onto the deck. Our late night love was usually supplemented by the reggae rhythms of below. It was heavenly to sleep under the stars in the cool breeze. In the early morning, roosters would begin to crow. At first they would each utter a sporadic cry. The dawn brought a chorus of “cock-a-doodle-doos” and the howls and barks of dogs. The sun would slowly begin to peak above the mountain to the east and slowly rise, filling the gray town with a shaft of light. The people of the town woke much more slowly than the sun or the animals. We lay in an early morning trance, aware of the town and the first melodies of the song birds yet not fully awake. Little by little, the stillness of the sleepy town was replaced by hints of movement until the town vibrated with music and madness.

Parrots in San Juan del Sur were as numerous as pigeons in New York City. Painted green with a rainbow under their wings, they were always around and always welcome. Another benefit of our crows nest home was our proximity to their flocks in flight. We could almost reach out and touch them as they glided, squawking and talking, past us to one tree or another. I wondered what they were talking about as they chattered away.

I met a hero one early morning. We rose too early for breakfast, so we went down to the beach. I saw a gray haired woman jogging towards me with four dogs leashed beside her. The five of them ran in unison. When she was closer, I saw that she also had a large white parrot on her shoulder. The woman must have been sixty or seventy years old. She radiated a goodness. Her dogs were healthy, happy, and well behaved. I watched them as they ran towards the water. She went into the waves with them. They were full of glee. I strolled to the water side and watched in awe of the love that was evident between them. I missed my kids, I nearly cried. After some time, the woman headed out of the water and up the beach. She picked up some trash from the beach and carried it with her. I intercepted her as she walked towards the sidewalk. She was American, from California, and had been living in Nicaragua for eight years. She was warm and friendly. She told me that her dogs were rescues. She had the four of them on leads and a fifth following close behind. She also had two others at home - one born blind and another with only three legs. A woman after my own heart. I was moved and happy to talk with her. I told Chad that she was my “superhero”. He mirrored my thoughts before I voiced mine saying “That’s you when you’re eighty, baby.”

We were amazed to see in the waves of San Juan del Sur, stingrays. They were surfing in the waves. It was astounding. They would ride on the crest of the wave and splash around in the wake. I am not sure if they were feeding or playing, but this was a phenomenon I had not previously seen and I felt honored.

We had fallen in love with San Juan del Sur and the conviviality of the Nicaraguans. We loved our little house on the hill and the way our life had taken a simple shape, but we knew it was getting to be time to move on. On the last night, we lay in each other’s arms under the stars. It was so beautiful. We made love. Chad’s face and torso above me were framed by the misty clouds and the many bright stars that peaked around them. It was romantic. It is gratifying to know that we not only have a sweet sensuality between us but also have the luxury of making love in such impressive, idyllic settings. We kissed amorously as the mist fell on our warm skin.

Soon it began raining heavily and we were forced indoors. The rain dripped through the ceiling and pooled on the floor. In the morning, we packed our things slowly. There is always an energy about on the days when we head towards new frontiers, a quiet excitement. We draped our bags and ourselves with rain gear and headed out into the storm for the bus station.

We took a crowded chicken bus back to Rivas and from there headed northwest on another bus to Grenada. I watched the jungles and cattle pastures go by. Chad rested his head against me and fell asleep.

The bus jerked into a jammed parking lot and we arrived in Grenada. It was not what we were expecting. We were immediately consumed by a large market once disembarking the bus. Like most Latin American markets, stalls were packed closely aside one another and sold everything from produce to panties, live animals to DVDs. It was still raining and the market took cover under plastic tarps that hung lowly over the stalls. Chad hunched down to pass through the market. We weaved through a small city of commerce, a loud and fetid labyrinth of persistent hawkers, desperate livestock, colorful produce, and haphazard goods. I led the way and Chad followed close behind. The market seemed to go on forever. Then all of a sudden, the black roofed slum market abruptly ended and we were out under the sky.

The rain fell on us and we walked towards the city center. There we found the old fashioned European colonial style buildings we had been expecting. The central square was bordered by bright yellow buildings and a distinguished cathedral. Past the cathedral there was a tourist promenade with quaint shop fronts, cafes, and out door eateries. Further in this direction, the Lago de Nicaragua could be found.

We checked into a hostel, dropped our bags, and went out to further explore the city. We had read that there was a nearby church bell tower with a fantastic view of the city. It is said to have the best vantage point in town with views of the surrounding volcanoes, the lake, and on some days one could even see as far as El Salvador. We went to check it out. It turns out that the doorman charges an entrance fee and the bell tower is barely three stories tall. We passed on the deal and continued walking about.

