Costa Rica... Chapter 8

Costa Rica... Chapter 8

 

The Jungle People

It was Day 4 in Nicaragua. The previous days have not been easy. Physically, they have been fatiguing, as the lack of sleep combined with the heat and strenuous fishing had begun to take its toll upon my resources. Mentally I was exhausted. My mind had been stretched to its limits and then pulled far beyond them. The overload of information and stimuli had caused not only haunting dreams, hallucinations and jumbled thoughts, but had begun to effect me physically. My balance was off, my hands trembled. I could not think comprehensibly. I was however, still having the time of my life fishing. I began to think that perhaps I was a bit too sensitive.

Bertie and I rode with Jaime back to Fish Creek that morning. Two of the other boats from the Rain Goddess showed up while we were there. One held the two flyfishers and the other held two of the guys from the Eagle Claw gang fishing with spinning gear. I could sense their frustration as time after time they went up and down the creek, trying to find a place to catch a fish and each time they passed, my rod was doubled over with another nice fish on.

The day went on like that, with them catching nothing and Bertie and I hooked up almost all of the time. We stopped for a short lunch and then fished some more. Around mid afternoon we headed back in to the Rain Goddess. Peter and Dave had gone to Black Creek to fish and they would not return until almost dark.

As the other anglers from Fish Creek returned to the Rain Goddess, they would ask a million questions. They would complain about their guides. I would set them straight and tell them there was nobody to blame but themselves. The fish were there, the guide had taken them there, it was up to them to catch them. I tried to explain to them the methods that I used, in casting a nymph out, letting it sink and then slowly stripping it in, in 5 or 6 inch strips with a few seconds to allow it to sink again in between. They told me I was crazy.

I tried to explain to them about the way the mojarra sit underneath a popper for up to a full minute at times studying it before they take it. I tried to explain to them that the proper way to set the hook in them was with a snap of the wrist to the side, and not a trout hookset. They told me I knew not what I spoke of. I told them I had caught well over 30 fish that day and asked them how many they had caught. That would shut them up. I could tell they did not like being told anything by someone half their age. I shut up as well. I wanted to keep the peace that the afternoon was bringing me.

Lunch was served on the Rain Goddess, a gourmet meal for sure. It was a far cry from the meals that I had been eating at the hotel, where I had so far dined upon rat and iguana and wild peccary soup. It was rich and sat on my stomach. We went back to the bottom deck to await the arrival and adventures of Peter and Dave. They had not done too well in Black Creek. I went with them back to the hotel and we had dinner. From there it was back to the Rain Goddess to bid Bertie farewell. He was to return the next morning to his home in Ft. Walton Beach, FL. We sat and we drank and Garry joined us and the five us sat there late into the night, with Big John, the 15 foot long crocodile that lives in the lagoon where the Goddess was anchored, watching on. We shared adventures and stories and fishing tales from all around the world and drank. Finally we said our good byes and went back to the hotel for some sleep. I would get some, but not much. My dreams that night were worse than any had been so far.

Once again I found myself down on the dock as the sun rose. Peter and Dave and their boat boy Omar came down just after dawn, and after a quick breakfast we were off again to Fish Creek. Another day passed of Mojarra and Guapote and Machaca and Viejitos. Omar was young, but learning quickly about how to manage a boat containing flyfishers. Peter and Dave and I stood side by side in the boat and all made casts together. It is not easy to cast with three people on a boat. Luckily the three of us were experienced enough to do so. Dave is a short caster, and Peter and I had to adjust our casting to make casts from short distances. It is not easy for me to do, but I can do it if I must.

I hooked into a huge guapote. I was using a 30 lb tippet, but after just a few short seconds, it had broken me off. I tried to turn the fish in every direction that I could but it did not do any good. It finally took off for a log and that was the end of the story. Peter and Dave stood there dumbfounded. I put away the 5 wt and picked up a 9 wt rod and tied a clouser onto the tippet. It was time to see if I could hook into one of the many tarpon that kept rolling all around us. While Peter and Dave continued to catch many fish, I failed to hook a single tarpon, though I did have one bump my fly once. It was just not to be, perhaps it was too late in the day. The bite had begun to turn off for my companions as well.

