On The Farm In Nicaragua

... people young and old laugh in earnest, or not at all.

... if you are fat, people will invariably refer to you as the fat one. This is no big deal.

... the people fart just like the horses; loudly, often, and without any observable reservation.

... the ticks are many, and know to go for the hard-to-reach places.

... I encounter and learn about new bugs everyday. Some are very hairy, others have big teeth, glow, or are otherwise amazing.

... there are no clothespins. Laundry is hung, ingeniously, on stretches of barbed-wire.

... there is no dinner-time, per se, but you are never at table alone.

... every meal comes with farm-fresh coffee, hand-pressed corn-tortilla, rice and red beans. Bananas cut and fried in the french style are a special treat.


... there is no milk, but there is plenty of sugar, so coffee is taken black, and fruit juice so sweet as to be well-nigh undrinkable.

...they love baseball, and they play like they mean it.

... there are people of all ages. Our youngest is 2, our oldest, 113.

... if you're old enough to walk, you're old enough to work. (Last Friday, the aforementioned 2-year old put in a solid morning alongside me. He grunted when lifting, just like his father.)

... you don't have sex until you get married, usually around 16-18 years old.

... the very smallest families have no less than 5 or 6 children, the larger ones top out in the high teens.

... you go to sleep when the sun goes down, and wake when it rises.

... is where I will likely be for another few days, enjoying the profound kindness and hospitality of my generous hosts, la familia de Dionicia Valdivia, proud members of the El Privilegio Cooperative. I hope to be back on the road soon, however, and will surely drop in with more photos and information at that time.

I hope all is well! Talk soon.

On The Move

Is what I've been for the better part of the past three days now, having left the bustling tourist hub of Panajachel, on lovely Lake Atitlan, in Southwestern Guatemala, the morning of the 19th, and arrived, just an hour or so ago, on the 21st, in beautiful Matagalpa, Nicaragua, otherwise known as "The Pearl of the North". Thanks to the magic of the internet, I can tell you that that's roughly 600 kilometers as the crow flies, and thanks to my own experience I can tell you that it's quite a few more as the chicken-bus rolls.

There are a variety of ways to get around in Central America; for long distances overland, most travellers favor first class buses. These usually feature plush seats, ample leg room, onboard toilet, air-conditioning, and an in-ride movie. This is the kind of sucker I mentioned in my last entry - great for overnighters. But there are also second-class buses, afectionately known among travellers as chicken-buses, for reasons that oughtn't be difficult to discern - folks need to get their poultry home from the market somehow, don't they? These are obviously less luxurious, often only slightly modified schoolbuses with trusty roof-top racks for luggage and all manner of extra cargo, living or otherwise. At any rate, I'm telling you all this because on my recent journey, I decided I'd travel by day, so that I might see at least a little something of the two countries I would be skipping - El Salvador and Honduras - and to make my journey by chicken-bus alone.

I was encouraged in this decision when I met, on the very first of what must have been over a dozen buses, a young man not unlike myself, who was actually going even further than I was, down to Costa Rica, and was also planning to make the journey via second class bus exclusively. Fraser his name, hailing from Newfoundland originally, but having been settled in White Rock B.C. for some time, was a quite pleasant fellow, and we two decided shortly after departing that first morning, on travelling together as long as it made sense for our two routes.

Now, I had been on a few chicken buses earlier, on my way down to Lake Atitlan from Antigua, and a good many of similar classification in India, so I knew more or less what to expect. Fraser claimed to have been on a few also, but not so many as I , and I took great pleasure in the coming hours, in watching him grow accustomed to the flow of things, as I myself had once done. To explain, chicken-bus drivers are surely to be counted among the boldest, most fearless, automotive adepts on our planet. These guys drive like they mean it. By that I don't just mean that they drive fast, although they do, they drive very fast, I assure you, but also that they seem to take it to be their solemn duty to overtake as many other vehicles as possible within the span of each trip. Sheer cliffs? Meh. Blind shoulders? Bah. Speeding pickups weighted down full of windswept women and children? Pshaw. Mega-petroleum gas tankers, the wrecking of which would surely spell death for everyone within a 100-meter blast radius? No biggie.