We purchased helados and headed towards the Lago de Nicaragua. There were many homeless men laying in the shade of trees or on benches, dirty and dazed. Some of them were hobbling around aimlessly with the gait of zombies. In the lake itself another homeless man held onto a makeshift raft and stood in the water. An old ice cream vendor followed me around with his cart. He rang his bells and laughed saying “beep beep”. He had no teeth and his wrinkled skin sagged around his neck. He followed me as far as the sidewalk permitted, all the while laughing and jingling away. Around a curve in the lakefront, we found a popular area where people were playing futbol, basketball, and baseball. There were cows grazing and dogs barking at the cows. There were people horseback riding. A father and son on horseback galloped in front of the quickly setting sun. It was a slightly bizarre and picturesque scene.

The Lago de Nicaragua is a huge fresh water lake dotted with hundreds of islands, including Isla de Ometepe rising largely with one dormant and one active volcano. I find it interesting that thousands of years ago, the lake was part of the Pacific Ocean. When the Earth shifted and the lake became separated from the ocean, it gradually lost its salinity. All the creatures that were once a part of the sea evolved and adapted to the lake. Most unusually, there are even fresh water sharks.

Our hostel offered free internet, free tea and coffee, and a common area TV and hammocks. We spent just a few days in Grenada mostly wasting time and enjoying the amenities. It was nice to have no great quests or any risky ventures, no jungles or reefs, no treks or discoveries. I plugged myself into the internet and chatted with family and friends. It was a brief period to reconnect with a world that felt very far away. Soon those technological indulgences became unfulfilling and edgeless. We woke early, packed our gear, and boarded a bus out of town.

I was interested to see the artisan town of Masaya. I had hoped to purchase locally made crafts and dip into a more creative world. After hopping off the bus, the only phrase that came to mind was “sensory overload”. We were dumped off in the center of a market, busy and loud. It was full of pushy people shoving their way ahead and small stalls selling the typical collection of useful and strange wares. It was claustrophobic. I immediately heard the panicked screams of a pig, a terrified pig. With a human-like voice, this pig was screaming and fighting for his life. My stomach lurched and my heart started racing. I nearly had a panic attack as my blood pounded through my veins. I had to get away from the screams. I plowed past hawkers and gawkers, but it was five minutes or more before I was far enough not to hear his voice over the sounds of the market. No one else raised their heads, batted an eye, or even seemed to notice. I had left Chad behind in my rush. I felt such heartache and the chaos of the market did not distract me. I looked around to see pigs on short ropes, waiting for slaughter, and chickens, tied six or seven together by their feet, writhing in a tight mass of feathers. They were baking in the heat and panting next to a table of their brethren’s corpses being chopped into pieces. Beyond, dead fish and that pervasive smell of the sea drew in the flies and parasites. Under the stall tables and around every bend, the scarred, matted, and mangy dogs roamed nose down searching for a nibble of food, just trying to survive. It was a heartbreaking scene. I couldn’t handle it. How could I ever eat meat? All these pained lives and the struggle to live and be happy, just to end up on someone’s plate, on my plate? I have been a vegetarian most of my life, inconsistently however, since I was twelve. I promised never to eat meat again. How could I? A Rasta man once said, “If you eat meat, you make your body a graveyard instead of a temple”. Never again.

I forgot all about the local crafts and the artisans that I came there to see. I wanted out. Chad was with me. I was disgusted, repulsed by all the trash, the smell, the noise. I kept thinking to myself that humans are the most filthy, selfish animals that ever existed. I know that the livestock and factory farmed animals in the US have it much worse. Seeing it again, in such brutal light, in person, I could not accept the path it took for a piece of meat to make it to someone’s plate. I had been deeply affected. I was permanently changed. I wanted to be different. We relocated the bus station and boarded the earliest departing bus.

We headed towards Managua. There we made our way from the southbound bus station to the northbound bus station and boarded a bus to Maltagalpa. Four hours later, we got off that bus and mounted another when we heard the call for Jinotega.

The pace in my mind slowed as we boarded that full bus. We rose higher into the mountains and the cool air swept through the bus. The bus was so full that we couldn’t move our limbs. The old American school bus rode at a slant and inched up into the elevations. It struggled with the weight of its passengers. I imagined the engine’s mantra as “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. We were up in the misty clouds. The forests were lush and emerald as at sea level, but incorporated the evergreens, spruce, and firs. Pressed against the window, I breathed in the sweet air and praised the moss hanging from the trees and the lichen that covered the stones. When we saw the marker for Selva Negra, we jumped ship and headed into the green.
Selva Negra was named by the Germans for their native Black Forest, which these woods strangely resemble. The jungles are protected here and sanctioned an ecological reserve.

Decades ago, the Germans came here and began growing organic coffee in the hills. There is a full plantation and the gourmet coffee is exported to countries all over the world. There is a farm with livestock naturally raised and crops of organically produced fruits and vegetables. Flowers of all colors vibrantly dot the landscape. There is only one place to stay in La Selva Negra. We booked a room and felt that we were resting in the lap of luxury.

