"You can swim here if you like," said Yaro flopping into the waist-high water and hauling our boat on to a sandbank. From deep within my memory, bells were ringing about tiny jungle parasites that find no greater pleasure than swimming straight up your plumbing and co-habiting your vital organs. Plus, there was of course the crocodile infestation and the world's only fresh-water sharks that lurked never far away.
"No thanks, I'll just watch." Besides, it was raining. A lot. But then this was the rainy season.
The suggested bathing area was the Bartola area, a vegetation-packed jungle canal snaking into dark grottoes, one of 25 feeder tributaries to Central America's second longest river, the San Juan. Once destined to be the inter-oceanic canal, until Panama stole the honors at the last minute, this marine highway curves along the Costa Rica border for 180km through dense gallery forest before spilling into the Caribbean. Mark Twain called it "an earthly paradise" during his journey from San Francisco to New York via Central America, though obviously he chose to ignore the less welcoming inhabitants of this nirvana.
PHOTOS: AGNECIES
Paradise was far from my mind the day before when I had banged down in a single-prop plane on to the loosely termed "airfield" of San Carlos. Sure there was air, and yes there was a thin field, but any relation to an airport ended there. A waiting car bounced me to a ramshackle town dodging potholes deep enough to qualify as underground car parks. Six thousand people lived here on the edge of the jungle and the edge of purgatory. With roads of mud, eye- squinting interiors and street corner stares that linger just that little bit too long, San Carlos was like most frontier towns -- spectacularly ugly, verging on the anarchic and best left as soon as is conveniently possible.
Yaro Choiseul-Praslin had arranged just that for me. Stepping from the shadows of his upstairs office, he extended a hand. "Hola. Shall we go?" It was the one thing I wanted to hear.
On the way to his mooring, I found out he was the owner of Sabalos Lodge, my riverside accommodation within Los Guatuzos wildlife refuge for the next few nights. Before the panga -- our motorized canoe -- hit full throttle and drowned out all conversation, Yaro told me that he had been put in control of the agricultural reforms along the river San Juan during the revolution of the 1980s. It was my first encounter with a Sandinista, and in spite of friends' warnings back in Manchester I remained happily unbothered by stories of murder, kidnap or robbery. "The Sandinistas are just another democratic political party," said Yaro. "They have their bad apples like everyone else, but I think there's enough support for them to possibly win the elections next year."
Win or lose, an unstoppable tourism revolution has already begun in Nicaragua. Until five years ago, European visitors were as rare as several of the 600 species of birds living here. Now nature lovers, bird-watchers and eco-tourists are starting to discover the raw attraction of Central America's heart and lungs. In just a few square kilometers, the pristine Indio-Maiz bio reserve has more species of birds, trees and insects than the whole of Europe. Rustic lodges, research stations and local guides are popping up along the riverbanks, catering for the rising demand for jungle adventures.
In fact, as its guerrilla identity disappears into the mists of time, numbers in all forms of tourism have been steadily climbing in Nicaragua.
The country has been at peace for over 16 years now and has the lowest crime rate in Central America, and many are now tipping Nicaragua to be "the next Costa Rica." It shares the same rich palette of green adventure-land, golden beaches and cobalt blue lakes but without the crowds and at a much lower price -- for now.
Within minutes of us disturbing the quiet sheen of the rio San Juan, the verdant appeal was plain to see. A barrage of foliage lined both sides of the river. Giant palm fronds elbowed for space amid curtains of vines while giant cedars stretched for a gasp of clear sky. Two white herons protested skywards at our noisy intrusion into their fishing party and a trio of black vultures circled slowly above the canopy like aerial undertakers.
After an hour, just past the midpoint of our boat journey, Yaro signalled to a couple of young boys passing in the opposite direction. Both boats headed for the bank and the bows met amid the reeds. The smaller of the boys lifted the lid on a metal box to reveal a catch of guapote fish, amid cubes of ice. Yaro bought a dozen of the largest for the equivalent of NT$14 each. "Tonight's dinner," he said.
Later that evening, to a background of oscillating crickets and the chirpy banter of frogs, my
companions and I dined on the fish in the open-sided eating area of Sabalos Lodge. Palm leaves reached in, rustling against the wooden walls. Along a wooden walkway, three young Spaniards were chatting in the "reception" area, a cluster of hammocks and fishing tackle strung above a shelf of books on expiring species. Afterwards, I shared a bottle of Flor de Cana, the local rum, with Yaro's only other guests -- a mother and daughter from Switzerland and a birdwatcher from Louisiana. They had also heard about the adventure potential of this new destination. Yesterday, they had met on the slow "public" panga from San Carlos, eventually reaching the isolated lodge in twice the time it had taken Yaro and me.
At 9pm, the generator was turned off, plunging us all into blackness. Using torches, we scythed haphazard paths back to our scattered cabins, beams flailing wildly like light sabres as faces touched newly strung spiders' webs stretched between the trees.
Having thankfully retained just enough sobriety to slip under the mosquito net, I closed my eyes and fell soundly asleep to the light opera of insect song interrupted only the baritone grunt of a howler monkey heckling from somewhere deep within the forest.
I awoke to rain machine-gunning on to broad banana leaves and ricocheting into the thatchwork canopy of my cabin, one of seven at the lodge. Three meters away from my hammock, the coffee-colored waters of the now-swollen rio San Juan rushed clumps of fallen vegetation downstream.
In the new Nicaragua, perhaps for the first time in its recent history, Mother Nature is the only ruling force that can interrupt the advance of a new army of tourists discovering this mini-Amazon for the first time.
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