From Otovalo, Ecuador, 22 July 2006

22 July 2006 Otavalo, Ecuador

What is security? My sense of safety and security has been challenged since the planning stages of this trip. Before I left I had so many fears about what it might be like. I was afraid of being mugged, robbed, assaulted, kidnapped, murdered. I was afraid of looking poverty in the face from my own ridiculously privileged point of view. I was afraid that my Spanish would suck and that I wouldn’t be able to communicate with anyone. I was afraid of amoebic dysentery, malaria, diarrhea. These were the things on my mind a little more than three months ago when I set out.

Not only was I was never mugged, robbed, or assaulted, but I was hardly even startled by anyone. Certainly the threat of murder and kidnapping was way over done; while Colombia does have a historically high rate of murder and kidnapping, if either fate came close to being mine, I am blissfully unaware of it. I have looked poverty in the face over and over again, right in the eyes. It always leaves me wondering how I could be so lucky, as I certainly did nothing to earn my place in the world. While it makes sense to be afraid of the impoverished, who far outnumber me, my experience and history tell me that oppression is horribly effective at smothering the urge to rise up. My Spanish doesn’t suck entirely. I still really struggle to understand others speaking and my speech is far from eloquent, but I can always get my needs met and I’ve been able to have countless, wonderful conversations in Spanish. Finally, I drank the water. I have eaten all sorts of things unpeeled, uncooked, touched with dirty hands (as well as cooked, peeled, and prepared with great care) and thus far I’m still standing.

So what am I afraid of now? Traveling through the countries that I have has certainly shaken my sense of security, even while I faced and conquered the fears I brought with me. We live in the U.S. with this incredibly complicated and seemingly foolproof series of safety nets. Safety nets that continue to build layer upon layer. We have 911, EMTs, firefighters, emergency rooms, seat belts, vaccines, antibiotics, helmets, traffic laws, anti-bacterial soap, rigorous health codes, clean water, garbage pick-up, smoking restrictions, school busses, police, military, anti-missile defense systems…you get the idea. And still, we get sick, hurt, beat up, robbed…we die. Latin America is not necessarily lacking any or all of these things. Nicaragua being the poorest of the three countries I visited has the least amount of resources of course, but Colombia and Ecuador are quite civilized by U.S. standards, with many if not all of these same safety measures in place.

What does differ is the ever present and overtly visible private security and military presence. Both public and private security forces are armed with incredibly strong guns from automatic rifles to submachine guns to dolled up sawed-off shot guns. They wear bullet proof vests, lead fierce, muzzled dogs around by leads, patrol banks, ATMs, shopping malls, government buildings, tourist attractions, public transportation, markets and neighborhoods. A majority of the lodges I visited had security guards after dark. I don’t think I’ve stayed anywhere that I didn’t have to buzz or ring to be let in all hours of the day or night (there were some exceptions in Ecuador). Private security guards monitored the streets of the neighborhood where I stayed in Managua 24 hours a day. Homes are like fortresses with tall wrought iron gates or brick walls topped with barbed wire and broken glass bottles. Certainly in countries torn to pieces by civil war, guerrilla fighting, insurgency, and “terrorism,” certain precautions become necessary, I understand, but I just can’t shake the feeling that all of this precaution is just a way to assure that the poor don’t come for us. Because you can’t live the life of a comfortable, well-off rich person right in the face of crushing poverty and not fear that one day they’ll come for you, or worse, one day you’ll end up there yourself. I know this because I feel it myself.

Which brings me to my point, the thing I leave Latin America fearing the most, is that its only a matter of time before my country looks like this. I’m afraid that its only a matter of time before the gap between the have’s and the have-nots is sufficiently wide enough to necessitate armed guards, fences, dogs. Its only a matter of time before all those chickens come home to roost. I’m afraid that knowing this, the U.S. will choose to build more shields of armor, sacrifice more civil rights, further develop the public and private military industrial complex, rather than make attempts to right what’s wrong with the world.

I learned early in this trip that I had two choices when confronted by my fears; I could retreat, hiding behind what I know and am familiar with or I could put my faith in my fellow human beings, look people in the eye, be true and be safe while I stepped out into the big, bad world. I’ll tell you again that I have not been robbed, assaulted, injured, sickened from “bad” food, kidnapped, insulted, or made fun of for my poor Spanish. I could mark this up to luck, many folks do, but I think its more than that. I give more credit to my refusal to retreat and my faith in the goodness of people, that has kept me safe. (And the fact that I don’t behave like an idiot, mind you.) I offer up a piece of myself to the folks I encounter on the street and off. I look people in the eye so they know my intentions. I treat them and their culture with respect and try to remember that I am a guest here and to act like one. I also try not to presume too much. I can’t erase who I am or where I come from and I surely can’t hide my privilege but I can try to share myself with others and offer up an attempt at bridge building which will hopefully illuminate the ways in which I am similar to those I meet, not different.