Our room had large windows and faced the pond filled with lily pads, duckweed, and white geese. Our bed was large and soft and covered in quilts and blankets. The shower was spacious and the water was hot and sent steam clinging to the windows.

We arrived in the early evening and dressed in long pants, long sleeves, and a scarf for me. We went into the virgin rain forest for a peak around. Moments into our hike, we heard the sounds. The trees vibrated with the haunting echo of howler monkey cries. We heard a rustle in the leaves and saw a small movement in the tree tops. Looking up, we saw directly above us, a large troop of howler monkeys. They were bedding down for the night. The larger males made protective calls and established their territory for the night. Their voices resonated in our bodies as we watched in awe. We were exhilarated. I have seen howler monkeys on my previous visits to this region, but I could never tire of their adorable faces and their powerful calls. This was the first time Chad had ever seen wild monkeys. He was delighted and had a big grin on his mouth. We stayed with our faces gazing upward until our necks ached and it became nearly too dark to find our way back. “Wow.”

The plantation and the accompanying hotel and restaurant were completely self sufficient and environmentally sound. The staff really cared about the mission and had a passion for nature and wildlife. The plantation was surrounded by blue, misty mountains on all sides. It felt cool and spring-like. We ate all of our meals in the restaurant. We savored homemade spaghetti with onions and tomatoes, rich European-style cheeses made on the farm, sweet desserts of ice cream, milk pudding and prunes in nectar and drank hot manzanilla tea- and that was just the first dinner. The food was delicious, rich, and healthy. The menu said “you can take pride in drinking coffee that hasn’t traveled more than just uphill” and it was true, not only for the coffee, but all the food. There were a few other guests, older couples from Germany, France, and the UK. After dinner, we walked arm and arm back to our lovely room. It was actually cold for a change. We curled up and took refuge in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the wool blankets and quilts.

During the day, we spent our time hiking in the jungle. In the rainforest and all over Selva Negra, epiphytes covered the trees. Bromeliads and glorious orchids grew out of tree trunks and branches. Ferns, vines, and small palms filled the understory beneath the taller trees, like the banyan, the cedar, and the ceiba, that form the canopy and the roof of the rain forest. The higher elevation kept away the mosquitoes and other biting insects. Moss outfitted the trunks and roots of trees and the stones, boulders, and fallen branches that lined the forest floor. This cloud forest is home to two hundred and eighty species of birds, including the resplendent and illusive quetzal, one hundred and thirty species of orchid, and over five hundred species of trees.

The hostess of Selva Negra told us about a difficult hike we could take uphill and high into the virgin rainforest. We jumped at the opportunity to hike deep into the reserve. It turned out to be an amazing full day hike. The temperature stayed cool and pleasant. The sun barely made it down to ground level through the thick tree cover. It was beautiful.

We hiked through the thick vegetation, dazzled by vibrant butterflies and charmed by the chirps, calls, and songs of the birds. We saw toucans and toucanets, hummingbirds and parrots, woodpeckers and motmots, magpies and wrens. The forest is also home to ocelots, margays, sloths, and mountain lions. As we were coming to find out for ourselves, it was the best place in the country to view exceptional wildlife in their own pristine environment. We could hear the bellows of the howler monkeys echoing through the jungle. We came across a troop of them a time or two. They were hanging out in the tree tops, eating and lounging around, calling out to announce the coming of a storm.

It was a great hike. Some expanses were nearly vertical. We groped at roots and vines to pull ourselves forward or help ourselves down. I slipped and fell several times.

The trees had enormous buttresses. This is a feature of many trees in rainforests around the world. Overall rainforest soil is shallow and nutrient poor. Shallow roots tap into the first fifteen to twenty centimeters of decaying leaves and plant matter. It is thought that buttresses, by increasing surface area, aid in the acquisition of nourishment from the top soil. Perhaps they also allow for air exchange in water-logged soils. They have other uses including aiding the short roots by increasing stability, capturing leaf litter and leading the debris to the roots for breakdown, and sheltering animals and therefore helping to gather nutrients from the animals’ waste. Buttresses can be as high as ten meters. It is fascinating.

I admired a gigantic tree, a strangler fig that had enveloped another tree to take its place at the canopy. It was raining lightly. I continued on down the muddy path. It was nearly straight down. I slipped downward and fell on my right side on a small stump. The impact knocked the wind right out of me. My side throbbed with pain. I didn’t realize until later that I had fractured a rib. I would be in pain for six weeks to come. For the moment, I collected myself, took a deep breath, and kept moving. I was aching but I pushed the thought out of my mind and hiked for the rest of the day, gaping at the beauty and reveling in the cool lushness.

