Río San Juan: Choosing Blindly into a Dark History
(2002)
The Border and the Map
When I first stepped across the border at Peñas Blancas back in 2002, I had absolutely no idea where my journey through Nicaragua would lead me. I simply looked at the map, pointed my finger at San Juan del Norte, and decided that was my destination. I was completely oblivious to the insane, twisted history attached to that remote outpost. Even the bus drivers at the border looked at me with confusion, totally unsure of how exactly to get me all the way down to the Río San Juan corridor.
The 20-Minute Reality Check
Friends back home always ask if you actually notice the Latin American drug trade as an outsider. Well, my introduction took exactly twenty minutes. Shortly after leaving the border on a bus bound for Managua, I had to jump off in Rivas to catch a ferry to Isla Ometepe. I hailed a taxi to take me to the port of San Jorge, but we didn't get far before hitting a sudden police blockade.
Officers were in the middle of a major bust, arresting a local drug dealer and sealing off the street right in front of his house. Forced to take a detour through the back alleys, the taxi driver turned to me with a smirk. He explained that cocaine was everywhere here—pure, uncut, and cheaper than anywhere else in the world. Then he shrugged and said: "But the foreigners? They don't care about the white powder. They only want to smoke weed. I will never understand them." It was my welcome to Nicaragua: twenty minutes in, a drug bust detour, and a map leading me straight into the unknown.
(2002)
The Border and the Map
When I first stepped across the border at Peñas Blancas back in 2002, I had absolutely no idea where my journey through Nicaragua would lead me. I simply looked at the map, pointed my finger at San Juan del Norte, and decided that was my destination. I was completely oblivious to the insane, twisted history attached to that remote outpost. Even the bus drivers at the border looked at me with confusion, totally unsure of how exactly to get me all the way down to the Río San Juan corridor.
The 20-Minute Reality Check
Friends back home always ask if you actually notice the Latin American drug trade as an outsider. Well, my introduction took exactly twenty minutes. Shortly after leaving the border on a bus bound for Managua, I had to jump off in Rivas to catch a ferry to Isla Ometepe. I hailed a taxi to take me to the port of San Jorge, but we didn't get far before hitting a sudden police blockade.
Officers were in the middle of a major bust, arresting a local drug dealer and sealing off the street right in front of his house. Forced to take a detour through the back alleys, the taxi driver turned to me with a smirk. He explained that cocaine was everywhere here—pure, uncut, and cheaper than anywhere else in the world. Then he shrugged and said: "But the foreigners? They don't care about the white powder. They only want to smoke weed. I will never understand them." It was my welcome to Nicaragua: twenty minutes in, a drug bust detour, and a map leading me straight into the unknown.
The Forgotten History of the Río San Juan
FACTS:
Río San Juan: The Mini-Amazon of Central America
Beyond its turbulent human history, the Río San Juan is a spectacular natural titan. It is the second-longest river in Central America, winding through the remote southeast of Nicaragua like a massive green artery. This region is easily one of the premier destinations in the country for wildlife enthusiasts, acting as a vibrant sanctuary for countless animal species and a paradise for birdwatching.
The crown jewel of this wilderness is the Reserva Biológica Indio-Maíz. Often called the "Mini-Amazon" and frequently revered as the "lungs of Central America," this jaw-dropping national park covers 213,000 hectares of dense, untouched jungle. It stands proudly as the largest tropical rainforest north of the Amazon and the second-largest nature reserve in all of Central America.
Río San Juan: Into the Wild and the Unknown
(2002)
The Map and the Confusion
Back in 2002, traveling to San Juan del Norte wasn't a matter of booking a ticket—nobody actually knew how to get there. It was a blank spot on the tourist map. In Rivas, locals vaguely pointed me toward Isla Ometepe as the starting point. I ended up getting stuck on the island for several weeks due to a wild twist of events (but more on that in my Ometepe chapter).
(2002)
The Map and the Confusion
Back in 2002, traveling to San Juan del Norte wasn't a matter of booking a ticket—nobody actually knew how to get there. It was a blank spot on the tourist map. In Rivas, locals vaguely pointed me toward Isla Ometepe as the starting point. I ended up getting stuck on the island for several weeks due to a wild twist of events (but more on that in my Ometepe chapter).
The Ghost Ferry and the Rumors
When I finally got back on track, I wasn't alone. I was accompanied by Paul, an American traveler. We boarded a ferry from Altagracia, Ometepe, heading straight for San Carlos—a direct lake route that has long since ceased to exist. Crossing Lake Nicaragua on that side is mind-blowing; the water stretches out like a massive, infinite ocean. During that long voyage, Paul accidentally let it slip to some highly bizarre characters onboard exactly where we were heading—a mistake that would later catch up with us.
When I finally got back on track, I wasn't alone. I was accompanied by Paul, an American traveler. We boarded a ferry from Altagracia, Ometepe, heading straight for San Carlos—a direct lake route that has long since ceased to exist. Crossing Lake Nicaragua on that side is mind-blowing; the water stretches out like a massive, infinite ocean. During that long voyage, Paul accidentally let it slip to some highly bizarre characters onboard exactly where we were heading—a mistake that would later catch up with us.
Facts:
190 Kilometers of Secrets: From San Carlos to the Atlantic
The Río San Juan stretches across a massive length of 190 kilometers, beginning its journey in San Carlosat the edge of Lake Nicaragua and carving its way down to San Juan del Norte at the Atlantic Ocean. Along its southern banks, the river serves as the natural border with neighboring Costa Rica.
The most important settlements along this waterway are Boca de Sábalos—named after the Sábalo (tarpon), the region's legendary giant fish—and El Castillo, a tiny, sleepy village guarded by a massive 17th-century Spanish fortress.
But the true power of the Río San Juan corridor lies beyond its staggering biodiversity. This jungle region holds a monumental, explosive history that has largely faded into obscurity. Yet, if you know where to look, the landscape is still heavily littered with ancient relics and ruins of the past, leaving any traveler who stumbles upon them in absolute awe.
190 Kilometers of Secrets: From San Carlos to the Atlantic
The Río San Juan stretches across a massive length of 190 kilometers, beginning its journey in San Carlosat the edge of Lake Nicaragua and carving its way down to San Juan del Norte at the Atlantic Ocean. Along its southern banks, the river serves as the natural border with neighboring Costa Rica.
The most important settlements along this waterway are Boca de Sábalos—named after the Sábalo (tarpon), the region's legendary giant fish—and El Castillo, a tiny, sleepy village guarded by a massive 17th-century Spanish fortress.
But the true power of the Río San Juan corridor lies beyond its staggering biodiversity. This jungle region holds a monumental, explosive history that has largely faded into obscurity. Yet, if you know where to look, the landscape is still heavily littered with ancient relics and ruins of the past, leaving any traveler who stumbles upon them in absolute awe.
