Poco a Poco

I woke up on Wendesday morning around eight o´clock. I took a quick shower and got ready to hit the road. My overpiced taxi driver arrived at eight forty'five and we were out the door in a flash. He was a nice guy. We made small talk in the car as we drove the narrow streets of Granada. We made our way past the old cemetary on the outskirts of town and hit the open road to Rivas. He was twenty eight years old and a father of two. He spoke of the difficulties of life in Nicaragua, his desire to return to school one day, and the need to support his family. I felt compassion for his situation, but also a little distaste because I knew he and his friend saw me as a profit. His friend overcharged me for lunch. I knew it, but I was trying to get the most out of the day. I went along with it. No time for bargaining, and besides, it is always a little difficult to bargain when traveling alone with only a mediocre mastery of the Spanish language.

We made it to Rivas in an hour and continued a few more minutes to San Jorge. He drove to the gates of the ferry. I swarm of people drifted chaotically in the road. Hustlers, drifters, wanderers and other desperate individuals roamed awkwardly, all hoping for an answer to the error of their ways. I shook the taxi driver´s hand and bid him farewell. I was immediately accosted by an old man directing me to the ticket booth. I purchased a ticket and made my way for the gate, but wait, there was of course a tax I had to pay. I begrudgingly handed over the Cordobas. At last, the ferry was in site. I stepped aboard the rusty old vessel and headed to the upper deck. A cool breeze, and the view of Volcan Concepcion and the island of Ometepe loomed in the distance.

There were few people traveling and there was plenty of space to roam the deck and enjoy the view. The lake water had a sugary green hue. I sparked a conversation with my fellow travelers. A young couple, and a brother and sister from Connecticut. The brother was in medical school at New York University and the sister a graphic designer in Connecticut. We swapped our brief travel stories and decided to split a taxi ride to the base of Volcan Maderas on the other side of the island from the port of Moyogalpa where we were landing. He seemed a no nonsense individual, his sister a mellower compliment. I enjoyed their company and conversation.

We hopped off the ferry. I was conned into buying a taxi ride once on the island and paid at the port in San Jorge. I was happy to have some company to lower the cost of my stupid mistake. Traveling alone offers its own lessons, but the pragmitism of companionship wins the day when it comes to navigating the intricacies of foreign cultures. We sifted through the crowd and spotted a sign the said 'Beto'. I did not recognize this as my name, but after a few minutes realized the sign was in fact referring to me. We were off in our 'tourism bus' moments later, the landscape of Ometepe unfolding before our eyes as we peered out the window.

It took an hour to get to the base of Maderas, a greener, sleepier, less lofty version of it´s siter, Concepcion. The brother and sister hopped out at 'hosepedaje del sol'. We made a vague plan to hike Maderas the next day, but as I had no real clue as to where I was headed, this never materialized.

The bus traveled on down the road into the shadows of Maderas. The noise of humanity quieted, and the driver made a right and started traveling up a dusty gravel road. I stepped out at 'Finca Magdalena'. Finca Magdalena is touted in the guidebooks as a great farming cooperative where backpackers gather in droves to enjoy simple rustic lodgings and opportunties to learn about tropical agriculture. I was excited to arrive. In front of me stood a rickety white shack with a large porch. Ceiling fans abounded. I took a seat at a table. No one came. I walked to the desk and asked if I might order some lunch. After a simple meal and moments contemplating my next move I asked the desk where I might find 'Finca Bona Fide'. I accepted some vague directions, opened the gate from the porch and walked down into the garden.

I exited the garden and hung a right. I walked into the woods. It was dry, dusty, and I was already dripping sweat. I stumbled over a few rocks and took a moment to recalibrate to my new surroundings. It was peaceful, and almost immediately I felt life slow down. I walked down the dusty trail. It split in multiple directions several times, and each time I chose left. I do not know why. I spòtted a roof to my left, far in the distance across a farmer´s field. I thought maybe this was it, but I walked further. Suddenly, a large herd of cattle was clambering in my direction. They had horns. I threw my pack over a barb wire fence and slid my body through. I waited patiently for the herd to pass. The farmer went a hundred yards before opening a gate and leading his cattle to water. I decided to ask him for directions to la Finca Bona Fide. He pointed out the trail and I walked down through the farmer´s field to the rooftop I had seen in the distance.