I so hope that the U.S., as a country, can set an example and face its fears. Face up to its mistakes and wrong-doings and learn to conquer hate with understanding and trust. If we can’t I’m afraid that our future will be filled with armed guards and steel fences and restricted movement. As I turn around and head home, I realize that fear is what I’m most afraid of, a funny place to find myself three months down the road.

From Managua, Nicaragua June 2006

I struggle with what it means to be a privileged individual with enough dough to traipse around Latin America for three months, dough that stretches a long way thanks to the suffering economies of these countries. My budget for a month in Nicaragua is about equal to the median annual income of this country. Sometimes I feel as if I have no right to be doing this. Shouldn’t I give all that money to someone who can make a difference here with it? While I find all kinds of ways to justify my being here, for better or worse, I like to think that most importantly , the experience of actually seeing how things are is quite important to further developing my ideas about development and social justice.

While in school, I focused a lot of my studies on Latin America, both in my Spanish language studies, and in areas of women’s studies and political science. As a result, I came here with a knowledge of Latin American history and current events. I also came with a pre-determined idea of what I thought things would be like. Like many an academic, I was pretty sure I knew a lot, and like many an academic, I’m so relieved to get out of the brick and mortar classroom and into the real world classroom, where its obvious I only know so much. If I had to name the most important observation I’ve made so far, it would be the vast number of similarities I find between the U.S. and Nicaragua when it comes to social issues. While I didn’t come here expecting to find all of Latin America suffering, a victim in need of help, I did expect somehow that things here would be worse or more ugly or more desperate than in the U.S.

And things are ugly here. There is a negligible lack of reliable infrastructure, the destruction and exploitation of natural resources is unconscionable, there is garbage everywhere, the buses and taxis are all on their last legs and totally unsafe, people can’t find jobs, the government is horribly corrupt, there is poor access to health care and good public education, children become sick and die from treatable illnesses, people live in slums, parts of Managua are considered VERY dangerous and the nicer neighborhoods hire private security guards to patrol the streets and people close themselves up behind security fence and razor wire and wrought iron bars. But when I compare it to the U.S., I don’t necessarily find an absence of these problems. I can’t say we don’t have horrible, desperate poverty in the U.S., nor can I say that everyone has access to health care and education. Both the U.S. and Nicaragua have high rates of single motherhood, teenage pregnancy, and domestic violence. The U.S. is not free of violence and filth and drugs and destruction. The things that I find shocking here, shock me because they are unfamiliar, but I think there are an equal number of shocking things in the U.S. that I have become numb to and have therefore become invisible, much in the same way that privileged people here become numb to the things they see around them.

For example, in Nicaragua, and all over Latin America, there is a huge number of homeless boys on the streets, many of whom are addicted to sniffing glue. In the U.S., it is not socially acceptable to us to have young children living on the streets and so even though the largest number of homeless in the U.S. are children, we do a good job of keeping them out of sight. Here, they are right in front of your eyes. Shocking? You bet, but less acceptable than homeless kids in the U.S.? Not really. And actually, you would think homeless folks in the U.S., of any age, would be far more unacceptable to us considering our wealth compared to a country like Nicaragua. So every time I see something and think that wouldn’t, doesn’t, couldn’t, hasn’t happened in the U.S., I have to stop myself and reconsider.

Here is where I can apply some of the things I did learn within the brick and mortar walls of the university. The key to creating change in the world is through coalition building and creating systems where help, ideas, solutions, and change flows in both directions, not just from the “top” down to the “bottom,” because the problems exist everywhere. I have just as much to learn from Latin America as I have to offer. The U.S. and the rest of the global north has not fixed all of its own problems nor will it be able to fix the worlds problems from the position of a benevolent patriarch. Many of the problems we have failed to solve ourselves are being addressed creatively and with a unique perspective here in Latin America. Our histories are deeply intertwined and there is no such thing as us vs. them as we benefit on the backs of these countries and we have a history of putting our boot down on the head of any attempt at their autonomy that goes against our idea of “democracy.” We are responsible for the exploitation of the natural resources here and we are responsible for the consumption and production of waste which has left a big, whopping hole in the ozone layer which lies over this part of the world. We are also responsible for the exploitation of Latin American labor, both within the borders of these countries and within our own. What is important about my relationship to Latin America as a U.S. citizen is what I share with the people here, not how I differ.