Once again, we had fallen in love with our surroundings. We didn’t want to leave, but we knew we had to. There was much more adventure ahead of us. Our journey was less than half over. We dined in luxury that evening and the morning after, savoring the organic goodness and full flavors of the foods. Then we prepared to leave the cool highlands for steamy lowlands and beaches.

I wanted to explore Honduras. I had heard very good things about diving in the Bay Islands. I also wanted to go into the vastly unexplored swamps and jungles of La Mosquitia. I had plans to hire a guide and a pipante, a pole-propelled canoe, in order to go deep into the forbidding jungle via small waterways. These ideas became more and more unrealistic as the conflict in Honduras intensified. The Honduran president, Jose Manuel Zelaya, was overthrown. He went into exile in Argentina but was still recognized by the United States. We began hearing about land mines at the border, assassinations of citizens who supported Zelaya, kidnappings, assaults on tourists, increased looting and aggressive crimes, increased gang activity, violent protests, strict curfews, and general chaos. The United States declared that American citizens should avoid all unnecessary travel in the country. As the advisories for Honduras began to be more alarming, we decided to quickly travel straight through into El Salvador.

We booked a direct passage on a bus from Managua to San Salvador. In Managua, we stayed in a small hospedaje just next to the Tica bus station. It was a sketchy area of town. Street punks tried to sell us drugs at every turn and drivers followed us saying “taxi, taxi”. When we ignored them, they would say “sook mi deek”. The room was dirty and had gaping holes in the ceiling and walls and around the windows and doors. It wasn’t secure. I got the feeling that the street creeps outside could see us through the cracks. We had a bathroom inside the room, but it wasn’t separated by a door. It was grungy and we slept in our sleeping bags. The good thing is that there was a TV. We had to catch a 5am bus the following morning. We requested a wake up call, but didn’t expect to get it. We took shifts sleeping and staying up watching American movies.
The bus ride from Managua to San Salvador was approximately twelve hours. The passage through Honduras was only about five hours. There were many military check points and policemen were posted all along the highway and in front of every business. We had heard that the country was in the control of the military. It was unsettling to see so many automatic weapons. The border crossings were smooth and uneventful and soon the worrisome section of our journey was over.

We decided to head for Belize. In San Salvador, we arranged to take another direct bus to Guatemala City and then onward on another bus to Puerto Barrios. We were in transit for several exhausting days.

We went by boat from Guatemala to Belize, arriving in Punta Gorda. We went through customs and boarded a chicken bus to Independencia. There, we took a water taxi to Placencia.
In Placencia, we were able to relax and settle in for a short while. It was a pleasure not to be on the move. I had visited Belize a couple years before and had a particular affinity for Placencia. It was the slow season and the little town was a dead zone.

We set up our tent in the shade of a tree a short distance from the beach. Once again the sweet Caribbean Sea was at our door step. We spent a few days in the sun, swimming and snorkeling, rocking in the hammock, reading, or wandering around. We languidly watched the green iguanas sinuously move along the sand. We drank refreshing seaweed shakes and listened to reggae music. We enjoyed speaking in English with locals and were enchanted by the cadence in the Creole accent.

From the south of Belize, we headed north through Dangriga and Belmopan. We arrived in San Ignacio late into the evening. We set up our tent in the soft, grassy fields of Mana Kai. We showered, made love, and watched the moon and the bright stars in the night sky. San Ignacio was only a stopover on our journey back into Guatemala. We left the following morning for the border.

When we arrived at the border, it began storming. We had our passports stamped and exchanged the last of our Belizean dollars. We planned on walking the two kilometers or so to the bus station, but were held up by the rain.

A persistent taxi driver kept approaching us and tried to negotiate a fare to Tikal. After a couple hours of waiting for the rain to clear, his price dropped to only $25. Most of the other drivers were offering $60 fares for the two hour ride. This driver was desperate. The young guy was so broke that we had to pay him in advance because his gas tank was empty and he didn’t have any cash. It turned out to be a hell of a ride. He was determined to make the cash in the shortest amount of time. He sped at seventy or eighty miles per hour the whole way. His car sounded as if it would fall apart. The car was shaking and rattling. He bottomed out in the deep potholes and the outsized speed bumps a dozen times during the ride. The first third of the road was unpaved. It was a dusty, cratered, rock-covered road. He never slowed down. A few miles of paved street way interrupted the dirt road. We passed through some small towns. All the way, we passed animals in and alongside the road. We swerved to miss them- horses, cows, pigs, dogs, cats, goats, turkeys- and the people, even toddler aged children. I gripped at my seat as we neared potential victims, but we always missed. It was madness. When it started raining, it just upped the ante on the danger factor. Perilous, but it made for a fun and wild ride.

