Searching for Nicaragua

Kate flings herself off the cliff into the narrow river below with a growl; I am standing up to my chest in the Rio Coco – one of two rivers that carved the Somoto Canyon from the stone. Here in the far north of Nicaragua, in the shadow of Honduras, the Contra war grew bloody and tangled. We trace the shore for two hours before our river mingles with a second one snaking its way south from Honduras.

From here the river will wind east to the Atlantic, erratic and looping, like Kate and I in our explorations of the last few months. We have searched for new experiences but also authentic ones. Deep down, though, we know we are outsiders, invited to the party but only to the threshold. We can hear the raucous music and see the shadows of dancers. An insider has to be born here, I think, has lived through Nicaragua’s tumult: her revolutions, violent overthrows and civil war. An insider has to have been shaped by a land of bold leaps, of taking that big breath before the dive, the war-whoop that echoes off the mountains.

But surely this is Nicaraguan beauty; we think, as we follow the curve of the river, sometimes floating downstream, other times hopping from rock to rock. The water is low now but a few months a year it rises twenty feet and carves the cliffs. As these wear down, boulders drop into the river; diverting it. But of course the river has nowhere to go, so it slices into the cliffs, boring holes, caves and gullies. Overhead we have outcrops and overhangs and promontories. There is a story here, written in stone; I am floating through a poem.

Luís, our guide: half-mad, irreverent, courageous and strong – he is Nicaragua too. Passing by herd of cows resting on the banks of the river, he rests heavy stones on the sides of two of them. The cows moo and swish the rock with their tails, but can’t be bothered to stand. Twenty-five metres above the water, so high we could hardly see him, Luís waves tourists out of the way then leaps – hanging in the air for a second – before landing with a terrific splash. He bobs to the surface, grinning. After the conflux of the rivers we encounter other tourists, some slow and frail, who clog the pipes of the canyon and slow us down. This annoys Luís tremendously; he vents by hurling stones at the canyon walls.

Floating past an outcrop, I’m startled by the flight of dozens of bats winging benignly past my head. Moments later, Luís fishes a crab from the river and holds it for a photo op – it pinches the air. There is life here, tremendous and shifting. A swarm of bees have filled a cliff-rift with a honeycomb that must be ten feet long and weigh hundreds of pounds. As Kate emerges from the water back onto the shore she disturbs a cyclone of butterflies or, if you prefer the lovelier Spanish, mariposas. They twist around her fluttering their yellow wings. I am particularly fascinated by one cliff face, moth-eaten, it seems, and worn away in rugged crags. On the sheer surface, plants have twisted their roots in crevices and managed to flourish. As I point, a dragonfly lands on my finger.

This cliff reminds me of Nicaragua, too. How the people have put down roots and thrived often without resources, fertile soil, and buffeted by storms. These clingers are the poor, the unfortunate by birth, those who can’t afford to build high walls of gleaming spears, behind which the rich and middle class ensconce. Turning from the cliff Luís indicates the last leg of our journey will be by rowboat. A sketchy affair – the oarsman bails continuously with a sponge. Hiking back to the hostel we bid farewell to Luís and turn for one last look at the canyon.

On the bus that afternoon, I fail to grab a seat in the press of bodies, human hive, and am forced to stand. I grumble inwardly until a young mother squeezes in front of me with an infant in her arms and a toddler wrapped around her leg. Her arms are so full of child she can’t reach the support strap; her eyes are expressionless, unreadable. As an elderly lady nears her stop, she gestures for the mother to take her place. I lean towards Kate, “Maybe that was it, the authentic Nicaraguan experience. Both the suffering and the kindness.”

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