As I prepare to leave Nicaragua for Colombia, I think about all the warnings I received in the U.S. about going there. Isn’t it dangerous? Won’t you be kidnapped? Murdered? Robbed? While I’m certainly afraid of narcotraffickers and guerrillas and paramilitaries, I’m much more afraid of the power mongers in the U.S. whose insatiable need for blow drives the machine that makes Colombia so dangerous in the first place. Let me spell it out, Colombia is a dangerous country because people in the U.S. have a MAJOR drug problem. So why should I avoid going there? Why should I avoid trying to make a positive contribution to a country which has suffered so much violence directly and indirectly because of my country? So as I consider my safety and my position as a U.S. citizen traveling in Latin America, I realize that it’s not that Latin America is safe, necessarily, but that the U.S. is not as safe as it appears, either.

La Naturaleza

It turns out that for Robert and I, the biggest threat to our safety in Latin America is Mother Nature, that wizened old crone. We were chased out of Baños, Ecuador by the eruption of Mama Tungurahua; I´m quite certain that we experienced two brief but nerve-wracking earth-tremors (quakes is too strong a word) in Pasto, Colombia the other night; while swimming in Río Magdelena outside of Santa Marta I slipped on a rock and took a healthy chunk of flesh out of my shin; I have been continuously plagued by bites from mosquitoes, spiders, and no-see-ums; Robert is suffering from two weeks of horrible allergies; we´ve both had our share of healthy sunburns; and we almost died of heat exhaustion in Cartagena.

The mountains of Central and South America are relatively young, geologically speaking. They continue to heave and lurch and sigh and groan as they settle into themselves throughout Latin America. The earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are, for me, a metaphor for life in this part of the world. These countries feel young and wild; untamed and bold, with the kind of fearlessness only the young possess. Everything is so grandiose, starting with nature. The Andes don´t have the severe, rocky facade that I´m so familiar with in the Rockies. They are green and soft, rolling with thick jungle. Like a Botero painting, they resemble round, fleshy bodies, reclined, all hips and butt and breast and tummy, nurturing and maternal. But clearly fierce and threatening at times, too. This land roils; it´s loud and brash and hot and proud. It is not subdued or quiet, not behaved. It is dangerous and exciting, too.

I am convinced that the disposition of Latinos is a result of the land they live on. The grand and fierce beauty that one finds in these countries is impossible to ignore. It is visible in the subdued dignity of the indios, the only folks here with a claim to ancientness. It is visible in the mothers and their babies, the fathers and their children, the grandparents and the aunts and uncles; the families which occupy every corner and crevice of life here. It is visible in the violence and struggle, the resistance, which boils over and cracks the earth with its powerful horror and sadness. Its heat and sensuality is visible in the music; the vallenato, the tango, the salsa, the reggaetone.

I am blessed to have had the opportunity to get to know these places: Nicaragua, Colombia, and Ecuador, and hope to come back to see more of Latin America soon, soon, soon.

Colombia

Contrary to how it might appear based on my last blog, I have been so thrilled to spend five weeks in Colombia. Here´s a bit more about this crazy country.

I first decided to look into visiting Colombia after I read John Perkins` "Confessions of an Economic Hit Man." In it he describes experiences he has all over Latin America during the 70s, but is especially struck by his time in Colombia. At this point, like most folks from the U.S., I thought Colombia was a lawless place filled with drug dealers and murderers and never considered visiting. As I started to research more about the country, I realized that not only were my perceptions of safety way off base, but that Colombia has a rich history and even a richer culture. Two Colombians most people are familiar with are Gabriel Garcia Marquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and Fernando Botero (known for painting beautifully round fat people), but the list of famous Colombians is much longer than that and it`s role in Latin American history from pre-colonization to the present is pivotal. What I know now is that I am so thrilled that I decided to take a chance on this fascinating country, even though so many people warned me against it and my own fears often gave me second thoughts about coming.

It is true that Colombia has a horribly ugly history, filled with tragic violence. It is also true that Colombia continues to be the biggest supplier of cocaine to the United States and because of this industry, there is a high level of violent crime here. And of course, like most of Latin America, Colombia is highly militarized and has an enormous problem with poverty and the gap between the rich and the poor. That said, I am constantly forced to remind myself of these things as I make my way around because we have seen so many beautiful natural wonders, met so many wonderfully kind and honorable people, and travelled freely and comfortably without any threat to our safety. In fact, we like to joke that it`s not the narcotraffickers we have to fear, but the bus drivers, who are probably the most dangerous individuals in Colombia. It`s laughable to me now how nervous I was about coming here and how nervous my Mom probably still is about me being here, because life here is so completely, completely normal and actually remarkably resembles the lives we live in the U.S. So, I apologize Mom, for not being in better touch, but I´m really in good hands, you just gotta believe me.