San Carlos: The Under-Construction Outpost
When the boat finally docked in San Carlos, we stepped into a different world. In 2002, San Carlos wasn't a gateway for eco-tourists; it was a gritty, run-down border town. We somehow survived two days there, staying in a primitive hostal that was literally under construction. To reach our room, we had to walk a tightrope, balancing over loose wooden planks with a drop below. Restaurants were almost non-existent. After 48 hours of roughing it in the dust, we couldn't take it anymore. We packed our bags and boarded a boat to head further down the river, toward El Castillo...
When the boat finally docked in San Carlos, we stepped into a different world. In 2002, San Carlos wasn't a gateway for eco-tourists; it was a gritty, run-down border town. We somehow survived two days there, staying in a primitive hostal that was literally under construction. To reach our room, we had to walk a tightrope, balancing over loose wooden planks with a drop below. Restaurants were almost non-existent. After 48 hours of roughing it in the dust, we couldn't take it anymore. We packed our bags and boarded a boat to head further down the river, toward El Castillo...
Facts:
Río San Juan: Beyond Civilization
A Borderland Tapestry
Along the riverbanks, you collide with an incredibly diverse mosaic of people. The river is a living crossroads for humble farmers, local fishermen, Creoles, and the indigenous Rama nation—the original keepers of this wilderness who are still fiercely fighting for their ancestral land rights to this day. It’s a shifting borderland where Nicas (Nicaraguans) and Ticos (Costa Ricans) live side-by-side, tied together by the same moving water.
The Raw Reality of Survival
The lifestyle here is stripped down to the bare minimum. People live in simple wood-and-palm huts, with primitive outhouses built right over the riverbanks. There is zero running water and no electricity. Washing clothes, scrubbing dishes, and showering are all done directly in the muddy currents of the river. If you need a doctor or the police, your only hope is a grueling boat ride back to San Carlos. Schools exist only in the largest settlements.
The struggle for an education is brutal. To attend basic classes, young children often have to leave their parents behind during the week, sleeping on floors with distant relatives in bigger villages just to learn how to read and write. This is the Río San Juan—completely beyond civilization.
Río San Juan: Beyond Civilization
A Borderland Tapestry
Along the riverbanks, you collide with an incredibly diverse mosaic of people. The river is a living crossroads for humble farmers, local fishermen, Creoles, and the indigenous Rama nation—the original keepers of this wilderness who are still fiercely fighting for their ancestral land rights to this day. It’s a shifting borderland where Nicas (Nicaraguans) and Ticos (Costa Ricans) live side-by-side, tied together by the same moving water.
The Raw Reality of Survival
The lifestyle here is stripped down to the bare minimum. People live in simple wood-and-palm huts, with primitive outhouses built right over the riverbanks. There is zero running water and no electricity. Washing clothes, scrubbing dishes, and showering are all done directly in the muddy currents of the river. If you need a doctor or the police, your only hope is a grueling boat ride back to San Carlos. Schools exist only in the largest settlements.
The struggle for an education is brutal. To attend basic classes, young children often have to leave their parents behind during the week, sleeping on floors with distant relatives in bigger villages just to learn how to read and write. This is the Río San Juan—completely beyond civilization.
El Castillo
El Castillo: Missed Boats and an Insane Prophecy
The No-Car Idyll and The 25-Year Rum
When Paul and I finally stepped off the boat in El Castillo, the contrast to San Carlos was instant. It was a beautiful, deeply peaceful village. Because there were no official roads, there were absolutely no cars. The whole place felt like an untouched oasis. It was so relaxed that Paul and I even managed to track down and taste a bottle of 25-year-old Flor de Caña—the crown jewel of Nicaraguan rum.
El Castillo: Missed Boats and an Insane Prophecy
The No-Car Idyll and The 25-Year Rum
When Paul and I finally stepped off the boat in El Castillo, the contrast to San Carlos was instant. It was a beautiful, deeply peaceful village. Because there were no official roads, there were absolutely no cars. The whole place felt like an untouched oasis. It was so relaxed that Paul and I even managed to track down and taste a bottle of 25-year-old Flor de Caña—the crown jewel of Nicaraguan rum.
The Price of Sleeping In
But the relaxed vibe had a downside. To get all the way down to San Juan del Norte, you had to catch the Lancha (the local transit boat), which only ran twice a week. And because Paul simply could not get his act together in the mornings, we managed to miss the Lancha two times in a row.
But the relaxed vibe had a downside. To get all the way down to San Juan del Norte, you had to catch the Lancha (the local transit boat), which only ran twice a week. And because Paul simply could not get his act together in the mornings, we managed to miss the Lancha two times in a row.
Facts:
El Castillo: The Sentinel of the Jungle
The undisputed landmark of this sleepy village is its towering Spanish fortress: La Fortaleza de la Inmaculada Concepción (The Fortress of the Immaculate Conception).
Commissioned by the Spanish Crown, construction began in 1673 and was completed just two years later in 1675. This imposing stronghold is a historical crown jewel—it stands as the only perfectly preserved military colonial building in Nicaragua and has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site. Ranking as the second-largest European fortress in all of Central America, its massive stone walls still echo with centuries of battles fought deep within the jungle.
Facts:
The Ghostly Fire of Rafaela Herrera (1762)
The stone walls of El Castillo are famous for two legendary tales, and the first belongs to a fierce 19-year-old woman named Rafaela Herrera.
In 1762, during the Seven Years' War, a massive British fleet sailed up the river to seize the fortress. Right at that critical moment, the Spanish fortress commander—Rafaela’s father—suddenly died. With the garrison losing hope and facing defeat, Rafaela took command.
Under the pitch-black cover of night, the British heavily bombarded the fort. Rafaela executed a brilliant, desperate trick: she soaked large linen sheets in petroleum, set them ablaze, and launched them floating down the river. The drifting, burning sheets completely lit up the dark waters, stripping the British fleet of their cover. Caught completely exposed in the glowing night, the invaders were easily bombarded and forced into a chaotic retreat.
Facts:
Lord Nelson and the Defeat by the Jungle (1779)
The second famous tale involves a young, ambitious British captain who would later become world-renowned as Lord Nelson.
In 1779, Nelson was sent on a mission to capture the Spanish stronghold. He led an army of 600 British soldiers and 400 Miskito warriors, striking from the landward side. The attack was a success, and they successfully seized the fortress.
However, Matías de Gálvez, the Spanish Captain General of Central America, didn’t rush to launch a bloody counter-attack. He knew he didn't need to—he knew the jungle would do the dirty work for him.
