Lazy day, waking up late to coffee and breakfast already prepared by Miledy (pronounced "me lady"). The smallest pursuits can transform the moment. Like having a cup of french pressed coffee after a week of instant coffee, instant creme served in styrofoam cups. The delight. The pleasure. The space in between those moments, between those cups of coffee became indelible memories of this journey, although not necessarily emblazoned into the highlight reel, rather into the bloopers.
The harmonious chaos that is Central America affords many opportunities for awe, wonder and gratitude for simple things, like your life....which at times during the 48 hours between cups of coffee seemed as though it might have been at the edge of the abyss looking over and wondering.
We began perusing the Corn Island websites since it was our next destination, and we had no accommodations yet. We rediscovered that the route, the transport modes, and the schedules to get there were all somewhat fickle and widely spaced, but that if we packed right away, we might have a fairly direct path.
There are no straight paths here. All are compromised by the meandering realities of the moment.
For instance, according to our guide book, the ferry was set to leave Bluefields for our current destination at 12:00. We were assured early on that the ferry never leaves much before whenever it does. Okay, a time difference, no big deal. And we were assured by our taxi driver, Jenry (pronounced Henry), that the bus from the Mayoreo station was the more comfortable, express bus from Managua to El Rama, from which we would catch a panga to Bluefields. Neither noon nor Mayoreo approximated the truth, nor did the clai\m by the next Anglo-sounding-named guy at the bus station that he would call ahead and reserve a spot on the panga. and we could safely leave our bags there on the sidewalk at the #2 slot at Mayoreo for the next 3 hours while we went to dinner out on the malecon, the gaily lit waterfront of Managua.
After a lovely dinner aside Lake Managua we headed back to the station to "wait" ( what else is there to do but simply be ?) some more before the bus finally left for El Rama. Traveling 7 hours on a school bus with multiple stops ( so much for the "express" ) was wearisome but it paled in comparison to the next phase of the journey.
We pulled into El Rama, where we were immediately taken under wing by an Annie-curled, siempre-smiling, Caribbean young man named Nahum (after the book of the Old Testament) who helped us get tickets on the #7 panga with him which turned out to be piloted by an even younger-looking man who assumed such a serious visage that David imagined it to be his first piloting voyage. The other panga captains relegated him and us to the untarped panga, so that when the wall of rain hit us, the only protection we had was the black visqueen tarp cut to size to cover us if we held on tightly. The only way that David knew that he could continue to hold on was to leave his own body uncovered, so he did, and Nahum soon joined him, smiling, of course, even when the motor sputtered and died 20 minutes from Bluefields and the projected 9:00 departure of the "Rio Escondido" boat to Corn Island.
We shouldn't have worried. We made the Rio Escondido before 9:00, loaded our bags into the hold, sat down next to our new friend, Phillipo, a tour guide from Rome, and waited. And waited. And when David finally left to go get fruit and pollo from the local pulperias, the Rio staff started unloading the bags, then stopped when he got back on, then started again for real with an announcement that they wouldn't be departing that day due to a violent storm between Bluefields and Big Corn.
Dilemma decisions are difficult at best. The Captain D, a small converted freighter that deigned to carry passengers along with goods bound for the island, started adding all of the Escondido passengers to its already full manifest. Sandy found a spot midship on the second deck so noisy due to its proximity to the diesel engines and so cramped that no one else had claimed it, and settled in. David joined her before the storm hit, and we had time to cover up with our tent's rainfly as everyone else scurried into a crammed, makeshift, tarp-covered, bunk-laden, quasi-passenger compartment that soon filled with the sound of puking, which we were fortunately spared by the breeze in our faces and the sound of the Diesel engines. By the time we landed on Big Corn, some 8 hours after leaving Bluefields, approximately 2 dozen of the 250 passengers, us included, had not gotten sick from the sloshing, side-to-side, rolling ride on the Captain D and the close confines that conveyed the smell and sight and sound of their fellow passengers' upheavals. Needless to say, it was a wild ride.
Now, safely arrived on the island, we look back at the trip with gratitude for our well being and look forward to the mysteries and joy that await our presence. Each day without projectile vomiting is a beautiful gift.
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