Colombians, like other Latin Americans love music, love their families, they work to live rather than live to work. They are incredibly diverse as the country is large and quite regional culturally. They speak very formally, without much slang or dialect and are always courteous and helpful. They are very curious about us and it´s clear that Colombia has not seen the tourist traffic that other parts of Latin America has, which is a wonderful gift for us. The land itself is also incredibly diverse with three Andean ranges that run down the middle of the country from the north to the south, both Caribbean and Pacific coasts, vast prairie in the east, and the Amazon in the south. It has incredibly cosmopolitan and modern cities in Bogotá, Medellín, and Calí. It has perfectly preserved colonial pueblos, some small, some large. And it has an indigenous population and amazing ancient culture sites. We could never see all that Colombia has to offer in two years far less in two months, but we´ve given it our best shot. The good news is we´ll have to come back in order to revisit our favorites and make it to the places we missed.

While I feel that I do not possess the words to adequately convey the beauty we have seen in Colombia, I thought I might describe a day we spent in Valle de Cocora, outside of Salento, which is in the department of Antioquia. The area is known as "la routa de cafe" because it is where Colombia´s other most well known crop is grown. Coffee and cocaine, the U.S. just can´t get high enough. We set out at about 7 in the morning for the center of town where a jeep leaves for the Valle de Cocora. It´s basically a commuter vehicle for folks who work up in the valley. The jeeps are wonderful old Willy´s which have bench seats that face each other in the back. Like most transportation around these parts, no space is left unfilled. After the benches are filled four across, the front two seats next to the driver are taken and the roof is loaded up with cargo, the remaining passengers can either sit on top or hang off the back. Our jeep had about 16 passengers, I think. 45-minutes of bumping and crawling got us to our trailhead.

Valle de Cocora is most well known for its wax palms which can grow to be 200 feet tall. As you enter the valley and start your ascent up the mountain, the palms appear. They are so fanciful and strangely out of place in this mountain valley filled with meadow, grazing cows, and leafy trees. The palms are spaced about 50 yards apart from each other and they are TOWERING, rocking back and forth in the wind. The grass was this electric green,the sky a deep blue filled with fast moving clouds. It was like stepping into a dreamscape.

From the valley we climbed up the mountain, where the ecology changes from valley, to forest, to rain forest, to cloud forest. This is a common thing in Colombia, as the ecology is incredibly diverse and varied. Our destination was a cloud-forest reserve where we could rest and watch hummingbirds. This part of the forest boasts over 70 different species. We passed an hour or so watching the birds come and go, black and white ones, long-beaked ones, long-tailed ones, they were fun and beautiful. Our descent took us along a mountain stream, back and forth across several suspension bridges, and finally into a dry, warm valley.

In Salento we ate fresh trout which is served on a patakon, which is smashed platano (green banana) fried into a giant chip-like thing. I had trout three times, once fried, once covered in cheese and mushrooms, and once baked in milk. Delicious!

Is this the Colombia that you imagined? Me neither.

Into the ether

(Pereira, Colombia)

Paul Thoreux, in his book "The Old Patagonian Express" says that traveling (alone) is like pulling a disappearing act. The farther away you get from home, geographically as well as mentally, the more invisible you become. When I first set out on this trip I had a lot to say and write about, which is partially due to the fact that I was travelling alone and in need of some kind of companionship. I also heard from my friends and family quite often. The more time goes by the less I write and the less I hear from you. Certainly, this is somewhat an out-of-sight, out-of-mind phenomenon, on both of our parts. But it is also true that I feel farther and farther away from home and more comfortable and closer to this world in which I inhabit down here in South America. This is not to say that I don´t get home sick, I do almost every day. The following blog was written during a bout of grumpiness a week or so ago. Forgive me for being such a spoil sport.

Long-term travel is weird. I´ve decided that loading a few important items into a backpack and trekking off into the great unknown for an extended amount of time--3 months for me but I´ve met many people who are out for 6 months, a year, a year and a half and more--is just strange behavior. Especially when you spend a lot of that time in the company of your countryfolk, speaking English, watching the World Cup, eating cornflakes, and getting drunk. Don´t misunderstand me, I have very much learned to appreciate a good backpacker hostel where I can get my laundry done, cook my own food (which might actually include a fresh vegetable), and compare stories with my fellow travelers, but there are times when we all just wish we were at home and I wonder what this is all for. Picking up and moving cities every few days, packing and re-packing the bag, showering in cold water which tumbles out from an exposed pipe in the wall, using toilets without seats (not sure why, but the seat seems to be a frivolous luxury in this part of the country), eating mostly fried meat and bread in restaurants, where you may or may not actually get what you ordered, fighting off bugs in the night (disease-ridden mosquitos, giant spiders, imagined fleas), trying to stay upright on a bus ride which would be the equivalent to driving up and down a poorly paved Bear Creek Canyon for 5 hours, constantly sticking out like a sore-thumb every where you go (I am so privileged to be able to pass through most of my life without being noticed), wearing the same three outfits for three months, which are dirty most of the time...shall I give it a rest?