We left Fish Creek in time to see the black clouds rolling in. We raced the storm to the hotel and made it just in time to unload the boat before the downpour began. While they both went for a nap, I stood outside in the rain and felt it upon my face. It had been a long time since I could stand in the rain and not freeze. It had been a long time since I had heard real thunder. I prayed for lightning, lightning like I had known at home in FL, but my prayers were not answered. I realized how long it had been since I had seen lightning and how much I missed it. My thoughts turned to home. Perhaps it was time.

We did not fish that evening. We were to leave the following day, but things happened and we could not get out until the next, so we all retired early and each of us slept right through until the morning. I awoke disoriented, wondering why I had managed to sleep the whole night through without a single nightmare. I did not question it. Instead I finished packing my things and carrying them to the boat. We would be following the Coronel, the transport boat from the Rain Goddess out. The rivers had dropped even more since we had made our way in, and it would make for a dangerous ride for both of the boats had they had to do it alone. Together there was safety.

We made our way back down the rivers. One solitary huge crocodile was all that I saw. A bright blue kingfisher flew alongside of us for a long ways. I wondered about the kingfisher, and thought of how much alike we really were. I thought back upon the people of the jungle, and realized many things about my own life. I realized how good I had it. I have lived out of a suitcase for many months now and have little in the way of material goods with me and yet, I can not recall being happier. These people have it hard, and yet, they do not realize they do. They have nothing with which to compare it. This life is all that they know. A trip to the supermarket means a 12 mile paddle up and then back down a river to a place where they sell fruits and vegetables. Their meat is hunted or caught on small handlines that I see them fishing with regularly. Their laundry is done in the river. Their food is cooked in a coal pot. I wondered if I would ever again complain about things like that.

We rode on, the Coronel always within our sights, save for one scary moment when we ran aground. The sand got into the motor, the alarms went off and the scramble for a heavy piece of mono to run through the ports began. Finally we were back in business and somehow managed to catch up with the other boat again. We stopped at one house along the river and were greeted by a man and a woman and about 15 children. Each was about 10 or 11 months older than the next and they were all brown children, save for one little boy, whose skin was as white as paper, freckled and he had a headful of red hair. His eyes were the brown of his family. I watched genetics at work as all of the other children hung back. I watched as this boy and this boy alone came to the boat and looked and wondered and watched as we purchased a load of freshwater shrimp, which many would consider small lobsters. I saw how he was ostracized by the rest of the family and saw too that he did not seem to care. He was the most independent child I had ever seen. It was interesting to see.

Back through the checkpoints we went, and I was greeted by my touchy feely friend again, only this time with so many people around with the load of folks returning to Puerto Viejo from the Goddess aboard the Coronel he did not try much. Only the Doc and I got off of the boats, carrying all of the passports for our respective boats. The Doc speaks Spanish. He told me that the guard had told them that I was an amazingly tall woman and that I would make good breeding stock. I was glad to be getting out of there. As we were leaving, I managed to take one too many steps into the water and sank to my waist in horrid sulfuric water. I wondered how the people drank this water and bathed in it. Within minutes it began to burn.

We had picked up three passengers at the guard station and would be taking them to Puerto Viejo with us. It was a man and woman and their little girl. They simply turned their heads as I changed my clothes right there on the boat. I did not care. The water stung my skin. Onwards we went, and I could feel the apprehension and mystery of the jungle behind me getting further and further away. I reflected on all that I had learned, had experienced, had felt, had wondered. As I looked back, I began to look forward as well. Home sounds good. I long for a cold shower and a meal that does not consist of beans and rice. I miss my family, my friends, and I miss wading in the waters of the lagoon. I wondered how much longer I would survive in paradise. I knew right then and there, on the river coming home from Nicaragua, that I would soon be leaving this place and heading back to the waters I knew and loved the most. Soon, I will be going home.