We arrived in the National Reserve of Tikal at dusk. We positioned our tent and relaxed, hanging out together as the darkness set in. We found dinner at a food stall, then went back to the tent to cuddle in our sleeping bags. We read until we could hardly keep our eyes open.

The ground under the tent was hard, but the temperature outside was comfortable. One of the inns nearby to the park entrance offered hot showers. It was such a luxury after the damp nights. It rained most of the first night and all the nights in Tikal thereafter. Our tent began to leak. The rain dripped through the ceiling and came in around the screened windows.
Because of the rain, we planned to wait for the perfect clear and sunny day to visit the Mayan ruins. Our first exploration however was unexpected. We were wandering in and around the museum. There were a few ponds filled with lazy crocodiles and turtles lounging on muddy islands. The Maya dug these reservoirs to hold their fresh water. We walked around the ponds to get a good view of the crocs and take pictures. We found a small trail into the woods and followed it. It took us right into the ruins. It was still raining. There was no one in the jungle and it was beginning to get dark. We rarely saw people when we were in the midst of the ruins. At dusk and in darkness quickly became our favorite way to view the ruins. It was a primal place and the darkness did it justice.

We climbed to the tops of the temples. Other temples protruded through the canopy. There was lush, impenetrable jungle in all directions as far as the eye could see. It was breathtaking. Bats flew out of dark, cavernous rooms in the ruins. We became very still and took the moment in fully. The Mayan empire was a flourishing civilization. It is believed to have been founded around 200 BC. It thrived through 750 AD and collapsed in 900 AD. They were incredibly advanced and the temples act as witness to their skill and creativity. We hiked back in darkness. The jungle was quiet. There were no more screaming spider monkeys. All was stillness and the rain made its way from the top of the canopy to the forest floor, one leaf at a time. After telling stories about monsters and jaguars picking off the prey in the rear of the pack and arguing over who should be in front, we emerged from the jungle a little relieved.

That night, after the ground got completely saturated, we found ourselves sleeping on a water bed. The bottom of the tent rippled over a puddle of water. Luckily, there wasn’t any leakage from the bottom. The rain dampened our sleeping bags from above. I slept in a damp chill and woke to wet panties and a buttocks shriveled like raisons.

It rained so often while we were in Tikal, that we often just sat rocking and reading in the hammocks. When we ventured out into the park to explore, there were coatis, small mammals with long ringed tails, and resplendent oscillated turkeys that shimmered in the sunlight. They were wonderful to watch.

On Halloween, we headed into the rainforest to the ruins. It was raining slightly and the sun was starting to go down. We hiked to the far west temple and climbed to the top, high above the canopy. The view was enthralling. Temples peaked into the clouds. The air was misty and the fog wrapped around the treetops like a scarf. Our minds were on the ancient civilization that called this magical place home. We imagined them sitting where we sat and gazing where we gazed. The old souls who roam here have more resonance than any ghosts I have ever known. We made the walk back in pitch blackness in the lair of the jaguar. The only sounds were the night creatures stirring and the pitter patter of rain drops on leaves.

The hiking in Tikal was great. We could hike into the jungle and come across unexcavated mounds of Mayan ruins and artifacts. The wildlife was rich. There were always groups of coatis digging in the dirt for food or hanging around in the trees. We saw the great, black curassows, a strange looking bird with a bright orange beak and the stance and gait of an ostrich, but smaller and adapted to a jungle environment. The first time we saw a spider monkey, we were thrilled! We were just roaming around with our noses down, checking out the insects and admiring the colorful turkeys, when we heard a huge crash in the trees. We look up to see an energetic monkey leaping from tree top to tree top. He was picking off fruits and taking sample bites and then throwing the mostly uneaten fruits down to the ground. He hung from his tail and made faces at us as we smiled at him, in awe and happy. On hikes, we were usually accompanied by the calls of the howler monkeys or the screams of the spider monkeys. Their vocalizations commended us and we marched on talking about the environment, the benefits of getting outdoors, and singing Jack Johnson songs. We dodged spider webs, poked at termite mounds, and walked on.

Once, in the jungle, we saw a spectacular, wild monkey performance. Fifteen or twenty spider monkeys were in the trees directly above us. A few of the larger males began rushing and taunting the females and their babies. The mothers and the babies screamed and cried out and escaped to other trees. The males were in hot pursuit and jumped, leaping from branch to branch to catch up. It was impressive. In the end, no harm was done and the troop went back to lackadaisically lounging on limbs and munching on leaves.

We went on to admire the ruins. The scale and the atmosphere is really indescribable. It was quite amazing that at a historical site like this, we rarely saw any other people except sometimes a few in the Grand Plaza, the most central ruins, a square of four temples. We were all on our own to explore and take in the sights and sounds of the temples and the forest. The buildings were huge, solid structures, tall and steep. It was amazing to turn a corner in the thick jungle and see a temple sprouting up or walk and come across a mound or hill with an untouched ruin. It felt very intimate being there in silence and calmly taking it all in, picturing it as a vibrant society and a thriving empire.