I know, poor me, right? I don´t want to give the impression that I´m NOT having a fabulous time on this trip, because I am. I just have moments where I would give it all up for home, where I can cross the street without fearing for my life, pay for an item with a twenty-dollar bill without getting any gruff, and drink a decent freaking glass of wine.

Foodstuffs

I dedicate this blog to my friends in food and drink at Vesta. Their newest venture, Steuben´s, opened this weekend on 17th avenue in Denver. Go eat there!

Food is one of the most important things in my life. I love cooking and eating and breaking bread with friends, both new and old. Obviously there are few better ways to learn about a culture than to share in the art of food. For this reason, travelling is a food lovers paradise, where everything you eat is new and exciting. Here´s my attempt to share some of it with you.

The variety of fruits alone in this part of the world is mind boggling. I´ve tried so many new fruits, as well as a few old favorites. Of course mango is ubiquitous around here. You can often pick them up off the ground where they´ve fallen from trees and eat them on the spot. In Katarina, outside of Managua, I peeled a mango with my teeth and ate it while I looked out over Laguna Apoya, a crater lake. The pineapple is also divine, you can buy it by the slice from street vendors. I may never forget the piña batida (kind of a milk shake) that I had one morning in Granada for breakfast. The papayas here are huge, bigger than a (U.S.) football. I ate a slice of fresh papaya on the streets of Bogotá, wasting time while waiting for Robert to arrive. It was perfectly ripe, sweet, and musky. Jugos naturales, fresh squeezed fruit juices, are available everywhere, but nowhere are they more popular than on the streets of the Colombian Caribbean coast, where you can choose from ten or twelve different types of fruit and they are made to order. Maracuyá is my favorite. It´s a green fruit that resembles a small gourd. The juice is orange...it tastes light, tangy and refreshing. On the stranger side, the níspero, which is a round, brown fruit the size of a small orange with musky,dark flesh tastes like mix between a banana and a fig, kind of. We had it in a fruit salad at a shorefront restaurant in Santa Marta, also on the Colombian Caribbean coast. Mamoncillos look like tiny little limes which grow in bunches, like grapes. You crack their rind in half with your teeth and suck out a marble-sized pit which is covered in a pink flesh with a sweet and slightly sour flavor. It´s slimy and a lot of work for not so much reward, but fun nonetheless. We ate a bag-full sitting on the stoop of our room one late afternoon at La Casa de Felipé, a hostel in Taganga, Colombia. My favorite strange fruit is the granadilla (grenade) which has a hard, gourd-like yellow skin. You cut them open and find a greyish batch of what looks like fish eyes. They are black seeds about the size of watermelon seeds, each covered in a slimy sweet mucus. You suck the whole mess out of the shell, crunching the seeds and savoring the juice. They are surprisingly refreshing and delightfully fun to eat. I had my first one in the colonial village which time forgot, Guane, after a 90 minute hike along the edge of a magnificent canyon in the eastern range of the Andes, outside of Baricharra, Colombia.

Speaking of fruit, the platano or green banana is a staple throughout Central and South America. I hardly ever ate a meal in Nicaragua without fried platanos. A strange thing has happened to me and my relationship with them. In Nicaragua I was so tired of fried platano I never wanted to see one again and ate them only drowned in chile sauce. Now in Colombia, where there is more variety, I find myself craving fried platano and am dissappointed if they don´t appear on my plate. Go figure. Fried platano chips...thin and crispy like potato chips rock too, and are usually made fresh locally. The other Nica staple, which I don´t miss quite as much is gallo pinto, red beans and rice which are served with breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes flavorful and delicious, other times bland and boring, but they fill you up and are a very important part of Nica culture. I haven´t had as many beans in Colombia, apparently they are only common in Medellín, but I have had lots of rice, the best being the Caribbean coconut rice...rice cooked in coconut milk which is as good as it sounds. Especially alongside fried snapper, which I picked out fresh, on the Playa Grande in Taganga.