For now, home is still the house on the hill overlooking the city of San Jose, where my hammock swings out front under the skies and in the breezes off of the mountains. It was good enough just to be back to that. I unloaded the truck, unpacked my things and headed for the shower. I reveled in the small amount of hot water that we have here and as I got out of the shower to dry off, I looked into a mirror for the first time in a week. I barely knew the woman staring back at me. She looked old. Her eyes were those of someone three times my age, and her posture was that of someone who had just walked across the plains of Hell and survived. I wondered who she was, and how well I would get along with her. I am still finding out.

 

Costa Rica... Chapter 6

Costa Rica... Chapter 6

 

The Fish
Day 2 in Nicaragua


I was awake when the rest of my party got to moving around. I had sat huddled in my room with no electricity, shrouded in darkness and the sounds of the jungle. Many thoughts raced through my head. The dreams of the night still had me in a cold sweat. My gear was ready and I was only waiting for the rise of the sun to step outside. Luckily, the sun rises early in the jungles of Central America.

We ate breakfast and Peter questioned my strange attitude that morning. I told him of the dreams that I had experienced and he only gave me a serious look and said something about the spirits there. The sound of a boat motor pulling up to the dock outside brought a quick end to the conversation and to breakfast. We stepped outside and an old friend of Peter’s made his appearance.

Bert Bookout is a little old man who holds one of the peacock bass records. He took one look at me and decided that I was to fish with him that day. I gave Peter a questioning look, he looked back at me with a look that said, “Go ahead, it is ok.” That is how it came to be that I ended up fishing with Bert and his guide Jaime for three days on the waters of Nicaragua. I loaded my gear into the much smaller and more basic boat that Bert was in and off we went.

First order of business was checking in with the military outpost. They want to know where we were going and when we thought we would be back. I thought it a great idea, actually. It was somehow comforting to me. We continued north along the Rio Indio, past the village of the Ramas and further on until we came to a small opening in the bank. We turned and went into it. This was to be the first of many trips down Fish Creek.

As we rounded one corner and went down one stretch of it that ran east and west, the sun was just above the treeline. For some reason, on this stretch and this stretch alone, the creek took on an eerie glow as the orange sunlight of dawn caught the mist that rose in only this section. It was beautiful. The sounds of the birds and other animals in the trees around us resonated through the glowing mist and gave the whole experience an ethereal mood.

Bertie and I went much further into the creek than Peter took Dave. We fished all day at the end we chose and never saw another boat. We had agreed to meet up at noon for a lunch. It would be that long before we saw them again. We had some fishing to do. I had some learning to do.

We started out with small poppers. The fish eagerly took the topwater offerings early in the morning. I had much to learn about catching them, though. The Mojarra are giant bluegills, cursed or blessed as you may see it with an attitude. Their colors are splendid and they fight like bulldogs. They do not get much over two pounds, but one does not go in with anything less than 12 lb tippet and expect to land one. They dwell under logs, under the cover of the hammock and under the other deadfall that lines the banks of the creek. They react to a topwater fly in a way that I had never before seen.

The most effective way to work the poppers is to first be able to cast a tight enough loop that it is able to make it through very small openings in the overhanging hammock and beneath it. Once it lands upon the water, a very small twitch is all that is needed most times. Sometimes a nice loud pop does the trick. Either way, when the Mojarra rises to the fly, it tests you. It sits beneath the fly for a very long time, as if studying it, wondering what it is and if it is worthy of being eaten. The reflex of the angler is to move it again. I know. I did that several times and succeeded only in spooking the fish away from it. The correct thing to do, as I learned after many failed attempts is to just wait. The mojarra will do one of two things. It will rise and slam the fly and take it or it will abort the mission. If the mojarra takes the fly, that is when the next battle begins. The first thing it will do is head for the logs and other cover in the water. It is like fighting a much larger fish. I used a 5 wt and my 12-lb tippet often failed me. The rod was fine, it was the tippet that could not handle the fish.