Not uncommon, in fact, were the times when all of the above elements would be present simltaneously. There we would be, roaring down some modest two-lane highway, gunning it to make our way around one such tanker or pick-up load of families, and thereby filling the opposing lane, while rounding some blind shoulder, edging a cliff, and find ourselves face to face with an oncoming transport truck. At such times Fraser and myself would exchange knowing glances, shake our heads as if to say, those crazy guys, they're so silly, and then promptly clutch our seats and force a dry swallow, in preparation for the cold grip of death.

Sometimes we would make it, and sometimes at the last minute, our overzealous driver would realize he'd bitten off more than he could chew, and have to quickly back off, and bring us back into our proper lane. In fact, there is, on most chicken buses, a second fellow - kind of the driver's right hand man - who stands in the stairwell by the front, and whose job it is, among other things, to dangle himself out the door in such situations and let whoever it is we're trying to pass know that they need to slow down and let us back in before we all die. His other duties include securing and minding the luggage strapped to the roof, and so when he's not bringing us back into line after near-misses, he can often be glimpsed out the window making his way around the exterior of the bus as we go. Not boring work, anyway, whatever else you might want to say about it.

At any rate, there is something to be said for moving through a country so quickly, and Fraser and I shared a very pleasant journey together, pausing for a quick lunch that first day, in Guatemala city, and then, after having crossed the border into El Salvador, stopping for the night in dingy San Salvador, the country's capital city. The following day, after a delicious $1 breakfast at the main terminal, we made for the Honduran border, which we crossed just after noon, and didn't stop until the modest Honduran city of Choluteca, where our paths would diverge. We were both headed to the Nicaraguan border, but Fraser's continued course to Costa Rica took him south from here on, while my destination of Matagalpa merited a slightly more northerly border crossing, and so we shook hands and happily parted ways.

My next bus brought me to the tiny border town of San Marcos de Colon, where I boarded the day's last collectivo shuttle to the border itself, some few miles away. I shared this short trip with a pleasant young couple, whom I discovered as we drove on, were newlyweds living in El Salvador, on their way to visit the mother of the young man, in his home country of Nicaragua. We spoke amicably as the sun slowly set, and arrived at the border well after dark. There was hardly a soul around, and the sound of our talk filled the air as we three walked across the wide driveway leading up to the gates, and waved to the only two officials present who stood there chatting idly. As we approached, they greeted us, and promptly retreated back behind their respective glass windows, the one bidding us farewell from Honduras, the other welcome to Nicaragua.

My new friends suggested we share a taxi into the nearby town of Somoto, which we did, and once there, enjoyed a delicious meal of Nicaraguan fare - barbecued chicken and broiled cheese served over rice and red beans, with spicy coleslaw salad. Around this time, it was made clear to me that Marvin, the male half of my dinner guests was a Christian missionary, and a journalist, and despite the fact that he was only just this evening bringing his new wife home to meet his mother, he invited me to tag along, and spend the night. I could stay with them, he said, and after eating and washing up in the morning, continue on to Matagalpa, seeing as there were no more buses to be had this evening. Say what you will about Christians, but the fact of the matter is they're often some of the most hospitable and trustworthy folks around, and I heartily accepted, as heartily as I could in my broken Spanish, anyway, and so off we went.

Marvin's mother lives in the tiny rural municipality of Palacagüina, Nicaragua, which took us a while to reach by late-night taxi but was well worth the wait. Right from the beginning, I was welcomed with open arms by the whole family - except little Juancito, who I must admit, cried quite a bit when he first saw me - which included Marvin's mother, sister, and two young nephews. Juancito eventually warmed up to me too, and I managed to snap some pleasant photos of he and his little brother Andrecito. It felt a little strange being introduced to the family at the very same time as Marvin's new wife, but no one else seemed to give it a moment's thought, so neither did I. That evening we talked and shared delicious coffee and biscuits in the family's modest outdoor kitchen/dining area, the same area where I would later string up my new hammock - freshly purchased in Guatemala - for the first time, and relax after two days of hard travel. I slept well.