On Isla Ometepe in the middle of Lake Nicaragua I also had fried fish while waiting for the bus to Merída. It was fresh from the lake, fried whole and covered in olive oil and garlic. Thanks to some advice from the woman who cooked it, I ate it with my fingers, which makes it so much easier to maneuver around the bones. I didn´t eat the head, but devoured the rest. It was hot and fresh and delicious. Speaking of Isla Ometepe, at the Hacienda Merída I was served two buffet meals a day which always included freshly baked whole grain bread, something very hard to come by in these parts. It was heavenly after so much Bimbo. They also served whole grain pancakes with breakfast, which I ate every day for four days, drizzled in honey. Yum. Of course there were always fresh tortillas in Nicaragua, corn of course, but in Colombia the arepa takes the place of the tortilla. The arepa is round and flat but thick. It´s fried corn meal sometimes filled with white cheese, an egg or sugar. They are heavy in your hand and divinely delicious.

Speaking of corn bread, I fear that I won´t ever taste again the beautiful corn bread which I had in Nicaragua. It resembles what we know as southern corn bread but not quite as crumbly,it´s mildly sweet and cake-like. During one long day of travel in Nicaragua, I bought some from a woman who was selling them on the bus. It was still warm and I can´t stop thinking about it.

I suppose that brings us to dessert, of which there is no shortage on this trip. One of my favorites is helado, in some cases natural frozen fruit juice, sometimes pre-fab ice cream treats made by Eskimo (think fudgesicle, dove bar, drumstick) but always cold and refreshing and always within arms reach. The coconut milk helado, fresh shaved coconut and coconut milk frozen into a popsicle in Villa de Leyva, Colombia probably takes the cake. After Villa de Leyva we found ourselves in another colonial village called Baricharra where they are known for making the famous Colombian dessert arequipe. Arequipe is milk pudding make with sugar and milk and panela. It´s like a soft, caramelly fudge you eat with a spoon (or a stick). I had a huge cup of it to myself one night. I thought at first there was no way I could eat the whole thing, but then it was gone...like magic. On the bus between Estelí and León in Nicaragua I had another coconut sweet...little finger shaped bars that were brown (cocoa) and hot pink. At the Humberto Huembes market in Managua, I had some sort of soft fry bread rolled into a cone and filled with pink frosting, topped with a cherry. In Nicaragua I had birthday cake in Somoto (my friend Anna´s daughter Clara´s 16th birthday) and Mother´s day cake in Sabalos, both were frosted in merengue. At Clara´s birthday lunch we also had homemade tacos, fresh-made tortillas stuffed with shredded chicken, seasoned in tomotao and onion and I think a little bit of cinnamon. They are eaten with repollo (shredded cabbage and beets) and chili sauce and I think I ate six. Finally, I have enjoyed countless ice cold beers, Toña in Nicaragua, Aguila in Colombia. The rum in Nicaragua, Flor de Caña, is delicious with some lime and the aquardiente, Colombia´s fire water is anise flavored. I could keep going and going...

There are still so many things I look forward to trying as we make our way around Colombia. I saw a street vendor last night in Santa Marta selling plates of sliced hot sausage and cheese with a spicy cream sauce, which I must try before we leave and now, it´s time for a cafe con leche, ¡adios!

Last Week in Exile

Traveling alone is a bit like being in exile.

I boarded a 12-seater puddle-jumper in Managua bound for San Carlos. A town which serves as a border crossing between Costa Rica and Nicaragua, San Carlos lies at the bottom of Lake Nicaragua at the mouth of the Rio San Juan. After a breathtaking flight over the lake, the largest body of fresh water in the world after the Great Lakes of North America, my little plane landed on a strip of red mud in the middle of the jungle. A quick taxi ride brought me to the docks and a two-hour wait in muggy, muddy, buggy San Carlos, from which my boat for Sabalos departed. Like most border towns, the transients, drifters, and hustlers give one a bad first impression and while I'm certain it has much to offer, San Carlos was like a layover in hell for me. I pondered my situation, was the $120 flight worth the trip down here to spend a few days on a river? I started to question just what exactly I had gotten myself into.