We landed several of those fish, from small to very large. I landed many of the larger ones. The whole time, Jaime did not say one word, but he kept us always at the proper distance from the treeline so that our casts were easy. I was lucky in that Bertie and I are compatible fishing partners. We stood side by side the whole day and matched each other cast for cast, never tangling our lines though we often laid down our lines only inches from each other. We both are distance casters, and find it difficult to make very close in casts. We both cast fairly well.

Machaca came next. They can get very large, though the ones we caught were usually less than 20 inches long. They are a mix between a mullet and a piranha. They look like a mullet in their own little way and yet have a set of teeth like the piranha. They are in fact a distant relative of the piranha and they DO bite. They also fight well although they are not as infamous for heading for the cover as the other fish that live there are.

Along with the mojarra and machaca, I caught several small viejitos. They are smaller panfish like fish that are brown and black and gold and are really a beautiful fish. They do not fight as well as the other fish there, but are eager to take a fly. If you catch one of them, it is likely that if you cast back into the same spot, you will be able to pull several more out of there. Also caught was one large tuba. It was indeed the epitome of a bluegill on steroids. It even had the markings and colors of the bluegills I was used to seeing in FL, only three times the size and twice as mean.

The other fish that I caught several of was the guapote. It is the rainbow bass. There are two or three kinds of guapote, including the guapote pinto, which has less coloration and does not grow to the same sizes as its cousin the guapote. The rainbow bass can grow to about 15 pounds, sometimes bigger. They fight like crazy and they too head straight for the cover. For the small guapote, 12 lb tippet is sufficient, but for the big boys that swim there, if you do not have 40 lb tippet at the end of your line, you may as well hang it up and forget about it. I was broken off by a mid-sized guapote using 30-lb tippet. They will literally wrap your line around logs and keep going. They are the toughest freshwater fish I have ever fished for. I have never known anything like them before.

Their colors are absolutely marvelous. They have a few teeth in the front of their mouth and the large guapote are loners. I caught most of the large guapote later in the day using a shrimp pattern fished slowly near logs and right up on the bank. I lost most of the large guapote in the same places. Near midday my line was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Several times a day I had to take a break and clean and dress my line. Tippets were checked after every fish and changed so often that I must have gone through a hundred feet of leader material. Flies were checked, changed and heads shaken over them as hook after hook was straightened out. It was amazing. I would never look at panfishing the same way again. I was a changed woman.

At lunchtime we went down the creek and found Peter and Dave just in time for the short rainsquall that fell upon our heads. We headed to a place along the bank where two boats could slide in and tied up for lunch, naps and story telling. Peter tells the best stories. If we believed him, he caught a Mojarra that ran 12 lbs. Jaime had still not said a word all day. Bertie had talked much about the place, the fishing and he had taught me much. I still had a lot more to learn.

Around 2 pm we headed back out to fish some more. The fishing in the middle of the day is unbelievably slow. It is also unbelievably hot. It is not as humid as many would think it to be. FL is more humid. The sun though will burn a body quickly. The breeze that blows through there often becoming a stout wind to cast against somehow manages to keep it cooled off, so that you do not realize how much sun you are getting.

We did manage to catch several more fish as dusk set in. Just like panfishing in the waters of FL, the best times to do so are mornings and evenings. By the time the sun started to sink low enough for us to be making our way quickly out of there, I was exhausted and ready to go. We began to make our way out of there. The phenomenon of the morning somehow repeated itself on the one stretch, only this time the sun was just above the treeline in the west. It was a great way to end the day.