I passed a few more cattle and a a flock of beautiful white birds as I meandered down the gritty trail. I came to a a fence with an opening of offset posts. I walked through and saw the sign for Bona Fide. 'Welcome to la Finca Bona Fide. Please prearrange all visits.'

I walked through the gate into a forest. I immediately noticed an enormous variety of trees, none besides the banana with which I was familiar. I passed a large hut. There were a few young people lounging in hammocks. At first glance, visions of Colonel Kurtz came to mind.

A girl jumped up and asked if I needed help. I pleaded my case, and she took me to the leader. I immediately liked Tom. I told him I had contacted someone from the farm the week before about doing some filming over the course of a couple of days. Tom had a big heart, and was eager to please. He showed me around, and told me Mitch would be around in a bit to speak with me. I sat and waited while Tom wandered off to complete a task.

I noticed a young guy sitting next to a large brick oven shucking beans into a pot. He looked a little weary from too many beans and too much sun. I lit a conversation. Names. Check. A few loose details, and muddy Mitch wandered in from the forest. Ten minutes later I was following Mitch at a feverish pace through the forest to collect honey from the hives of an endangered species of tropical stingless bee. We approached the hive. There were no bee suits. I had never collected honey, and I was a little concerned about being stung. A dark, tough skinned man gently puffed smoke into the hive, while a small Spanish woman danced around in fits of joy at the moment in hand. People gave directions. I grabbed wrenches, bowls of water, and in the process tried to capture it as best I could on film. I learned the woman was a beekeeper from Spain, and the opportunity to collect honey from such an exotic species of bee was to me like kayaking vintage whitewater in the wilds of Chile.

Mitch talked about the forest and the farm while we wandered to check on two more hives. I heard a deep rumble in the distance that sounded like a large wooden door slowly closing. It was slightly ominous. I wandered to have a look at where it was coming from, and to my surprise a few large howler monkeys roosted in the high branches of a tree, thier white juevos dangling proud and blowing in the breeze. We approached the hives. Mitch cautioned me to avoid a thorny tree. The tree hosted a species of ant. When the tree was shaken, the ants would appear as if from nowhere and attack the intruder with thousands of tiny bites. Once they bit they did not let go. I gave the tree a wide berth.

We wandered back up the hillside to the kitchen and communal area. I slowly met the rest of the farm volunteers. Gianna and Berkly were from the University of Vermont, Willie Jay from Buffalo, New York, Marco from Florida, Ben from Durango, Colorado. We all climbed into the treehouse to catch the sunset. We stared out into the distance as the sky worked its way through a thousand shades of red, pink and orange, illuminating Volcan Concepcion in the distance and Lago Colcibolca below. I sat next to Ben during dinner and we continued the conversation we started earlier that afternoon. His parents started Deer Hill, the outdoor company I modeled when creating the site for 'My Own Backyard'. It was an uncanny coincidence. Over the next few days we became good buds.

Everyone wound down quickly after dinner, and it was not long before I climbed into the treehouse to rig my hammock for the night. I drifted off to sleep with the sounds of Oroccos and Howler monkeys echoing in the darkness.

Las Isletas de Granada

I woke up at six o clock. The room was dark. A tiny stream of pale white light barely crept through the blinds illuminating the four twirling fans attached to the ceiling. I was in bed siete. There was little clue as to with whom I was sharing the room, only traces of faint British accents mumbled and echoing in the hall outside the door as I drifted off to sleep the night before. I was eager to get a move on and take in the city in the early dawn hours.

