Sunday, February 12, 2006

The good thing about getting a lousy night’s sleep is that it’s no hardship to be out of bed by 5:45. Once the power went off again last night at midnight, the mosquitos attacked in full force. And again it was just me; they left Michael to sleep in peace.

Augusto came by at 6:15 wanting 160 cordobas for gasoline. There was some slight confusion when we thought he wanted us to leave at that moment, but that was quickly cleared up and Michael, Brice, and I left the guesthouse in time to be at his place at 7:00 a.m. as agreed. It turned out he was not actually the ice boat captain as I'd thought yesterday, but just the guy who would take us to the boat.

On the way to Augusto's house we passed a guy hacking up a giant sea turtle. The meat was red like beef, and apparently very tough, either that or his machete badly needed sharpening. He heaped the chunks of meat into the enormous shell when he’d detached them from the body. A small crowed was gathered around waiting for a share. Children skipped up and down the path. Everyone was up bright and early in Laguna de Perlas.

Augusto told us he wanted seventy-five cordobas each from us for the trip to the plant where we’d meet the boat that would be taking us to the Corn Islands. Then he took Michael to meet with the captain of the boat, who wanted 100 cordobas now, and would name the fare later. There sure was a lot of digging into our pockets, but we figured that even if it worked out to be more expensive than the fare back to Bluefields followed by the fare out to the islands, we’d still be saving money by not having to pay for two nights lodging in Laguna de Perlas and one in Bluefields.

Getting into Augusto’s panga, we encountered another sea turtle, this one flippled pitifully on his back in the sand and garbage just above the water line. He was still alive, which we saw when some kid started poking at him. The kid was apparently poking at him for Michael’s benefit, I guess trying to get the turtle to provide a more interesting pose for Michael’s camera. “Haven’t you ever seen a turtle before?” he asked. Nope, probably because they are endangered.

Augusto made out like a bandit on his dealings with us. There’s no way the fifteen-minute trip to the plant and back cost him 160 cordobas worth of gas, and then the 225 cordobas on top of it, and the task over before 8:00 a.m.? Viva capitalism.

So when Augusto talked about getting passage on an "ice boat," I thought that sounded a lot better than the fish boat that Wesley, the hotel owner, had mentioned might be a possibility. But it turned out that the only ice we’d be carrying would be packed around fish.

So there we were at a mostly deserted fish processing plant. After the security guards in green camoflage had checked out our passports, there was nothing to do but sit around and watch the guys wash down fish and weigh them. This is something that’s interesting for a little while and then becomes incredibly boring. We had no idea when we’d be leaving, and as far as we knew, the trip would take four hours. Plenty of time to regret not bringing a lunch.

One of the security guards stripped down to a blue Ripcurl tank top and cleaned his own personal fish on the dock. He had a lot of tatooes, one of them looking suspiciously like the Chicago Bulls logo. He threw the scraps to the crowd of pelicans that gathered. Pelicans sure are interesting, the way their throats stretch out like that. That killed a little time.

Luckily the captain found some ladies to cook for us. We never did find out whom they worked for, if anyone, and whether they really wanted to be sitting around making a meal for hapless non-aheadplanning gringos, but thank goodness they did it.

About an hour after they agreed to make us some lunch, they called us to a wooden shed out back of the fish plant, where they served us each an enormous plate of white rice, red beans, yucca, and fried chicken, and glasses of some mystery refresco that tasted like pear. They had a parrot hanging around and I was so intrieged by him that I coaxed him closer.

I just thought he’d kind of preen and look cute or something, but instead he went for my plate and lunged at anyone who tried to shoo him away. The ladies had to come in and restore order, and placate him with a little piece of yucca on the windowsill. Oops. Lunch cost 40 cordobas per person.

I felt much better after that, but we still had a long wait ahead of us. We didn’t end up leaving the fish plant until 11:10. The boat was as dirty as you’d imagine a small fish transporting boat to be, and there was no provision for passengers. It turned out that the ladies who’d cooked for us were taking the boat as well, and the two of them and Michael, Brice and I just sort of found spots to perch.

Michael and I found a good spot on the upper deck under the bridge, sitting with our feet hanging and our arms resting on the railing. The day was bright and hot and breezy, and the sky full of fluffy clouds. The water was still murky green and we looked forward to watching it turn into that special Carribean turquoise.

It was great. Perfect. We were comfortable and full of food and Off The Beaten Path and together. The only thing I regretted was the fact that it was Sunday. If it had been Monday we could have had that delicious “I would be at work today if we hadn’t taken this trip” feeling.

We were so comfortable up there that we fell asleep and I guess that freaked out the captain – we could easily have fallen into the water – and he came out and sent us downstairs. By then the perfection was failing a bit. We both felt a little seasick. The captain made us go to the bunkroom, where a couple of guys were already asleep. Michael didn’t want to be in there, but I took off my shoes and climbed to a top bunk to lie down.

There was a porthole there, and I stuck my head out experimentally to make sure I could do it if needed. But it turned out that lying down solved the seasickness. After a few minutes I felt great. I didn’t really sleep. As a woman I’m just never going to really conk out in some sailor’s bedroom on a fishboat out at sea. But I got some good dozing time in, with frequent peeks to make sure everything was still cool.

I tried getting up after a while, but felt ill again and was happy to go back to the bunkroom, where I finally noticed the guys had displayed a little pinup with strips of duct tape. It was an ad for plastic surgery and showed a white woman, full body profile, naked and strategically posed so one couldn’t really see anything. Somehow it seemed really adolescent and kind of made me smile.

I felt better again after lying down, but poor Michael threw up. Brice was fine, even after Michael threw up on him a little. (You want to stand upwind of vomiters at sea.)

The boat trip turned out to be longer than we expected. We didn’t arrive in the Corn Islands until 4:30, and then we weren't allowed to leave the boat and had to wait an hour for the inspectors to come and clear us and the fish. Tantalizingly close to our destination, we watched the sun set over the water and cast that golden light over the houses ringing the shore. Finally some young guy boarded the boat and wrote down our passport numbers on his list and that was that, we were free to go.

We really feel like we’ve achieved something in getting here before Wednesday and without having to go back to that pit Bluefields. Plus it was fun to ride on the fish boat. Tomorrow we move on to Little Corn.

HOURS IN A LANCHA/PANGA: 6.25

HOURS IN A FISHBOAT: 5.5

TIMES VOMITED (Michael): 1

 

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Doomed turtle, Laguna de Perlas.

Brice and me in the panga to the fish plant, Augusto in the background.

Fish processing activities.

The fish boat, Pescador I.

The Pescador I, from the front.

The fish boat captain, Mr. Hudson.

Ship's wheel.

Me on the fish boat.

Approaching Big Corn Island, Nicaragua.

Another fish boat at sunset, Big Corn Island.