The boat is king on Nicaragua's Rio San Juan--even this one, with a 1-cylinder Lister engine

Navigating the Rio San Juan in Southern Nicaragua today, you won’t see much traffic. There are the local fisherman, a few sportfishermen, and the small boats that ferry local residents from very isolated towns to marginally less isolated ones.

But in centuries past, the river was a busy thoroughfare. Spanish conquistadors sailed upriver to Lake Nicaragua and settled the rich colonial city of Granada. Pirates made the same trip to plunder the wealth of what became the richest colonial territory in Central America. And in the mid-1800s, up to 10,000 people a year took the Nicaragua shortcut from the East Coast of the U.S. to the California Gold Rush, avoiding the long sail around the tip of South America. (Travelers also used Panama as a cut-off point, though the canal wasn’t yet built.)

Frank Ochomogo, local project director of the Ruta del Agua tourist initiative

Frank Ochomogo, local Project Director of a $14,720 million tourism initiative they’re calling “La Ruta del Agua,” would like to see the river regain some its former traffic, but this time from travelers who come for the nature, culture, sportfishing, and adventure rather than for the plunder or the quickest route to somewhere else.

I had breakfast with Frank in early December at Philippe Tisseaux’s Esquina del Lago lodge, and he explained that the initiative intends to develop tourism and infrastructure in the area of Southern Nicaragua defined by three bodies of water: The Caribbean Sea, the Rio San Juan, and Lake Nicaragua. The money for the project comes from a loan for the Interamerican Bank.

Although the project is on the books as a tourism development initiative, one of its major components—the improvement of infrastructure—will benefit local residents at least as much as tourists. Right now, the road from Managua to San Carlos—at 15,000 people, one of the bigger towns in the area—is only 300 km, but take up to 15 hours on the bus because the poor state of the road.

“We’re putting our house in order,” says Frank. “So that we can invite people in.”

Diving off the new San Carlos dock

The bulk of the money ($12 of the almost $15 million) is slated for infrastructure improvement. Besides road repairs, there are 11 new docks planned in communities throughout the Ruta del Agua area, and 8 new immigration posts to be built, each at the juncture of the San Juan and another river that feeds into it.

The entire waterfront area of San Carlos has already received a major face lift, with a new dock, a riverside promenade, a new immigration post under construction, and even a brand-new ATM machine that, marvels Tisseaux, “actually works and actually has money in it! That’s huge, you have no idea.”  There is also a bridge planned from Costa Rica to Nicaragua—from Santa Fe, they told me, though I couldn’t find that town on any map and couldn’t picture where a bridge connecting the two countries would go.

Smaller pieces of the funding pie will go to promotion and low-interest loans to local tourism-related businesses so that they can expand their capacity.

A tributary of the Rio San Juan near the Costa Rica / Nicaragua border

The Ruta del Agua area is rife with nature reserves–Guatuso, Vida Silvestre San Juan, and Indo Maiz—and cultural and historical treasures like the Solentiname Archipeligo, known for its painters and artisans, and El Castillo, a Spanish fort built in 1675 to guard against pirates.

Tisseaux, French-born and now a Nicaraguan resident, helps sportfishermen chase town the river’s mammoth tarpon. He also does a lot of reading about the history of his adopted country. “About 100,000 people came up the Rio San Juan on their way from the eastern United States to the Gold Rush in California,” he says.  “That means that a good portion of people descended from the 49ers had a relative that passed through the area.”

One of the travelers who made the trip was Mark Twain, who described the area as consisting of “dark grottos, fairy festoons, tunnels, temples, columns, pillars, towers, pilasters, terraces, pyramids, mounds, domes, walls, in endless confusion of vine work.”

All photos by David W. Smith.

El Castillo, an old Spanish fort above the Rio San Juan, Nicaragua

We took a boat up the Rio San Juan to El Castillo, which is both an old Spanish fort and an appealing small town with many of its houses built out over the river. The first thing we saw when we disembarked was a sign that said “Borders Coffee” with an arrow pointing up a wooden staircase to an open-air space with tables and chairs and rows of potted plants.

The café belongs to Jamil, featured in the last Lonely Planet Nicaragua under the heading, “El Castillo’s Shame.” Jamil is openly gay, and he has been harassed by the townspeople, the police, and the army, but has stood his ground and now has a thriving business with an enviable location and the only espresso machine in town.