This morning, after I'd taken down my hammock, and we'd all shared another coffee, Marvin and company set about preparing us all a delicious Nicaraguan brunch of pechuga relleno, or stuffed chicken breast. Stuffed incidentally - or rather, sliced thinly and wrapped around - dry cheese and mordadella sausage, after having been pan-fried in a mixture of orange juice, savory tamarind sauce and butter. Then the little chicken rolls were boiled in a pot of thick sweet cream with onion and fresh chillis from the garden, before being served alongside more red beans and spicy coleslaw, and fresh tortilla. The whole meal took well over an hour to prepare, but it was a pleasure to just chill-out and spend the morning with the family, laughing and chatting and playing with the kids.

Marvin had some business in the nearby city of Esteli today, which, incidentally is on the way to Matagalpa, and so after brunch, I said goodbye to the family, and we two made for the bus station. Once in Esteli, Marvin pointed me in the right direction, and set me off to Matagalpa, from whence I now write to you, but not before giving me his full contact information, and an open invitation to visit he and his wife again anytime at their home in El Salvador. Yet another totally unexpected and wonderfully awesome experience on the road.

Obviously, a huge part of what makes travel special has to do with the change of place, otherwise we wouldn't have to go anywhere to do it. But as the story above indicates, it also has to do with the people.

Well... I was going to tell you all another story about some other sweet people that I met recently, but I see that this internet shop is closing shortly, and so I will have to cut it short for now. With luck, I'll have time to fire it off in the morning, before I set out in search of the nearby coffee farm at which I hope to be spending the next few days, volunteering and working - this part of Nicaragua is renowned for its world-class coffee! This farm was made known to me by some folks I met back in Oaxaca, Mexico, and although I wasn't sure then that I'd be able to make it happen, I am very excited to be saying that I am almost there!

I hope you're all well! Very best wishes from sweltering Nicaragua!

On The Practice Of Blogging

Writing a travel blog, or so it has seemed to me, is a finicky thing - the more stuff you do and see, the more material you presumably have to post about, but also, the less time you have to do it in, busy as you are out doing and seeing it all. By the same token, if you find yourself with all the time in the world to post blog entries, chances are your posts won't be as interesting as they could presumably be if you spent a little more of that time out doing and seeing.

It would seem then, that an optimally blogable trip should, in principle at least, be just so full of exciting adventures as to leave one with little more than the minimum required time it takes to fire off the occasional interesting post. Now, I have no illusions about attaining or even approximating such an optimal trip - I know as well as anyone that how things seem to look in principle often has little to do with how they wind up playing out in practice.

The fact of the matter is, some days you go out on some big tour or adventure and find yourself not particularly inclined to say a word about it. It just feels as though there's not all that much to relate: I rode horses in the Belizean rainforest. It hurt my ass. Other times, you may not have done much of note really, but nevertheless find yourself yearning to talk about it, like how you went for a swim on a little dock and wound-up watching some local kids fart around for an hour or two and it made you think about the way you and your buddies used to play when you were younger. Or how you sat for a particularly good coffee one afternoon and helped talk yourself through some difficult personal issue you were dealing with.

So what do you do - write a bunch of dross about the ostensibly exciting stuff, or write something potentially mundane but personally meaningful about your day to day life on the road?

How am I supposed to know Joe, it's your blog for chrissakes. I hear your collective voices grumble in my ear.

You're right. I know. As the rightful blogger of this blog it's not my place to reach out to you all for help in such matters. Mine is the business of blogging, so I'll try to get on with it. At any rate, these are the sorts of things with which my mind tends to occupy itself on lengthy overnight bus rides like the one from which I just disembarked.