We discovered a “secret” spot, a place that felt dreamlike and peaceful and full of life. It naturally became our favorite place and we melted into the ambience every day. We perched at the rear of one of the temples. The ledge overlooked a valley filled with lively jungle. A family of spider monkeys made their home there. We had a bird’s eye view from our lookout and watched the troop as they swung in the treetops and slept on beds of leaves. Toucanets, woodpeckers, parrots, hummingbirds all danced across the sky and landed on the branches at our toes. We saw an abundance of these and other birds flying from tree to tree. We sat and watched the scene, sitting on a two thousand year old ruin, looking out to more ruins, lush tropical jungle, and the monkeys. Across from us, across the valley, was a gigantic temple. At sunset one afternoon, we decided to climb the beast.

After a trek through the jungle on a small root-riddled path, we arrived at a clearing in the forest. The massive pyramid ruin came into view. It was astounding. The Mayans had used the now crumbling steep stone steps to the front. I was standing in awe. Chad walked to the side of the building and found our route up. He laughed and said “Oh, baby! Wait until you see this! I don‘t think you‘re going to like it.“ I strut over and the air is snatched from my lungs. I am deathly afraid of heights. A narrow wooden ladder leaned against the ruin and traveled straight up, seemingly never to end, to the top of the ruin! Just looking at it made my heart jump. I was scared of the falling, scared to be so scared that I would freeze on the ladder, scared to be too scared to come back down. I clutched my pride and the ladder. I was not going to pass this up. This what I came here for. My heart jerked around in my chest. I started my ascent.
I stopped climbing after what seemed like hours or days, not sure. I made the mistake of looking down behind me. “Holy fuck!“ It was a long way down and still much further up. I was scared to panic, but even more scared to slip. Chad boogied up without fear. Earlier that day I had backed out halfway up a mirador, a high vantage point that overlooked the jungle. I couldn’t go up the mirador because the fear was not worth the risk. The wood blocks were nailed to a tree and climbed sixty or seventy feet into the sky. This was different. It was a much more intense fear and a more intense risk, but the experience was worth it. Chad came down to climb closer to me. It was straight up and straight down behind me.

My journal entry says “I kept going up the little wood ladder about -- I was about to say 120 ft, because that was a guess and a large one, but I just looked at my official Tikal map and Temple guide- and I went up that temple- a whopping 180 feet high! Brave girl, I say.“

At the top, I crouched low and held on for dear life, leaning against the building. The smaller temples have ramps, railings, and supports. Here, no railings, no joke, just a straight clear view down to the ground and to your death. At the summit of the ladder, I immediately threw myself up onto the stone temple. My feet could still reach and touch the ladder, but it was so steep of a descent that I couldn’t even see the ladder from where I sat, not even the first step.

After a few moments, I calmed down and could absorb the view. It was breathtaking, a whole panoramic view of the tropical jungle dotted with the peaks of temples, all set in the glow of a late afternoon sun. It was stunning. I don’t think my words could give you perspective on the scope. It was fantastic. We watched the sky change colors and the sun set.

Soon after, we made a slow descent with the last bit of light in the sky. We walked around some other ruins as the sky got dark. We walked back in total darkness, holding hands and admiring our lives.

We were in love with the ambiance and the vibes of the ruins. When wandering around one day an extraordinary moment happened for me. We were dipping in and out of the jungle on a small path. When we emerged onto an excavated building around Temple VI, we met a gentleman tending to the grounds. He told us that just before we came out of the forest, he saw a jaguar stealthily moving along the trail. The man had a gentle manner, soft alert eyes, and a sweet smile lingering under a subtle moustache. His shirt was unbuttoned and a necklace with a stone pendant was exposed leaning against his smooth chest. He put down his machete and walked closer to us. He complimented the turquoise stone set in silver and tied around my neck by a length of black shoelace. He asked if he could touch the stone. I told him “yes”. He took it in his hands and felt its coolness. He said it was a good stone, a stone with calm, peaceful energy, “tranquilo”. He pulled a green stone, about the size of a golf ball, from his pocket. He said it was his lucky stone. He explained to us that he is a Mayan shaman. He asked me if I am spiritual. I said “yes”. He asked me if I do yoga, “yes”. He continued in Spanish, explaining the similarities between the yoga way of thought- yogic energy and breathing, meditation, and pranic healing- and Mayan cosmology. He explained about his spirituality and openness. He looked at me and said I have strength.

