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.