I suppose I should mention that I am in Guatemala at present, and have been for the past few days, ever since Jaz and I parted ways back in Belize. We figured out that the cheapest option for her would be to fly back to Mexico City out of Chetumal, the same city just North of the Belize border which we had visited on our way down through Mexico only a short time ago. And so, after a week or so tripping around central Belize together, we made for Belize city, and boarded our respective buses - hers North to Chetumal, and mine Southeast to the Guatemalan border, and then onward into Flores. What can I say - good trips make for difficult departures, and this was as good trip as I'd had in a while.

So anyway, last night around 9PM, I boarded what was quite possibly the largest tour bus on planet earth, in front of "The Gran Hotel de la Isla de Flores," one of the more impressive buildings on the tiny but well-visited island after which it is named. No, I didn't stay there, although I did flop on the island for some three nights. I wound up instead at "Los Amigos," one of those quintessential youth hostel backpacker places full of shiny young people from all over the world just itching to chat with whomever will listen about all their recent adventures.

Now don't get me wrong, I have no beef with such places/people in principle (ha!). Indeed I have often enjoyed both in the past, and likely will again, but this particular few days found me kind of under the weather and not feeling much for company, so I more or less kept to myself.

Mornings I would quietly slink out of my hammock, and sit reading for a time in any of the over-comfortable chairs of the sizable common area, sparring with the few mosquitoes zealous enough to be out at that hour. This was usually a good time for me, as few if any other guests were up - most were still comatose from last night's debauch - and I could enjoy a bit of quiet reading a nurse a coffee or two. Before long, however, I would find myself dodging the glances of fellow travelers hopeful for some morsel of light breakfast banter that I was unfortunately unable to give, and so would have to beat it.

My afternoons were usually spent on foot, wandering the streets of Flores in the sun, but that didn't last long - Flores only has so many streets. So I often sat here or there to read, or just to sit. If it got too hot, I swam. If I noticed myself becoming hungry, I ate. If I grew tired, I napped. It was nice in that way.

Evenings were short for me. Things usually became loud after dark, and I would turn in early. I suppose I must have seemed a proper jerk to most of the folks around, but I couldn't be bothered about that, consumed as I was by my own thoughts and emotions. Toward the end of my time there however, I had come around a bit and began once more to warm up to the pleasantries of life among travelers. It is a good life, after all.

I was helped to remember that fact recently by a long overdue talk with some good friends, and I felt it in my chest this morning as the stewardess of my luxury-liner of a bus shook me awake, showed me to the sizable flight of stairs I had to take back down to ground level, and I stepped out into the cold air of Guatemala City at 6AM. The terminal was full of betoqued taxi men and all manner of scraggly traveler people, but the day hadn't yet begun, and so the streets were still quiet. I stretched beneath my pack and after taking a couple good lung-fulls of the cool-gray morning air, I wandered over to some bundled-up women on the corner and bought a coffee in which to soak the remainder of the delicious butter cookies I had bought for the ride. Mmm.

If you had asked me just then if I knew where I was, I'd likely have told you: I'm at the main bus station in Guatemala City, Guatemala, obviously. But you would have seen, as anyone can, that those are merely words, and that "knowing where you are" means a lot more than simply knowing the name of the place you happen to be standing. In the neighborhood where I grew up, I know where I am. In places I have lived for years, I know where I am. This morning I had no idea where I was, as would have been clearly demonstrated if you'd asked me next for directions to, say, the nearest liquor store. For all I know, I could have been standing in front of one and not known it.

Anyone who has traveled some will likely know the feeling I'm talking about - it's a good one, no? I've learned to appreciate it anyway, and as I stood there this morning waiting for the sun to rise, and trying to calculate just how long I could keep a cookie submerged in coffee and still manage to bring it to my mouth before it turned to mush - that feeling stood out as one of the many things that continually help me to remember just how lucky I am to be on this trip, doing what I want to be doing, learning what I want to be learning, and to be meeting so many incredible people. But also, to be able to share some of that with you from time to time - albeit not always via a punctual stream of explosively intriguing posts, but there you have it.

Thanks again for taking the time to poke through! Talk soon.