He brought us to a chamber in the ruins that was used by the Mayans for meditation. A door on the left led to a small, dark room in which the women would meditate and a door on the right for t he men. He comes here to meditate himself. He lights a small, white candle and “sits in stillness, opening his mind to the heavens”. I am a skeptic, but I really felt this man. He was real. He is a spiritual person. He meant what he said about the importance of spirituality and connecting with a higher power. He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he could see into my mind and soul. He said he could see deep into the past, into the ancestors, in my eyes. I am an old soul. He studied me and said that I think a lot and my mind is always going. He pulled a black feather out in front of me and gave it to me as a gift. It happened so quickly that I’m not sure where it came from. He said that the Maya believe that the birds are the living form of our ancestors.
He took my hand and placed it between his two palms, close but without touching. I could feel the heat radiating from my hand, around it, and reaching up my forearm. The shaman said that he could feel my energy, that it is positive. My good energy is stable and radiates around me but does not scatter and instead stays with me. He mentioned slyly to me that Chad does not have a stable energy and that his energy gets scattered and leaves him. He encouraged us to have more stability in our relationship, emphasizing that the Maya believe in lifelong commitments, marriage.

He went on to tell me that I have an open heart. He put his arms around me, touched my head, and told me to exhale forcefully to cleanse myself of blockages or negative energy. He did this twice. He looked at the lines on my palm and felt my energy for several minutes, telling me that I am strong and have compassion and a big heart. He invited us to visit him at his house. We were planning on staying in the ruins all day and leaving the jungle the following morning. We had to decline, but I was touched and honored. He asked me if I had a question in my mind. I couldn’t think of a specific question. He said that he knew I had questions and I was free to ask. I wanted to ask him more about Mayan beliefs and his own spirituality, to learn from him, to feel more of his spiritual presence. He had tapped into my aura. Hesitantly, I told him I did not know my question. The language barrier was increasingly difficult in the intensity of this conversation and it stopped me from going further. In the end, he held my hand, smiled at me softly, looked into my eyes, and told Chad to take care of me. I was blessed. I had met a healer. I left feeling light and centered and very lucky.

The following morning we left Tikal to Santa Elena. There we purchased bus tickets to take us to San Salvador. We took a tuk tuk, similar to the auto-rickshaws of India, to Flores. Flores is set on a small peninsula, nearly an island, in the lake. It is a colonial town. We liked it so much, we decided to spend a couple days there, walking up and down the cobbled streets, eating pizza and chocobananos, frozen chocolate covered bananas, and talking with the locals . Little children, maybe five or six years old, approached us with home made desserts. They were such hard workers, we couldn’t resist buying some donuts, filled with cream and covered in sugar. We ate our sweets, watching the fishermen casting their nets in the lake in front of the setting sun and colorful sky, and talked about how far we felt from home and the reality of other people’s lives.

On the last day in Flores, we caught a tuk tuk in the darkness of the early morning to the bus station in Santa Elena. It took us a full day by bus to drive from Santa Elena to San Salvador. When we arrived we had to take a local bus to the center of town. The bus had a hip young driver, glowing blue lights along the ceiling and pictures and stickers of surfboards, surf logos, and brands. It was packed. We were jammed, with our backpacks on, standing in the aisle near the front of the bus. Everyone getting on had to shove their way past us. Slow jams from the 70’s and reggae played loudly from the speakers. I couldn’t even imagine one more person getting on, but more people always boarded. Outside, we passed a busy weekend market with stalls and people yelling and bargaining for goods.

We found a cheap hotel. It was so cheap in fact, that it was missing a toilet seat, the windows were barred, there were no sheets on the foam mattress, and there were smudges and footprints coming down the wall from the vent where someone broke in before. It was in the heart of the city, near the bus that would take us to the coast, and probably the cheapest deal in town.

Walking in the city that evening, we were assaulted by the smog, diesel fumes, the pollution. We explored and stopped for dinner at a pupuseria. This is the local dish of El Salvador and it was our first time trying the fare. We ordered frijoles y queso pupusas, three for a dollar is the price nationwide, always a delicious and cheap choice. They are similar to tortillas, but they have cheese, beans, vegetables, or meats cooked into them. The ladies cook them on a big flat stove top in the front of the restaurant. The smells travel up and down the streets.

There were loud festivities and a bar just next door to our hotel room. In our sleeping bags, on top of the dirty mattress, it was as if we were laying inside the pool hall itself. Eventually we grew accustomed to the noise and fell asleep. In the morning we were ready to escape San Salvador and ran through the rain to catch a couple buses to La Libertad and Playa Sunzal.

We made Playa Sunzal our home for the remainder of the trip. We chose a small room by the beach with a private bathroom and hammocks on our porch. We ate pupusas each night at the restaurant down the street. There, we were lucky enough to have met an ex-patriot from Canada named Ian who had a couple surfboards to rent to us. We were considering buying our own boards, but jumped at the opportunity to rent instead. Both boards were Olea long boards. Chad’s was 8’ and mine was 7’2.