Born in El Castillo, Jamil went away to school in San Jose, Costa Rica, but came home because this is where his family is. “Nicaraguans says,” Jamil told me, “that all Ticos are faggots (‘maricones’). But it’s just that they’re more open about it.”

Borders Coffee in El Castillo, Nicaragua

Jamil is very well-spoken, self-possessed, and I can only imagine the reserves of strength he has had to draw on being the only out gay man in a small remote riverside town in a part of the world not known for its enlightened views towards gays.

Jamil, at his Border's Cafe in El Castillo, Nicaragua

Another long-term resident of the area put a slightly different spin on Jamil’s saga. “It sounds like his biggest crime was that he was a good businessman,” this person speculated. “He was probably affecting other people’s businesses, so they used the excuse of his sexuality to harass him.”

Whatever the explanation, I enjoyed talking to Jamil and hope that he and his cafe continue to thrive.

All photos by David W. Smith.

Hanging out at Esquina del Lago lodge on the Rio San Juan

During our week or so in Nicaragua we were based at Esquina del Lago, a river lodge with no hot water but plenty of rickety charm. Lodge owner Phillipe Tisseaux met us at immigration in San Carlos, then whisked us across the water. It was dark when we arrived at the lodge, and the life-sized crocodile on his dock was lifelike enough to make us back away.

After we settled into our modest room, we were fed a delicious meal of river shrimp (as big as crawfish) in a cream sauce that owed not a little to Tisseaux’s origin.

Born in France in 1949 and now a Nicaraguan resident, Tisseaux bought this spit of land at the corner of the Rio San Juan, the Rio Frio, and Lake Nicaragua in 2002 and opened the lodge in 2006.

Caimans on our very first night

After a dinner straight from the river one of Tisseaux’s workers, Minor, a young man of few words, said, “Come. The caiman.”

I thought he meant that there might be one on the wooden walkways jutting out over the water, a companion to the fake croc that had scared us when we arrived.

But he motioned us into a boat (you have to go everywhere by boat; there are no roads and not many paths during the wet season). We puttered out over the dark water to a swampy area a little ways upstream. To our dismay the young man went over the side of the boat and was thigh-deep in water before we knew what was happening. He went thrashing through the swamp, then came back with something in his hands. It was a small caiman, and he showed us how to hold it. It felt so alive in my hands. I wanted to get it back into the water, where it belonged.

Later Tisseaux would tell me “Minor’s crazy. He gets the babies, and how do you think the mamas feel about that?”

But Minor wasn’t satisfied with just showing us a little caiman. We motored over to another swampy area, where he swept a flashlight across the water, soon finding the glow of eyes that he was looking for.

“Es grande,” he said. “Voy por el.” He’s a big one. I’m going after him.

And over the side of the boat he went.

I was relieved when he came back empty-handed.

Tarpon fishing and the Esquina del Lago

Philippe Tisseaux at Esquina del Lago lodge on the Rio San Juan

Tisseaux, who has lived everywhere from Florida to St. Martin to Costa Rica, says he’s been ‘retired’ since 1989, but he never seems to not be working. His lodge has 6 rooms and he is building 4 more, he was on his way to a community meeting in San Carlos when we first arrived, and he seems to know everyone within a 100-mile radius and is well-informed about what’s going on in his adopted country.

He also arranges kayaking trips (or you can use his for free to do short paddles on the river or lake), and he can arrange trips to the Solentiname Islands, to local reserves, or downriver to El Castillo, the old Spanish fort built in 1675 to guard against pirates coming up the Rio San Juan from the Caribbean, into Lake Nicaragua, and on to the wealthy colonial city of Granada, which was sacked and pillaged innumerable times during the colonial era.

But his main business is taking people tarpon fishing in the Rio San Juan. He wants to protect that fishery and is adamant that the tarpon his clients catch be released unharmed. Others who fish tarpon in the area are more likely to sell it for less than a dollar a pound. Tisseaux is trying to convince the fishermen in the area that all the magnificent tarpon in the river are worth more to them dead that alive, since sportfisherman can catch the same fish again and again.

Esquina del Lago lodge has been featured in Field & Stream magazine, and CNN came recently to film a fishing show featuring the mythic and prehistoric-looking tarpon, called sabalo in Spanish.