I climbed down from my bunk. I felt dirty from a long day of traveling. My cab ride was pleasant and easy from the airport. I paid a premium for it, but it was near dark when the plane landed and the thought of traveling in the wrong direction to get to the bus station in Managua was more than I was willing to deal with. The cab driver and I made small talk in a mixture of equal parts broken Spanish and English. I caught the following - his intense like of former president Bill Clinton, he has a wife and two children, and he enjoys the sport of baseball. Muy excelente.

I opened a large creaking door that led to a patio. The sun was starting to filter in, and a mellow breeze bounced gently off the walls. I turned the handle of the shower and doused myself in a nice cool stream of water. The cacophony of a small orchestra of birds permeated the air. I wondered what exactly I was doing. Only one way to find out.

I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and walked out the door of the hostel. I took only my wallet and camera. I left my backpack on the bed with all of my possessions in it. The girl at the desk asked if I was staying another night. I was unsure.

The wandering began. I took photographs everywhere I walked. I found a variety of places to post up and people watch. Two guys moving a refrigerator, dogs, birds, decaying churches, children on their way to school - the typical moving and vibrant mosaic of life I observe in all travels south.

I made my way down to the lake shore. There was a strong onshore breeze accompanied by a steady sets of waves. I hung a right. I was getting farther and farther away from the hostel, and I started to think it might be smart to go back and grab my pack. I ignored the urge and walked onward. I passed into the official tourist district of the city of Granada. Someone forget to tell the other tourists because I was the only one there. I walked passed an enormous display of playground equipment. The first sets were metal. They were colorful with hints of rust and a few holes here and there. I took note of one large metal slide with a hole big enough for a small child right in the middle. I stopped for a ride on an old swing. The chains creaked as I swung in the breeze and stared out at what the locals call the sweet sea.

A walked on. A short man approached and began a conversation. He soon raved of all the lake had to offer and would not stop speaking about las Isletas. He offered to rent me a kayak and show me.

Onward we wandered. Now not alone, but with my new companion who sat sideways on his bicycle and skipped his feet to propel himself down the road as he rambled on in a steady stream of Spanish, only half of which registered. He was a rotund little man, who wore a purple t-shirt and blue jeans which, try as they might, could not seem to stay positioned above the rear view.

We walked down empty streets into a large canopy sitting near the lake. The canopy was fifty feet high, constructed of metal I-beams and covered with palm fronds. He procured a bottle of water and opened a metal gate so I could peer at a menagerie of turtles with a small crocodile nestled in their midst. He disappeared for a moment, only to return by water paddling a large yellow sea kayak. He also had a blue whitewater kayak. He had two life jackets which we did not wear. He used his as a cushion for his back. I stored mine in the cargo area of the stern and rested my camera on top.

Into the lake we paddled. I thought of the phrase I often amused my students with when I was taking them kayaking on the Potomac- when you do not know what to do, go kayaking and see what happens.

It was a glorious morning. He explained the different types of trees and birds, and stopped often to pick a variety of fresh fruits hanging from the trees. We stopped and ate mangoes for breakfast, and he was especially inclined to stop to gather a fruit I had not heard of - picotes, a small fruit with purplish skin and a delicate, sweet white flesh. We also ate tamarinds, and visited a small island inhabited by four monkeys who showed their teeth if you got too close.

On the way back I could feel the sun starting to burn my skin. I knew I should probably paddle quickly so as not to be in pain for the rest of the trip. We paddled back to the canopy and he offered lunch. I ate a guapote, or lake bass, fried whole and washed it down with a cold beer.

Following lunch, I asked if we could visit Volcan Mombacho - an extinct volcano that erupted thousands of years ago forming the Isletas, towering over the city. In a moment he produced a friend with a taxi and we were off to the top of the volcano. We parked the taxi as far up the road as we were allowed, and promptly set out on foot. It was not long before his friend the taxi driver had to quietly bail out of our hiking excursion. To say the trail was steep does not begin to describe the angle of incline we were ascending. One man down we made it to the top. The view of the lake and the city of Granada was well worth it.

They dropped me off at my hostel, and I made arrangements to get a ride to the city of Rivas in the morning.

My bag was waiting safely on bed siete.