Our days fell into a comfortable routine. In the morning, we would rise early with the sun and head into the surf. We would take a break for breakfast and walk down to the restaurant. Every morning we got a portion of eggs, beans, bread, sometimes an avocado, coffee, and juice. Then we would head back into the waves for another few hours. We would call it quits in the early afternoon, have a lunch of fresh fish or vegetables and rice, bananas, and ice cream. Surfing really works your body. We usually would siesta for an hour or so and spend the afternoon lounging in the hammocks and reading books discovered at a book exchange. In the evenings, invariably, we would walk down the street for pupusas and hang out with Ian.

We lived in a bubble of the beach, the surf, and the hammocks. Ian was our contact to the outside world, filling us in on the news. For instance, when we arrived in Sunzal it was storming. We had received a lot of rain in Guatemala so we did not pay it much mind. We took the boards to the beach for the first time and it was deserted. The waves were crashing and the sky was black. We got in and surfed anyway. The ocean slammed us down, jerked us around, catapulted us into the air, threw us off our boards, crushed us, and held us under. We were panting and exhausted as the ocean churned and sloshed around. Come to find out, it was a hurricane, Hurricane Ida. It was a hurricane that left over forty people dead within ten miles of where we lived, one hundred and twenty four dead in the country. Winds were recorded at ninety miles per hour. Ian told us of power outages, roads wiped off the map, land slides, and flash floods. A dead human body and a dead cow washed up on the beach down from where we were surfing that day. The last news we had before leaving the country reported that over five hundred people were still missing. We survived.

We were eagerly learning how to surf. Gradually we saw our improvement from laying on the board, to sitting on the board, to standing, riding the foam, and finally riding the waves. It took all our energy and was the focus of our time in El Salvador. It worked our whole bodies to paddle out to the swells, catch the wave, stand and ride it, and paddle back out. It was intense.

After the hurricane, the water at low tide was full of debris that was taken from the land, trees, trash, tires, lots of leaves and branches. As time wore on, this cleared out. The water went from dark and murky to clear and green. We could see down to the rocks at the bottom. Initially when we arrived, the beach was piled high with rocks, large stones and pebbles. By the time we left, most of the stones were gone and all that was left on the beach was black volcanic sand. It was explained to us that the rocks are seasonal. During invierno, the rain slowly sends all the rocks down from the mountains and highlands to the coast. Week by week the levels rise in the water and on the beach. Once the rainy season ends, the ocean takes the stones out to sea, slowly slowly until all the stones are gone from the beach. Incredible. I found this fascinating. We arrived to a beach with hardly no visible sand and stones a story high and by the time we left, the only stones we could see were those in the ocean.

Playa Sunzal is known worldwide for its surfing. On the weekends the waves were dotted with dozens of surfers. Many of the surfers were very good and we enjoyed watching them and tried to learn from their skill.

On Thanksgiving, when all our friends and family in the States were carving our turkeys and sitting with their families, we were surfing. It wasn’t until afterwards that we learned that El Salvador had suffered an earthquake measuring 5.9 on the richter scale. The epicenter was 47 miles west of San Salvador at the Pacific Ocean. The effects of the tremors were felt as far away as Guatemala. We must have been riding on some really sweet waves and didn’t even notice.
Aside from a virus that swept through the small community and left us weak and bonded to the john and the day my surfboard and I collided with the rocks, the rest of our days were calm and revolved around the ocean, the moon, and the tides.

Being on the ocean is a nearly spiritual experience. The sky is blue. The sun is warming your skin and kissing your face. The water is cool and you interact with each wave, waiting to see if this is the one, noticing how it moves, gathers speed, and carries you away. One gorgeous day, I hung back a little to the east of the larger waves. I was taking it all in when a sea turtle came up for air right next to me and my board. She was covered in dark green algae and had large, thoughtful eyes. She swam beside me and we watched each other for a little while. Maybe she was trying to figure me out. Maybe it was a blessing. It was a beautiful and memorable moment for me. When she dipped under the surface and glided away, I felt happy and lucky. I went on to ride the wave.
We left El Salvador with tears in our eyes and a pep in our step. It was difficult to say goodbye to the friends we had made during our time there. Despite this, we were ready to get home to the States. I couldn’t wait to see my kids, squeeze them, snuggle them, and tell them how much I missed them. We were already thinking of our next adventure, one where they would all join us. We spent our last night in Central America sleeping on the cold tile floors of an empty airport in Guatemala City. We had experienced a lot, had come a long way, and we were better for it. We were met in cold Atlanta by the smiling face of a good friend and the warm embrace of family. The feeling of home blossomed in me when I was again surrounded by my sons.