We made friends with the fake croc after we showed him who was boss.

Everything goes by boat on the Rio Frio: sheep, travelers, and (read on) a coffin; photo by David W. Smith

After we’ve waiting 3 or 4 hours at the Los Chiles muelle (dock) for the boat the Nicaragua, not one but two boats arrive: the bote publico, and the lancha from Esquina del Lago lodge. A big group from the U.S. is being shuttled from the lodge to Los Chiles after a few days of tarpon fishing on the Rio San Juan in Nicaragua, and we’re catching a ride back to the lodge.

But first, the crew helps the returning clients through Costa Rica immigration (easy as pan dulce), gets something to eat, and has a good long smoke or two.

Finally, the captain saunters back to the boat.

“Hay un problemita,” he says. There’s a little problem.

How little? I wonder.

“Hay un difunto,” he says in a low voice. “There’s a deceased person.”

So that was a coffin in the back of the pickup that puttered by while we were waiting for the rain to stop. And it seems the difunto needs to go where we’re going. In our boat.

No hay problema, I say. “El es muerto. Somos vivos.” There’s no problem. He’s dead. We’re alive.

The captain cracks a smile.

“Pero espero que no tenemos que hablar con el,” I add. I just hope we don’t have to talk to him.

“Porque es dificil converser con los difuntos,” says David. It’s not so easy to converse with the dead.

“Son muy serios,” the captain agrees. They’re so serious.

Loading a coffin onto the fast boat to Nicaragua; photo by David W. Smith

It’s not quite as funny when they start to load the coffin into the boat. It takes up a whole row—six molded plastic seats and the aisle—at the back of the long and narrow lancha.  A young man accompanies the difunto, and his face shows fresh pain.

We later learn that the dead man, the young man’s uncle, was a Nicaraguan who crossed the border to work in Costa Rica, in Puerto Viejo de Sarapiqui. He died of a puneleado—a knife wound—he’d suffered in a fight. The young man came down to Costa Rica to claim his uncle’s body, and to bring him home.

We start up the Rio Frio at dusk. Swallows swoop close to the water, picking off mosqitoes. A flock of parrots flies overhead. Herons and egrets stands sentinel along the river. Howler monkeys add their deep-throated call from the branches of dense trees.

Cormarants along the Rio Frio; photo by David W. Smith

David and I stand at the front of the boat, enjoying the cool wind as it dries our sweaty clothes. As we pass under a leafless tree full of black cormorants, it feels as if we’re part of a funeral procession.

The lights of San Carlos, Nicaragua, at the confluence of the Rio Frio, the Rio San Juan, and Lake Nicaragua; photo by David W. Smith

In less than an hour we see the lights of San Carlos across the water. We’ve arrived at the confluence of the Rio Frio, the Rio San Juan, and Lake Nicaragua (also known as Lake Colcibolco). The boat noses up to a rickety wooden building right on the water: immigration. We step out onto the wooden walkway and approach the lighted window.

Immigration office in San Carlos, Nicaragua

There’s no line to enter Nicaragua here, and the only other action is a policewoman, in heavy eyeliner and dangling earrings, asking the nephew of the dead man for his paperwork. No matter where you die, it seems, there’s paperwork before you can leave this world behind. We heard that most boat captains would have charged $150 to transport the body from Los Chiles to San Carlos, but since the Esquina del Lago boat was already making the trip, they charged only for gas.

As we present our passports, fill out forms in the dim light (where are my glasses?), and pay our $7 a piece entry fee, a tall pale man appears, floating over the heads of the smaller, darker Nicaraguans. It’s Phillipe Tisseaux, expat Frenchman, serial relocator (he’s lived in France, St. Martin and Costa Rica, to name a few places), and owner of the Esquina del Lago Lodge, where we’ll be based for a few days.

There’s silver stubble on his cheeks and his blue eyes are kind. “Do you understand what happened?” he says in English softened with French. He’s talking about our fellow passenger, el difunto.

Yes, yes, we assure him. We understand. People die. They need to be brought home. It was the least we could do, to share a ride with someone who needed it a lot more than we did.

Did you notice the name of the boat in the photo? The Amen.