After checking back in at the military post, it was back to the hotel. Bertie dropped me off and we promised to come visit him on the Rain Goddess after dinner. Dinner for us consisted of rice and beans, chicken and iguana. It was not bad at all. It was not to be the strangest thing I would eat on this trip. Showers were taken after dinner, and the fact that we had no hot water there did not phase me in the least. The cool water coming out of the showerhead was extremely refreshing after a long hard hot day in the tropics.

Once we were all settled down and relaxed, we loaded into the boat and made our way through the river and lagoons by the light of the moon to where the Rain Goddess was anchored. It is a large houseboat. It is a five star mobile fishing lodge complete with gourmet chef. The people who were aboard that week were as diverse as the wildlife that surrounded us. A group from Eagle Claw was there to film the fishing and the area. I will withhold my opinions of those people. There were two ordinary average guys from NJ who were there for some flyfishing. There was a guy from Texas who runs a safari hunting lodge. And then there was Bertie, who is one of the partners in the Rain Goddess.

We sat at the back of the boat under the awning around a table and drank and smoked cigars and talked about the fishing. Friends were made, lines were drawn and stories told. The rich history of the place absolutely astounded me. It was hard to imagine that we were anchored just a hundred or so yards from where the original canal was to be built before it was moved to Panama. The sunken dredge shone in the light of the moon as proof. A graveyard nearby had headstones with only English names on it, and were riddled with bullet holes not by anyone one but by those whose people were buried there. Bloody wars had been fought right where we were sitting. Pirates would come into that lagoon and count their booties. I was fascinated. I had never imagined any of those things.

Finally we left and returned to the hotel. By the light of the moon we made our way to our rooms and fell into our own little slumbers. The dreams would come again that night and haunt my soul like it have never been haunted before. I would wake up later that night in a cold sweat, tears streaming down my face and a scream still on my lips. Again I would not sleep that night, but would wait for the rise of the sun to comfort me, warm my body and soul and get me out of the bed that was too like a prison now at night. I sat alone and listened to the voices in the jungles. I wondered if they were real or not. I prayed for the sun to rise.

 

Costa Rica... Chapter 5

Costa Rica... Chapter 5

 

The Way to Nicaragua

We left the house on the hill early in the morning. The sunrise over the volcano in the distance was the perfect beginning to what would turn out to be a grand adventure. It was an hour and forty-five minutes to Puerto Viejo where the boat would be meeting us and we would begin a journey into another time, another world, another reality.

We unloaded all of our gear from the truck and into the boat. We packed light, as every bit of weight we could spare had to go for gasoline. The Rio Sarapiqui is where we met the boat and it was the first of many rivers that we would go down on our way to San Juan del Norte in Nicaragua. Gray skies loomed above and as we launched the boat and waved good bye to our helpers, the rain began to fall. Our rain suits were gathered, donned and everything covered up as best we could. It was only to be a 4-hour boat ride, but it turned out to be a ride of almost 6 hours. The rivers were extremely low and even though we had taken the least amount of gear possible, the boat was heavy enough that we bogged down in many places.

The rain fell upon us as we journeyed down the blue waters of the Rio Sarapiqui and the lush green forests that surrounded it and made our way into the sulfuric green waters of the Rio Susio. Its waters come straight from the volcano and are quite acidic. The line is obvious where the two rivers meet. There is a clear dividing line of blue and green waters. The Rio Susio was even lower than the Sarapiqui and going was slow. I sat alone on the bow of the boat to add weight there and it was a long and silent ride through the jungles.

As time went on, I noticed the changes in the environment around me. The luscious green jungles that surrounded us on the Sarapiqui gave way to a dirty and brown sparse forest and the banks of the river began to show more and more.