The Spaniards simply cut off all supplies and waited. Before long, the Miskito warriors grew bored of the stagnant siege and abandoned the fort first. The British soldiers held out, but starvation and brutal tropical diseases quickly tore through their ranks, drastically reducing their numbers. After less than a year of misery, Captain Nelson was forced to call for a humiliating retreat. The Spaniards marched right back into their fortress without firing a single shot or losing a single man. The jungle had won.
Lord Nelson and the Defeat by the Jungle (1779)
The second famous tale involves a young, ambitious British captain who would later become world-renowned as Lord Nelson.
In 1779, Nelson was sent on a mission to capture the Spanish stronghold. He led an army of 600 British soldiers and 400 Miskito warriors, striking from the landward side. The attack was a success, and they successfully seized the fortress.
However, Matías de Gálvez, the Spanish Captain General of Central America, didn’t rush to launch a bloody counter-attack. He knew he didn't need to—he knew the jungle would do the dirty work for him.
The Spaniards simply cut off all supplies and waited. Before long, the Miskito warriors grew bored of the stagnant siege and abandoned the fort first. The British soldiers held out, but starvation and brutal tropical diseases quickly tore through their ranks, drastically reducing their numbers. After less than a year of misery, Captain Nelson was forced to call for a humiliating retreat. The Spaniards marched right back into their fortress without firing a single shot or losing a single man. The jungle had won.
Enter the Kajaks
While we were stranded, destiny stepped in. First, we ran into Rivo, a traveler from Estonia who was also desperately trying to make it to San Juan del Norte. Then, the three of us met Miguel. Miguel was a Nica who had lived in the United States for a while and had brought back two professional ocean kayaks. He had a wild dream: he wanted to launch the very first kayak-tourism business on the Río San Juan.
Since he needed to test the route, Miguel made Rivo and me a mind-blowing offer: he would guide us all the way down to San Juan del Norte in the kayaks—completely for free. It was his absolute first trial run.
We accepted on the spot. What was supposed to be a standard boat ride turned into a grueling, exhilarating 5-day jungle paddle into the absolute wild. And the river had some unforgettable, heavy stories waiting for us along the way...
While we were stranded, destiny stepped in. First, we ran into Rivo, a traveler from Estonia who was also desperately trying to make it to San Juan del Norte. Then, the three of us met Miguel. Miguel was a Nica who had lived in the United States for a while and had brought back two professional ocean kayaks. He had a wild dream: he wanted to launch the very first kayak-tourism business on the Río San Juan.
Since he needed to test the route, Miguel made Rivo and me a mind-blowing offer: he would guide us all the way down to San Juan del Norte in the kayaks—completely for free. It was his absolute first trial run.
We accepted on the spot. What was supposed to be a standard boat ride turned into a grueling, exhilarating 5-day jungle paddle into the absolute wild. And the river had some unforgettable, heavy stories waiting for us along the way...
Facts:
"El Diablo": The Devil's Gates of Río San Juan
Directly in front of the sleepy village of El Castillo, the river violently transforms. This is Raudal del Diablo(The Devil’s Rapids), historically also known as Raudal de Santa Cruz. It is the single most violent, turbulent, and dangerous stretch of white water along the entire 190-kilometer river.
The geography here creates a sudden, rocky drop in the riverbed, forcing the massive volume of water to accelerate with terrifying speed and force. The facts behind this legendary rapid are wild:
"El Diablo": The Devil's Gates of Río San Juan
Directly in front of the sleepy village of El Castillo, the river violently transforms. This is Raudal del Diablo(The Devil’s Rapids), historically also known as Raudal de Santa Cruz. It is the single most violent, turbulent, and dangerous stretch of white water along the entire 190-kilometer river.
The geography here creates a sudden, rocky drop in the riverbed, forcing the massive volume of water to accelerate with terrifying speed and force. The facts behind this legendary rapid are wild:
- The Indigenous Legend: Long before the Spaniards arrived, the local indigenous tribes named this specific stretch the "Devil's Rapid" because they believed evil spirits ruled the treacherous currents.
- The Reason for the Fortress: The rapids are the exact reason the Spanish built the massive fort on the hill in 1673. Because "El Diablo" was so violent, pirate ships and incoming invaders couldn't just sail past—they were forced to slow down or completely stall to navigate the rocks. This made them sitting ducks for the heavy cannons of La Inmaculada Concepción.
- The Navigator's Nightmare: For generations, it has been a serious navigational hazard. Even today, local motorized Pangas (river boats) require highly experienced local captains to maneuver through the raging torrent. Large steamboats during the 1850s Gold Rush often couldn't pass at all, forcing passengers to disembark and walk around the rapids—which is how the village originally grew
Shooting the Devil’s Rapids and the Shimmering Steam (2002)
Conquering "El Diablo"
Early in the morning, we loaded our gear into Miguel’s untested ocean kayaks right above the roaring drop. There was no turning back. We dug our paddles into the churning white water and headed straight into Raudal del Diablo. The current was vicious, tossing us around like toothpicks. Water violently crashed over the bows, completely flooding the cockpits. Against all odds, we didn't flip—but we emerged on the other side thoroughly soaked, with all our gear and equipment completely drenched. It was a brutal, wake-up slap from the river.
Conquering "El Diablo"
Early in the morning, we loaded our gear into Miguel’s untested ocean kayaks right above the roaring drop. There was no turning back. We dug our paddles into the churning white water and headed straight into Raudal del Diablo. The current was vicious, tossing us around like toothpicks. Water violently crashed over the bows, completely flooding the cockpits. Against all odds, we didn't flip—but we emerged on the other side thoroughly soaked, with all our gear and equipment completely drenched. It was a brutal, wake-up slap from the river.
The Mystery of the River Steam
As the adrenaline began to fade and the heavy jungle silence returned, the river threw a breathtaking, eerie phenomenon at us. The water was suddenly swallowed by thick, heavy blankets of low-hanging fog, turning the jungle into a mysterious, ghostly landscape.
The scientific riddle behind my crazy photos from that morning was simple but fascinating: the river's water temperature at dawn was a staggering 35°C (95°F). As this warm, tropical water collided with the cool morning air, the entire river literally began to boil into steam, creating a giant, natural sauna that masked our path into the deep wild.
As the adrenaline began to fade and the heavy jungle silence returned, the river threw a breathtaking, eerie phenomenon at us. The water was suddenly swallowed by thick, heavy blankets of low-hanging fog, turning the jungle into a mysterious, ghostly landscape.
The scientific riddle behind my crazy photos from that morning was simple but fascinating: the river's water temperature at dawn was a staggering 35°C (95°F). As this warm, tropical water collided with the cool morning air, the entire river literally began to boil into steam, creating a giant, natural sauna that masked our path into the deep wild.
Paddling the Low Tide: The 5-Day Grind
Slowly, the mystery dissolves. The sun cuts through the heavy steam, sending its first warm rays piercing through the fog, and a long, exhausting day on the water officially begins.