Eventually, my departure time approached and I loaded onto the lancha which would deliver me to my destination. The collectivo, or public boat which heads down the Rio San Juan, is a low-lying, long, narrow motor boat which sits about three passengers across. It is covered with open sides. We chugged away from the docks and headed down the river. Within moments of leaving San Carlos, I found myself surrounded by absolute beauty. The river is wide and lazy this time of year as the rainy season is just beginning. The shores are thick jungle, canopies of green broken here and there by fields where cows graze. There are more birds than I could keep track of, the most common of which was the garza or white heron...there were hundreds of them. I also saw some spoonbills, which are about the size of a heron, white, but they have these delicious cotton-candy pink wings and beaks which end in a flat spoon shape. The sky was filled with towering cumulous clouds, dramatic and breathtaking. Little islands of water hyacinth float along the river...down here they are called lechugas. Sometimes you'll see 10 or 15 of them floating down the river at once (or one really large one), herons sometimes catching a ride on them. The lancha stops along the way to let passengers off or pick up new ones. Every once in a while the shore is lined by a handfull of open air huts and you can see children and horses and chickens milling about, women waist deep in the river scrubbing laundry on rocks. Often there is only one lonely shack, or no homes at all but someone waving down the lancha for a ride. Every so often, the boat was swarmed by these tiny green flies, forcing everyone to take cover under shirts, hats, bandanas. Thankfully they aren't biters, but they get everywhere and are certainly annoying. The boat would speed up in attempt to shake them off.

About two hours later, I mistakenly disembarked in the pueblo of Sabalos, but was offered a lift to my actual lodge, where I was greeted by a staff of young Nicas, once again the sole guest. I took a bed in La Cabina Aventura, which is sort of the backpackers quarters, which means no frills and a shared bathroom (with the staff since I was the only guest). The other cabins are a bit more fancy with their own decks and hammocks right on the river, but too much for just one person. After a tour of the quarters, my host Maria Los Angeles invited me into town with the staff while they ran some errands. Maria, a 25-year old Managuan with a degree in tourism, Isa, an 18-year old from Sabalos who was in charge of the boats, Don Juan, our escort, probably in his mid-fifties, and I, charged up the river in a motorboat to Sabalos. The phones were down at the lodge and Maria wanted to call her mother from town. It was Mother's Day in Latin America, the 30th of May. In Latin America this day is treated much more like a national holiday than what we celebrate in the states. Everyone gets together with their families with food, music, flowers, cakes and more. Anyway, while she called her mom, Isa gave me a tour of Sabalos, a tiny little pueblo split in half by the Sabalos River, which feeds into the Rio San Juan. He pointed out the new water system which was in the middle of construction as well as three health centers, new to the town as well. Later we stopped to pick up a Mother's Day cake. Cake's in Nicaragua are all homemade. They come on pieces of cardboard wrapped in foil, not boxes. One of my favorite things is watching folks walk around town with a cake balanced on their palm. It's a real test of my self-control to not dip my finger in the frosting as they pass by. Before we returned to the lodge, Don Juan treated me to two deliciously cold and satisfying beers. Once again I found myself in Nicaraguan paradise after a long day of travel.

When we returned to the lodge I was once again included in the festivities as the staff celebrated Mother's Day with their resident "mother," Suzana. We had cake and soda in the dining area and I made everyone's acquaintance, striking up a particularly good conversation with Luis, the cook. It was about that time that some other guests arrived, a Swiss couple who were spending three years in South Carolina (?), on a two-week vacation to Costa Rica and Nica. Although it was short lived, it was nice to be treated like one of the staff for a while...reminds me of home.

I spent the next three days swinging in a hammock, watching the river float by. One of my favorite past-times was watching Los Sabalos Real, these gigantic fish, jump out of the water to munch on bugs. Some of them were probably 3 feel long...and those are just the one's I saw. They get much bigger than that. There are caymans as well floating in the river, but most of their activity is nocturnal. I also saw these funny little iguanas who run across the water at a breakneck speed, defying gravity. The birds were spectacular as well. At night I slept in my cabin room on the second floor of the lodge under a mosquito net, safe from the little green flies. It was a bit disoncerting to hear the bats swish by, inches from my head, thankfully outside my net. And the howler monkeys! While there are lots of monkeys in Nicaragua, they are a bit rare to see as I think they are less accostomed to humans as the ones you find in popular parts of Costa Rica. Although I never saw them in person, I awoke every morning at the lodge to the horribly disturbing roar of the howler monkeys. Although they are only a few feet tall and probably weight about 10 pounds, they sound like 10 foot tall monsters. My food a la Luis was unbelievable. I had curried chicken and fresh river fish, yucca and bean soup, fried eggs for breakfast and always jugo (juice) with every meal.

I don't know if I am able to properly describe the way it felt to be on this river for a few days. I have not had many experiences in my life that were more memorable, more beautiful. The pace and the wildlife and the people all slow and easy, tranquilo. Sabalos was a magical place for me to spend the last of my days in Nicaragua. It is virtually untraveled as of yet, but I'm certain this will change rapidly in the coming years as more and more people discover this paradise. I am thankful to have spent some time there when I did and will defintately go back if I have the chance.