The geological make up of the walls that rose above us fascinated me. Layer upon layer of color and texture in many shapes, forms and designs decorated them. Logs alongside the water’s edge began to take on the shapes of monsters, both imaginary and real. I saw in them crocodiles and dragons and dinosaurs. I saw guardians of the river in them. The wind howled through the jungle and the rain came and went. I could hear the wind over the drone of the motor and it walked through the forest beside us at all times, as if it were a great creature, following us, watching us. My imagination knew no boundaries for the first two hours of the trip.

Soon though, I was brought out of my daydreams and back into a reality like none I had ever known. The first checkpoint was on the Costa Rican side of the border. We pulled in and spoke briefly to them, and then traveled 150 yards downriver to the where the Rio Susio and the Rio San Juan meet and to the Nicaraguan border. There we were greeted by teenagers with automatic weapons. We got out our passports, unloaded and walked up to the station there on the river to fill out some paperwork. It would be the first of many such stops.

It was soon apparent how different I was from most of the people that travel the rivers here. I am a woman for starters, and the men stationed there rarely see women. I am tall. A tall woman is almost unheard of in this part of the world. My green eyes draw attention almost everywhere I go and my brown hair with its sun-bleached blonde highlights is almost always touched. The Lieutenant on duty was just a bit too touchy-feely for my tastes. There was not a lot I could do about it, though. He was holding a very large automatic weapon, though he was a bit older than the teenaged boys on duty there. He insisted on having a picture taken with me. With that done, we took off, but not before he asked me to have sex with him. I was saved by Peter and his ability to speak Spanish better than I could.

We rode on. I thought about the country that I was traveling into. It took a long time for the reality of where I was to sink in. Huts lined the river. Squatters lived there, bathing in and drinking from the sulfuric waters of the river which was their livelihood. I had never seen anyone so poor, and here I was seeing whole communities of people so poor that I felt a twinge of guilt as I rode by in a nice boat, off to fish in a foreign country for a week and drinking a Coca Cola.

The main difference between Nicaragua and Costa Rica that I noticed immediately was the lack of animals along the river. They were there, of course, you just could not see them. I think I would rather see them. At least then, I know where they are. The jungle grew thick alongside the river and time went on. Soon we were riding past the mouth of the Rio Indio at the Caribbean and were nearing our destination of San Juan del Norte… a small village that lies along the river and is just as poor as the rest of the country. We first checked in at the military post there and then went and cleared immigration. With that done, we were off to the hotel.

Each room had a bathroom here, making it one of the finest places to stay in the entire area. We would have electricity from 4 in the afternoon until 10 at night. Water would be available for several hours in the afternoon and evening for showers and other things. The water there is cold. We checked in, unloaded the boat, unpacked our gear and settled in for a bit. A meal was prepared for us and we sat around for a while before heading to the mouth of the ocean for thirty minutes of casting before dark fell and we returned to the hotel for dinner and showers and bed.

The ocean was very rough and we could not get out to fish for the tarpon on the other side of the breaking waves. We anchored just inside the mouth and with a 15-wt rod, I made several casts into a drop off coming into the river from the ocean. I hooked nothing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I was numb from yet another bout of culture shock. We returned to the hotel and it was then that I realized that the people there were speaking a broken sort of English. I wondered why they spoke no Spanish. I soon found out as the night wore on and we sat upon the dock outside watching the tide change, the islands of grass float by like they have for years and learned about the history of the place, the people, and the culture from the people themselves. I was almost ashamed to be an American when they were done talking. I now knew the history of the Rama Indians.

It had been a long day. I was weary and had much to mull over in my mind. I sat alone on the dock long after everyone else had deserted it and smoked my cigar and thought about many things. Finally, I was exhausted enough mentally and physically to make my way back to the building with the rooms, climb the stairs and crawl into bed. It would not be the last night that I was haunted by dreams that I can not describe, except to say that I have never dreamed so vividly, so realistically and so terribly.

I laid awake most of the night, listening to the sounds of the jungle around me and trying not to fall asleep again for fear that the dreams would return. Morning would not come soon enough.