For ordinary travelers, navigating the 190 kilometers on a large, 65-passenger Lancha takes about 8 hours—but that entirely depends on the season. During the dry months, the Río San Juan drops to incredibly low water levels, turning the journey into an absolute gamble. When the heavy wooden boat scrapes the shallow riverbed and grinds to a halt, the captain issues a classic command: "All hands in the water!" Every passenger has to jump over board into the muddy current and literally help push the massive barge across the sandbars.
It is a wild, unpredictable adventure for anyone on board. But for us, sitting just inches above the water line in our heavily flooded kayaks, there was no engine and no pushing crew. We were entirely on our own, facing a grueling 5 days of pure paddling ahead of us through the shifting currents
Slowly, the mystery dissolves. The sun cuts through the heavy steam, sending its first warm rays piercing through the fog, and a long, exhausting day on the water officially begins.
For ordinary travelers, navigating the 190 kilometers on a large, 65-passenger Lancha takes about 8 hours—but that entirely depends on the season. During the dry months, the Río San Juan drops to incredibly low water levels, turning the journey into an absolute gamble. When the heavy wooden boat scrapes the shallow riverbed and grinds to a halt, the captain issues a classic command: "All hands in the water!" Every passenger has to jump over board into the muddy current and literally help push the massive barge across the sandbars.
It is a wild, unpredictable adventure for anyone on board. But for us, sitting just inches above the water line in our heavily flooded kayaks, there was no engine and no pushing crew. We were entirely on our own, facing a grueling 5 days of pure paddling ahead of us through the shifting currents
Facts:
The Great Divide: The Screaming Jungle and The 5,000mm Wall
Paddling deeper into the corridor, the sheer scale of the landscape and fauna becomes unmatched. The heavy jungle air is constantly pierced by the territorial, guttural roars of howler monkeys echoing from the dense canopy as the riverbed twists through pristine nature.
Yet, there is a striking, man-made contrast along the way. While the Nicaraguan side remains wild, the southern riverbanks belonging to Costa Rica have been heavily cleared and transformed into flat, open farmland. But all of that abruptly changes once you hit The Delta.
The Delta is a massive, 350-meter-wide fork in the river. Here, the water splits: the roaring Río Colorado breaks off and heads south into Costa Rica, while the Río San Juan dissolves into a mesmerizing, chaotic labyrinth of over 300 islands, heading straight toward San Juan del Norte, Nicaragua.
Once you pass this watery crossroads, you learn what the term "rainforest" truly means. This specific stretch of the Atlantic/Caribbean coast is one of the absolute wettest and most punishing environments in all of the Americas, bombarded by a staggering 5,000 mm (nearly 200 inches) of rainfall every single year.
The Great Divide: The Screaming Jungle and The 5,000mm Wall
Paddling deeper into the corridor, the sheer scale of the landscape and fauna becomes unmatched. The heavy jungle air is constantly pierced by the territorial, guttural roars of howler monkeys echoing from the dense canopy as the riverbed twists through pristine nature.
Yet, there is a striking, man-made contrast along the way. While the Nicaraguan side remains wild, the southern riverbanks belonging to Costa Rica have been heavily cleared and transformed into flat, open farmland. But all of that abruptly changes once you hit The Delta.
The Delta is a massive, 350-meter-wide fork in the river. Here, the water splits: the roaring Río Colorado breaks off and heads south into Costa Rica, while the Río San Juan dissolves into a mesmerizing, chaotic labyrinth of over 300 islands, heading straight toward San Juan del Norte, Nicaragua.
Once you pass this watery crossroads, you learn what the term "rainforest" truly means. This specific stretch of the Atlantic/Caribbean coast is one of the absolute wettest and most punishing environments in all of the Americas, bombarded by a staggering 5,000 mm (nearly 200 inches) of rainfall every single year.
Surviving the Border: Huts, Hammocks, and Barter Towns
Because the Nicaraguan side of the river was a completely uninhabited wall of dense jungle, the Costa Rican banks (the Tica side) became our lifeline. Since the Río San Juan is a strict border river, we spent almost every evening looking for shelter among the local families living on the southern shore.
The hospitality was raw and humbling. We slept in simple wooden huts, stringing our hammocks across the rafters while the open, traditional wood fires filled the rooms with smoke, slowly cooking the evening meals.
During the grueling days on the water, we didn't just paddle; we fished. We threw lines into the muddy currents, and whatever we caught became our currency. In the evenings, we used our fresh catch to barter with the locals, trading fish for essential staples like rice and beans. It was a beautiful, timeless way of survival—relying entirely on the river, our hands, and the kindness of strangers in the middle of nowhere.
Because the Nicaraguan side of the river was a completely uninhabited wall of dense jungle, the Costa Rican banks (the Tica side) became our lifeline. Since the Río San Juan is a strict border river, we spent almost every evening looking for shelter among the local families living on the southern shore.
The hospitality was raw and humbling. We slept in simple wooden huts, stringing our hammocks across the rafters while the open, traditional wood fires filled the rooms with smoke, slowly cooking the evening meals.
During the grueling days on the water, we didn't just paddle; we fished. We threw lines into the muddy currents, and whatever we caught became our currency. In the evenings, we used our fresh catch to barter with the locals, trading fish for essential staples like rice and beans. It was a beautiful, timeless way of survival—relying entirely on the river, our hands, and the kindness of strangers in the middle of nowhere.
The Cash-Flow Commando: An Illegal Border Run
By the third day of our expedition, Miguel dropped a financial bombshell on us. He revealed that San Juan del Norte was just a tiny, isolated outpost with absolutely zero infrastructure—meaning there was no bank, no ATM, and no way on earth to get cash once we arrived.
That evening, we managed to land at a jungle resort on the Costa Rican side of the river. The owner let us in on a local secret: early every morning, a boat shuttle arrived to collect people from the riverbanks and take them deep into Costa Rica to the town of Puerto Viejo (Sarapiquí).
There was just one major problem: we were completely illegal in Costa Rica.
Since the Río San Juan is a strict border, we had been camping and eating on the Tica side without a single entry stamp in our passports. If we got caught, it meant serious trouble. But with our wallets empty and no other choice, we decided to roll the dice. We hopped onto the morning shuttle, our hearts in our throats, praying for no military or police checkpoints.
Lady Luck was on our side. We slipped through completely unnoticed, made it to Puerto Viejo, hit the bank, and managed to stock up on cash and essential supplies. By midday, we were already sprinting back onto the boat, heading straight back to our jungle sanctuary on the river before anyone could ask for our papers.
By the third day of our expedition, Miguel dropped a financial bombshell on us. He revealed that San Juan del Norte was just a tiny, isolated outpost with absolutely zero infrastructure—meaning there was no bank, no ATM, and no way on earth to get cash once we arrived.