La Ecoalbergue

Apparently, one can´t throw a rock in this part of the world without hitting an ecolodge. Ecotravel is the result of the demand for a certain kind of travel which is more sustainable and carries less negative impact than traditional tourism. Traditional tourism inherently has its problems such as over-development, cultural appropriation and transformation, and the exploitation of labor and resources. Certain travelers, my self included, try to find a way to combine their desire to see the world with their desire to protect what they are seeing from exploitation. While ecotravel is growing in popularity and there are many organizations which collect and disseminate information about this form of travel, one can slap the word "eco" in front of anything they want, insuring that you encounter a wide range of "eco" lodges on your journey. I´ve stayed at fully sustainable, smart, and effective ecolodges, I´ve stayed at places that focus a bit more on adventure travel or nature rather than social issues, and I´ve stayed at places whose extent of eco-friendliness is a sign reminding you to not leave the water running while you brush your teeth. There is even an ecolodge in Nicaragua where you can stay guilt-free for a mere $US400 a night.

That said, I thought I´d share my experience at La Finca Esperanza Verde, a shining example of sustainable tourism. Started as a sister city project between San Ramon, Nicaragua and Durham, North Carolina by a retired architecht and social justice activist, the finca is a coffee plantation which houses a guest lodge. In the midst of Nica´s "ruta de café," this fair-trade organic coffee is grown and harvested by workers from the local communities of Yucul and San Ramon. High up in the mountains, the lodge boasts a breathtaking view of mountains and rain forest as far as you can see. Guests of the lodge stay in rustic, yet lovely cabins and are served three home-cooked meals a day. There is hiking, horseback riding, a mariposaria (butterfly house), camping, cooking classes, and lots of wildlife. During harvest season guests can volunteer to help, learning about the organic coffee growing process. All profits from the coffee and the lodge go back into the San Ramon community. The project has built two schools and a library so far. All of the employees are from the community as well. The lodge is solar powered and has its own water filtration system...you can drink from the taps. The finca hosts educational seminars for kids and other local coffee growers. In addition to staying at the lodge, the organization will set you up with a homestay in San Ramon so that you might learn a bit about Nica culture. My stay at the finca was definately one of the highlights of my trip and by far the best example of ecotravel that I have experienced. This hasn´t gone unnoticed as the lodge is nationally and internationally recognized. I´ll post a link to the San Ramon/Durham project for anyone who is interested in hearing more.

I hope that ecotravel continues to grow in popularity and I would be especially pleased to see it become more common place in my own country.

Thanks to my cousin Francesca for recommending that I visit the finca!

Leaf Cutter Ants, the Radical Feminists* of the Jungle

While I have truly enjoyed all of the flora and fauna Nicaragua has to offer, I must admit that the thing I found most fascinating are the leaf cutter ants. I first came across them at La Finca Esperanza Verde outside of San Ramon in the state of Matagalpa. The leaf cutter ants are the hardest working creatures I think I´ve ever encountered. They are hard to miss as you trek through the forest because they literally cut a path about 3 inches wide, in many cases right down the middle of the hiking trail. They carry these huge chunks of leaves and flowers in their jaws, which float above their heads so that they resemble little sailboats floating along with green and orange and yellow sails unfurled. You can see them from 15 yards away! They are so beautiful and hard-working and incredible to watch. According to an estimate made by some entymologist, the ants do the equivalent of a human running a 4 minute mile for 30 miles with 500 lbs. on their back. Eventually they turn the leaves into fungus, composting 15% of the forests leaf production (!) Apparently they go great distances as well to harvest their crop. They form a complex caste system, of course, the cutters being the strongest. There are defender ants who have these huge mandibles which would draw blood on your finger if you got in their way. They defend the other ants from this crazy fly called a Phorid who tries to lay its eggs on the heads of the leaf cutters. When the maggot hatches, it eats the head of the ant and the ant dies. So the attack ant rides on top of the working ant (even more of a load) and fends off the fly...can you believe this? There are navigator ants who release pheramones instructing the others where to go. There are those who never leave the nest, constantly processing the plants into fungus, and the queen. All of the working ants are females. The males are biologically programmed to nothing other than fertilize eggs and promptly die...huh. What a strange little world we live in.

*Feminist Theory 101: Radical Feminists are separatists who believe that the solution to the inequality of the sexes is to separate themselves completely from any sort of relationship with men. Much to the chagrin of non-radical feminists, this relatively small group of feminists were the ones who seemed to get the most media attention during the women´s liberation movement of the 70s and 80s, leaving many people to associate all feminists with this particularly radical movement. Some of their actions probably resulted in the origin of terms like "man-hating feminist" and "feminazi." Now you know.