The muelle (dock) at Los Chiles, Costa Rica

After a delicious Thanksgiving dinner with all the gringo trimming (thanks to Christine at Desafio Adventure), we left  La Fortuna early for a half-day wildlife tour of Cano Negro in northern Costa Rica, in part to get a ride up to Los Chiles.

From Los Chiles the plan is take a boat up the Rio Frio into Nicaragua, where we’ll spend a week or so exploring the Rio San Juan (the watery border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua), an old Spanish fort called El Castillo, and the Solentiname Islands, where in the 1980s Sandinista poet-priest Ernesto Cardinal taught locals his own fiery brand of liberation theology and also encouraged them to paint pictures of their surroundings. They’re still painting, and I’ve also heard that they are some of the staunchest Sandinista supporters in the country.

But good things come, apparently, only to those who wait.

The afternoon started off deceptively easy. Immigration in Los Chiles is the fastest I’ve ever left a country. We filled out a short form (the clerk loaned us his pen), got our passports stamped (there was no line), and we were on our way…to the town dock, where we would wait, and wait, then wait some more.

It was around 1 pm, and there was a chance that a boat would come for us at 2. Or so Phillipe, the French expat owner of Esquina del Lago lodge in Nicaragua, had emailed me. But he’d also outlined other options involving the bote publico (the pubic boat) from Los Chiles, Costa Rica, to San Carlos, Nicaragua. This boat, which costs $10, leaves at 10:30 am, 1:30 pm, 2:30 pm, and 3:30 pm. Unless it doesn’t. Maybe there aren’t enough people to make it worth their while, or the captain needs to run some errands in town.  And even if the boat does go, as the 3:30 boat that day ended up running, it probably won’t leave until 4 pm or so. Unless, of course, it leaves early.

Waiting at Los Chiles for the boat to San Carlos, Nicaragua

Meanwhile, we wait. A group of boat captains lounges at one end of the cement pier. One half-heartedly tries to get us to take his boat to Nicaragua instead of waiting for the public ferry. Someone asks David where he got his sunglasses. Ebay, David answers.  At the other end of the pier teenagers with drooping pants act out some sort of antic scenario that is supposed to distract us from noticing that they’re eyeing our bags. When they slouch by and disappear upriver we’re relieved but soon miss having them to look at. A tarpon jumps out of the green-brown river and slaps back down, making a surprisingly loud noise. The locals barely look up, but one informs us, “Sabalo” (Tarpon).

Thirty minutes later, an aguacero (downpour) relieves the boredom for a few minutes. Even under a corrugated tin shelter, it feels as if we’re in the eye of storm. It’s coming down so hard it’s bouncing off the cement and onto our legs, and then a sudden wind blows the sheets of rain horizontal.  Water floods the slab that is the pier, and we have to move all out bags onto a narrow metal bench right on the water.  The corroded pole that serves as a backrest barely keeps the bags from toppling into the river.

A young man with a sweet face smiles and shrugs, as if to say, “Wadya gonna do?”

A man peddles by slowly, one hand on the bike’s handlebar, the other holding an umbrella.

Ten minutes later, an old pickup truck with wood plank sides drives by with an oblong  box in the back. It’s swaddled in plastic tarps so it’s hard to tell what it is, but I imagine it to be a casket.

Two o’clock, when the boat from lodge was supposed to come, is long past. It’s looking like we’ll take the 3:30 bote public.  But it’s nearing that time and there’s no sign of anyone boarding.

A diversion drives up—another plank-sided pickup with a tarp roof, this one full of sheep. Two muddy teenage boys hoist themselves out of the back, where they’d been riding with the livestock, and make a run for the river, yelling and laughing. They dive in fully clothed (the one with rubber boots pulls them off first), no doubt to rinse off the sheep dung and mud.

Sheep about to head upriver on the Rio Frio

The driver gets out, stretches, calls mocking greetings to some of the boat captains, then motions for a kid captaining a lancha, a narrow wooden boat with ten or so rows of plastic seats in its hull, to take all the seats out. He does, and the man starts loading sheep, one by one, into the boat. They’re worth $150 each, we later learn, and they’re destined for a ranch upriver. The man knows just how hold the sheep so they don’t squirm out of his grasp or kick, but one unruly one gets in a pretty good kick.
When the boat takes off, he yells out, “Bon voyage, hijueputa!”

Have a good trip, you son of a bitch!

Photos (except of David) by David Webster Smith