That evening, we managed to land at a jungle resort on the Costa Rican side of the river. The owner let us in on a local secret: early every morning, a boat shuttle arrived to collect people from the riverbanks and take them deep into Costa Rica to the town of Puerto Viejo (Sarapiquí).
There was just one major problem: we were completely illegal in Costa Rica.
Since the Río San Juan is a strict border, we had been camping and eating on the Tica side without a single entry stamp in our passports. If we got caught, it meant serious trouble. But with our wallets empty and no other choice, we decided to roll the dice. We hopped onto the morning shuttle, our hearts in our throats, praying for no military or police checkpoints.
Lady Luck was on our side. We slipped through completely unnoticed, made it to Puerto Viejo, hit the bank, and managed to stock up on cash and essential supplies. By midday, we were already sprinting back onto the boat, heading straight back to our jungle sanctuary on the river before anyone could ask for our papers.
The Guaro-Fueled Twilight Paddle
The next morning, the reality of the river hit us hard. We were all completely exhausted. I was sharing a tandem kayak with Miguel, trying to sync our strokes, while Rivo was fighting a brutal solo battle in his boat. Every muscle in our arms was screaming.
Then, late in the afternoon on the Tica side, a miracle appeared directly on the riverbank: a hidden, rustic bar with its own makeshift dock where we could park our kayaks right out front.
In these remote corners of the world, there are no delivery trucks or steady supply chains, so the locals take matters into their own hands. Enter Guaro—a moonshine rum distilled right in the jungle. It tasted dangerously sweet, masking its brutal potency. We started drinking and celebrating with the locals, completely losing track of time until the sun plunged below the canopy.
Suddenly, it was pitch black, and we realized we still had a long way to paddle to our campsite.
What followed was pure, chaotic magic. We pushed the kayaks back into the ink-black current, completely drunk, singing at the top of our lungs, and laughing into the dark jungle night. The arms that had been heavy and useless just hours ago felt absolutely weightless, fueled by the adrenaline and the Guaro. We had incredible, wild luck that night. Navigating completely blind through the moving water, we somehow made it safely to our final night camp before the river could punish our recklessness.
The next morning, the reality of the river hit us hard. We were all completely exhausted. I was sharing a tandem kayak with Miguel, trying to sync our strokes, while Rivo was fighting a brutal solo battle in his boat. Every muscle in our arms was screaming.
Then, late in the afternoon on the Tica side, a miracle appeared directly on the riverbank: a hidden, rustic bar with its own makeshift dock where we could park our kayaks right out front.
In these remote corners of the world, there are no delivery trucks or steady supply chains, so the locals take matters into their own hands. Enter Guaro—a moonshine rum distilled right in the jungle. It tasted dangerously sweet, masking its brutal potency. We started drinking and celebrating with the locals, completely losing track of time until the sun plunged below the canopy.
Suddenly, it was pitch black, and we realized we still had a long way to paddle to our campsite.
What followed was pure, chaotic magic. We pushed the kayaks back into the ink-black current, completely drunk, singing at the top of our lungs, and laughing into the dark jungle night. The arms that had been heavy and useless just hours ago felt absolutely weightless, fueled by the adrenaline and the Guaro. We had incredible, wild luck that night. Navigating completely blind through the moving water, we somehow made it safely to our final night camp before the river could punish our recklessness.
Facts:
"La Barra": The Shark-Infested Trap of the Atlantic Reaching the very end of the 190-kilometer journey throws one final, terrifying obstacle at you: a massive, deceptive sandbank known as "La Barra." This wall of sand completely blocks your direct view of the open ocean. And here lies a lethal trap. The locals strictly call this sea the Atlantic, rather than the Caribbean, because the waters are vicious, violent, and completely unpredictable. If you do not know the secret navigation route, you fall straight into a deadly gamble. For centuries, countless sailors have fallen victim to their own ignorance right at this crossroads. Once you accidentally pass the protection of the sandbank, you are instantly swallowed by the open, raging sea—a territory heavily infested with hungry sharks waiting for unsuspecting prey. To safely reach the Bahía de San Juan and the safety of the village, you have to break north. The hidden key is the Río Indio, a river flowing out of the northern jungle that shares the exact same mouth into the Atlantic as the Río San Juan. This side river is the true gateway to survival. Tucked safely along its banks lies our ultimate destination: the sleepy, isolated outpost of San Juan del Norte, home to barely 300 residents. |
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La Barra
The Final Blast and the Shocking Reunion
The final stretch of the river was absolute madness. Suddenly, the protective canopy vanished, and we were pushed out into a massive, open bay. The swell was terrifyingly heavy, the waves were crashing hard, and the undercurrents were completely unpredictable, pulling at our hulls. We dug our paddles in with the last ounce of strength we had left. Against all odds, after five grueling days of navigating the wild "Mini-Amazon," we successfully made it into the safety of San Juan del Norte.
The final stretch of the river was absolute madness. Suddenly, the protective canopy vanished, and we were pushed out into a massive, open bay. The swell was terrifyingly heavy, the waves were crashing hard, and the undercurrents were completely unpredictable, pulling at our hulls. We dug our paddles in with the last ounce of strength we had left. Against all odds, after five grueling days of navigating the wild "Mini-Amazon," we successfully made it into the safety of San Juan del Norte.
More surprises!
But the river had one last, hilarious twist waiting for us at the shoreline.
Just as our kayaks scraped the sand to dock, a loud engine echoed across the water. The official Lancha—the very transit boat we had missed twice in El Castillo—came roaring past us to unload its passengers. As I looked up from my seat, I couldn't believe my eyes. Standing on the deck was Paul, looking completely relaxed, alongside a group of international backpackers we had spent time with weeks ago in Mérida on Isla Ometepe!
The reunion on that remote beach was massive. While we were sun-baked, salt-crusted, and completely running on adrenaline from paddling across the country, they had simply cruised down the river. We were laughing and shouting in disbelief, celebrating our survival on the edge of the world. But as we stepped into the tiny village of 300 people, the peace didn't last long—because the next set of dangerous surprises was already waiting for us in the shadows...
But the river had one last, hilarious twist waiting for us at the shoreline.
Just as our kayaks scraped the sand to dock, a loud engine echoed across the water. The official Lancha—the very transit boat we had missed twice in El Castillo—came roaring past us to unload its passengers. As I looked up from my seat, I couldn't believe my eyes. Standing on the deck was Paul, looking completely relaxed, alongside a group of international backpackers we had spent time with weeks ago in Mérida on Isla Ometepe!
The reunion on that remote beach was massive. While we were sun-baked, salt-crusted, and completely running on adrenaline from paddling across the country, they had simply cruised down the river. We were laughing and shouting in disbelief, celebrating our survival on the edge of the world. But as we stepped into the tiny village of 300 people, the peace didn't last long—because the next set of dangerous surprises was already waiting for us in the shadows...
Beach of San Juan del Norte: Where You Don't Fish for Fish – You Fish for Drugs!
Facts:
The Floating White Gold
Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast occupies a flawless, dark strategic position for the international drug trade. Floating right off the shoreline lies the island of San Andrés, a Colombian territory acting as a major transit hub. Whenever the Colombian cartels run into high-seas military raids or naval patrols, they don't fight—they dump the cargo. Millions of dollars worth of tightly sealed cocaine bundles or cash are thrown overboard. While it’s a loss for Colombia, it is the ultimate jackpot for the coastal Nicaraguans. The tides wash these floating packages straight onto the remote beaches of San Juan del Norte, where locals only need to walk the sand and pick them up.
The Floating White Gold
Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast occupies a flawless, dark strategic position for the international drug trade. Floating right off the shoreline lies the island of San Andrés, a Colombian territory acting as a major transit hub. Whenever the Colombian cartels run into high-seas military raids or naval patrols, they don't fight—they dump the cargo. Millions of dollars worth of tightly sealed cocaine bundles or cash are thrown overboard. While it’s a loss for Colombia, it is the ultimate jackpot for the coastal Nicaraguans. The tides wash these floating packages straight onto the remote beaches of San Juan del Norte, where locals only need to walk the sand and pick them up.
The 2.5-Hour Fish Meal
This bizarre black-market reality dictates everything in the village, right down to the local menus. If you walk into the only restaurant in San Juan del Norte and order a seafood dinner, you better bring a mountain of patience. We ordered a delicate fish dish and sat there waiting for a staggering two and a half hours before our food finally arrived.
When the landlady served the fresh, delicious catch, she laughed and gave us a serious piece of advice: "Next time, please tell me at noon if you want fish for dinner. I always have to find and send someone out to the ocean to actually catch it first!"
This bizarre black-market reality dictates everything in the village, right down to the local menus. If you walk into the only restaurant in San Juan del Norte and order a seafood dinner, you better bring a mountain of patience. We ordered a delicate fish dish and sat there waiting for a staggering two and a half hours before our food finally arrived.
When the landlady served the fresh, delicious catch, she laughed and gave us a serious piece of advice: "Next time, please tell me at noon if you want fish for dinner. I always have to find and send someone out to the ocean to actually catch it first!"
The Bags of Weed
The reason for the delay was simple: nobody in San Juan del Norte wastes their day fishing for food when they can fish for contraband. The ocean provides a much higher paycheck. In fact, the market is so flooded that if a traveler just wants to smoke a tiny, casual joint, the locals don't deal in small baggies. For just a few US dollars, they will literally hand you an entire burlap sack overflowing with marijuana. It might be a little damp from the salty Atlantic surf, but it’s perfectly preserved. Welcome to the edge of the world, where the ocean feeds a completely different kind of hunger.
The reason for the delay was simple: nobody in San Juan del Norte wastes their day fishing for food when they can fish for contraband. The ocean provides a much higher paycheck. In fact, the market is so flooded that if a traveler just wants to smoke a tiny, casual joint, the locals don't deal in small baggies. For just a few US dollars, they will literally hand you an entire burlap sack overflowing with marijuana. It might be a little damp from the salty Atlantic surf, but it’s perfectly preserved. Welcome to the edge of the world, where the ocean feeds a completely different kind of hunger.
The Viper Room, The Theft, and A $100 Comic Bounty
The Creole Host and His Venomous Pet
Back in 2002, San Juan del Norte offered exactly two options to sleep. We ended up staying with a man named Tío, a Creole host originally from Bluefields. Our welcome to his house was unforgettable: Tío casually introduced us to his "house pet"—a highly venomous jungle snake that slithered around the property and inside the house! Tío didn't have a single care in the world about it, but for everybody of us, sleeping in a room knowing a toxic viper was roaming the floorboards was a bit more than uncomfortable.
The Creole Host and His Venomous Pet
Back in 2002, San Juan del Norte offered exactly two options to sleep. We ended up staying with a man named Tío, a Creole host originally from Bluefields. Our welcome to his house was unforgettable: Tío casually introduced us to his "house pet"—a highly venomous jungle snake that slithered around the property and inside the house! Tío didn't have a single care in the world about it, but for everybody of us, sleeping in a room knowing a toxic viper was roaming the floorboards was a bit more than uncomfortable.
The Open Window Crime
Things quickly went from sketchy to worse. We spent the next day exploring the remote corners of the village. But when we returned after dark, my heart dropped. Paul had left our bedroom window wide open, and my large main backpack was completely gone. Stolen.
A wave of pure relief hit me when I checked my daypack—thank god my passport and airline tickets (back in the days of actual paper tickets!) were glued to my side. I immediately marched over to the local police station. The officers sat there, completely bored and utterly disinterested, lazily writing down my report. Something felt incredibly off about their lack of care.
The Ransom for My Art
I realized the police wouldn't help me, so I took matters into my own hands. I went straight to the locals in the village and made a loud, clear announcement: I didn't give a damn about the backpack or the clothes inside it. But that bag contained my life’s work—my original hand-drawn comic illustrations (the very passion behind my website, MARYsCOMIX).
I put a bounty out: 100 US Dollars cash to anyone who returned my drawings, no questions asked. In 2002, a hundred bucks was an absolute fortune for a local Nicaraguan. I told the village they had exactly one week to find them.
Why one week? Because destiny had already lined up our next wild move. Right at that moment, we crossed paths with the indigenous Rama nation, and we were about to disappear with them deep into the untouched jungle for the next seven days...
Things quickly went from sketchy to worse. We spent the next day exploring the remote corners of the village. But when we returned after dark, my heart dropped. Paul had left our bedroom window wide open, and my large main backpack was completely gone. Stolen.
A wave of pure relief hit me when I checked my daypack—thank god my passport and airline tickets (back in the days of actual paper tickets!) were glued to my side. I immediately marched over to the local police station. The officers sat there, completely bored and utterly disinterested, lazily writing down my report. Something felt incredibly off about their lack of care.
The Ransom for My Art
I realized the police wouldn't help me, so I took matters into my own hands. I went straight to the locals in the village and made a loud, clear announcement: I didn't give a damn about the backpack or the clothes inside it. But that bag contained my life’s work—my original hand-drawn comic illustrations (the very passion behind my website, MARYsCOMIX).
I put a bounty out: 100 US Dollars cash to anyone who returned my drawings, no questions asked. In 2002, a hundred bucks was an absolute fortune for a local Nicaraguan. I told the village they had exactly one week to find them.
Why one week? Because destiny had already lined up our next wild move. Right at that moment, we crossed paths with the indigenous Rama nation, and we were about to disappear with them deep into the untouched jungle for the next seven days...
San Juan del Norte
(since 1993)
Facts:
Geography & Isolation
Geography & Isolation
- Location: Extreme southeast corner of Nicaragua, where the Río San Juan meets the Caribbean.
- Access: To this day, no roads connect the town to the rest of the country. Travel is strictly by river or sea.
- Climate: One of the wettest inhabited places in the Americas, with up to 5,000mm of annual rainfall.
- The Historic Port: The original town, historically known as Greytown, was a bustling international free port in the 19th century.
- The War: On April 9, 1984, during the Contra War, the town was heavily bombarded by ARDE rebels.
- The Aftermath: The historic town burned completely to the ground. The entire population fled—most crossing illegally into Costa Rica, while others scattered to Bluefields or Managua. The area became an empty jungle ghost town.
The New Village (1990–1994)
- The Return: Following the peace accords in 1990, the first 30 refugee families and a few demobilized soldiers returned.
- The Relocation: Because old Greytown was entirely destroyed and overgrown, they rebuilt the village a few kilometers northwest along the riverbanks.
- The Construction: Between 1993 and 1994, the basic layout of this new, planned settlement was finished. When you arrived in 2002, the village was just 8 to 9 years old.
- The Official Shift: In 2002, the Nicaraguan National Assembly legally changed the municipality's name from San Juan del Norte to San Juan de Nicaragua, though locals and older maps stick to the original name.
Rio Indio
Laguna Azul
The Celebration at Laguna Azul
Before the chaos of the stolen backpack hit us, we had one final, perfect day to celebrate our successful five-day jungle expedition. Rivo, Miguel, and I took the kayaks on a day trip to the stunning Laguna Azul along the Río Indio. Surrounded by the deep, silent rainforest, we raised our glasses, laughed, and toasted to the wild 190-kilometer grind we had just conquered.
After the celebration, it was time to say goodbye to Miguel. His mission was complete, and he had to return upriver to El Castillo. Luckily, he didn't have to paddle back against the heavy current. The captain of the Lancha agreed to tow his two ocean kayaks behind the massive transit boat on its return journey, leaving Miguel to enjoy a well-deserved, relaxed ride back home. With Miguel gone, Rivo and I were left to explore the newly built village—completely unaware of the snake, the open window, and the crime that was about to unfold.
The Celebration at Laguna Azul
Before the chaos of the stolen backpack hit us, we had one final, perfect day to celebrate our successful five-day jungle expedition. Rivo, Miguel, and I took the kayaks on a day trip to the stunning Laguna Azul along the Río Indio. Surrounded by the deep, silent rainforest, we raised our glasses, laughed, and toasted to the wild 190-kilometer grind we had just conquered.
After the celebration, it was time to say goodbye to Miguel. His mission was complete, and he had to return upriver to El Castillo. Luckily, he didn't have to paddle back against the heavy current. The captain of the Lancha agreed to tow his two ocean kayaks behind the massive transit boat on its return journey, leaving Miguel to enjoy a well-deserved, relaxed ride back home. With Miguel gone, Rivo and I were left to explore the newly built village—completely unaware of the snake, the open window, and the crime that was about to unfold.
San Juan Vieja alias Greytown
The Rama Connection and the Path to Greytown
Just as the shock of the stolen backpack and my missing comic drawings settled in, destiny introduced us to the true keepers of the jungle. We crossed paths with the local Rama community, specifically meeting Chief Coyote and a dedicated school teacher named Alicia. Living in extreme isolation and constantly fighting for their ancestral land rights, the community relied on raw hustle to survive. To help them out financially and secure some income for their people, they offered to take us on a guided day trip into the dense jungle to visit the ruins of historic Greytown.
With my $100 comic bounty echoing through the village grapevine and a week to kill, we jumped at the chance. We loaded into their boat and set off with Chief Coyote and Alicia, heading straight downriver toward the ghost town that the rainforest had spent the last two decades trying to swallow whole.
The Rama Connection and the Path to Greytown
Just as the shock of the stolen backpack and my missing comic drawings settled in, destiny introduced us to the true keepers of the jungle. We crossed paths with the local Rama community, specifically meeting Chief Coyote and a dedicated school teacher named Alicia. Living in extreme isolation and constantly fighting for their ancestral land rights, the community relied on raw hustle to survive. To help them out financially and secure some income for their people, they offered to take us on a guided day trip into the dense jungle to visit the ruins of historic Greytown.
With my $100 comic bounty echoing through the village grapevine and a week to kill, we jumped at the chance. We loaded into their boat and set off with Chief Coyote and Alicia, heading straight downriver toward the ghost town that the rainforest had spent the last two decades trying to swallow whole.
Two Worlds and the Ghost Ship of the Bay
To truly understand this place, you have to realize there are actually two different versions of San Juan del Norte. First, there is the modern village built in 1993 along the Río Indio, where refugees finally settled after returning from their exile in Costa Rica. Then, hidden a few kilometers away, lies San Juan Viejo—the legendary, tragic ghost city known as Greytown.
During the brutal 1980s civil war between the Sandinistas and the Contras, Greytown was mercilessly burned to the ground. Today, the rainforest holds the charred remains of what used to be a monumental global crossroads. Walking through the ruins, you are hit by the ghosts of a massive past filled with towering steamships and the aggressive, billion-dollar colonial plans to carve a transoceanic canal linking the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans right through this jungle.
The historic scale smacks you in the face the exact moment you enter the Bahía de San Juan. The bay is so staggeringly vast it feels like an inland lake. Sitting right in the center of the water, rising like a rusted iron monster from the currents, is "La Draga"—a massive, 100-year-old steam dredge abandoned and frozen in time. It stands as a silent sentinel at the watery gateway, marking the exact entrance to the forgotten ruins of Greytown.
To truly understand this place, you have to realize there are actually two different versions of San Juan del Norte. First, there is the modern village built in 1993 along the Río Indio, where refugees finally settled after returning from their exile in Costa Rica. Then, hidden a few kilometers away, lies San Juan Viejo—the legendary, tragic ghost city known as Greytown.
During the brutal 1980s civil war between the Sandinistas and the Contras, Greytown was mercilessly burned to the ground. Today, the rainforest holds the charred remains of what used to be a monumental global crossroads. Walking through the ruins, you are hit by the ghosts of a massive past filled with towering steamships and the aggressive, billion-dollar colonial plans to carve a transoceanic canal linking the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans right through this jungle.
The historic scale smacks you in the face the exact moment you enter the Bahía de San Juan. The bay is so staggeringly vast it feels like an inland lake. Sitting right in the center of the water, rising like a rusted iron monster from the currents, is "La Draga"—a massive, 100-year-old steam dredge abandoned and frozen in time. It stands as a silent sentinel at the watery gateway, marking the exact entrance to the forgotten ruins of Greytown.
The Forgotten Pier and the Four Jungled Cemeteries
Stepping off Chief Coyote’s boat, we set foot onto the rotten planks of the old, decaying pier. Walking the overgrown paths through the scattered remnants of the town was a deeply haunting, melancholy experience.
Originally founded under the Spanish Crown, this strategic outpost was seized by the British in 1848. They renamed it Greytown in honor of the Governor of Jamaica, Sir Charles Grey. Today, the deep jungle has almost completely swallowed that entire era of British and international dominance.
The most striking evidence of Greytown's vanished, multicultural society is hidden deep beneath the thick green canopy. Looming out of the wild vines and tangled roots are four completely separate, abandoned burial grounds: the Catholic, the American, the Masonic, and the Evangelical cemeteries. My camera captured these eerie, solitary tombstones slowly cracking apart, completely left to rot and vegetate in the suffocating silence of the rainforest.
The Ghosts in the Undergrowth
We pushed deeper into the foliage and found the haunting remnants of the historic cemeteries. Moss-covered tombstones loomed from the dirt, marking the final resting places of the diverse, international settlers who once built this town—including many Europeans who had traveled across the globe only to be buried in the Central American mud.
The image from my archives captures the heavy weight of that forgotten graveyard, freezing a moment of our discovery in time.
The deep jungle felt like an eerie, open-air ghost museum. Scattered among the roots and vines lay the rusted, skeletal remains of everyday nineteenth-century life: a collapsed iron bed frame, a heavily oxidized sewing machine, ornate gate railings, a massive iron bowl, and even the old church bell that had once summoned the entire town to mass. It was utterly ghostly—a vibrant global community completely erased, with nothing left but rusted metal and names on cracking stone fading into the green silence.
Mark Twain’s Paradise Lost (1866)
The ghostly silence of the jungle stands in brutal contrast to how the world once saw this place. In 1866, during his journey from New York to California, the legendary American writer Mark Twain passed through Greytown and painted a completely different picture of the harbor:
"Greytown is a paradise. The village consists of 200 old wooden houses, surrounded by beautiful green spaces, with the entire scene framed by the majestic steamships resting in the Bahía San Juan. The population of 800 people is a completely mixed race of locals (Nicaraguans), Americans, Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen, and Jamaicans."
Reading his words while standing amidst the suffocating vines makes your head spin. The bustling, multicultural paradise Twain described—with its German merchants, English officers, and American gold prospectors—has been utterly wiped off the face of the earth. The 200 wooden houses are long gone, burned to ash, leaving only the rusted iron tools and the crumbling international graves we stumbled upon to prove his paradise ever existed.
The ghostly silence of the jungle stands in brutal contrast to how the world once saw this place. In 1866, during his journey from New York to California, the legendary American writer Mark Twain passed through Greytown and painted a completely different picture of the harbor:
"Greytown is a paradise. The village consists of 200 old wooden houses, surrounded by beautiful green spaces, with the entire scene framed by the majestic steamships resting in the Bahía San Juan. The population of 800 people is a completely mixed race of locals (Nicaraguans), Americans, Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen, and Jamaicans."
Reading his words while standing amidst the suffocating vines makes your head spin. The bustling, multicultural paradise Twain described—with its German merchants, English officers, and American gold prospectors—has been utterly wiped off the face of the earth. The 200 wooden houses are long gone, burned to ash, leaving only the rusted iron tools and the crumbling international graves we stumbled upon to prove his paradise ever existed.
The Booming Transit and the Vicious Bombardment of 1854
Mark Twain also noted how the roaring transit business transformed the entire town. Because of the massive influx of gold seekers stepping off the steamships, practically every single house in Greytown became a guesthouse, where a traveler could secure a very good bed for just one dollar.
But this lucrative, booming gateway was also a frequent target for foreign military aggression. One of the most brutal chapters occurred in 1854, long before the Contra War finished the city off.
An American transit worker heavily provoked the locals, resulting in an altercation where a resident was killed. As riots and anti-American chaos swept through Greytown, the United States responded with overwhelming, retaliatory force.
Taking advantage of the temporary absence of British warships, the American navy sloop USS Cyane unleashed a merciless bombardment on the undefended town. US troops landed, completely plundering and burning the settlement to protest what American public opinion labeled "rebellious violence." A few days later, the British brig Espiegle arrived from Jamaica to finally put an end to the destruction—but the scarred town had already learned how fragile its paradise truly was.
The Billion-Dollar Shortcut: Vanderbilt’s Empire (1848)
Long before the Panama Canal was even a dream, Greytown was the beating heart of global travel. It all started in 1848 when the legendary American industrialist Cornelius Vanderbilt founded his massive interoceanic steamship enterprise.
Vanderbilt realized that the fastest route from New York or New Orleans to the goldfields of San Francisco, California, wasn't across the perilous US mainland—it was right through the wild jungle of Nicaragua. Steamships packed with thousands of fortune hunters would dock in Greytown, transfer to smaller riverboats to fight the currents of the Río San Juan, cross Lake Nicaragua, and take a short carriage ride to the Pacific coast to board another ship to California. This tiny jungle port was a crucial cog in a global empire, generating unimaginable wealth long before it was completely wiped off the map.
Long before the Panama Canal was even a dream, Greytown was the beating heart of global travel. It all started in 1848 when the legendary American industrialist Cornelius Vanderbilt founded his massive interoceanic steamship enterprise.
Vanderbilt realized that the fastest route from New York or New Orleans to the goldfields of San Francisco, California, wasn't across the perilous US mainland—it was right through the wild jungle of Nicaragua. Steamships packed with thousands of fortune hunters would dock in Greytown, transfer to smaller riverboats to fight the currents of the Río San Juan, cross Lake Nicaragua, and take a short carriage ride to the Pacific coast to board another ship to California. This tiny jungle port was a crucial cog in a global empire, generating unimaginable wealth long before it was completely wiped off the map.
The Commodore's Monopoly: 42 Days to Fortune
Facts about Cornelius Vanderbilt. Born in 1794 in New York, Vanderbilt started his transport hustle at just 16 years old. By 1818, he entered the steamship business, buying his first independent vessel in 1829. Through aggressive, calculated expansion, he became one of the wealthiest men in America, universally known as "Commodore Vanderbilt."
When the California Gold Rush exploded, Vanderbilt acted fast. Backed by rigorous topographical studies of the region, he wrote a direct letter to the President of Nicaragua on November 20, 1849. His pitch was bold: he promised to build a fully operational interoceanic steamship company within 90 days. In exchange, he demanded an absolute monopoly—exclusive sea and river rights with zero competition.
Once granted, the massive Gold Rush machinery roared to life. Large ocean liners traveled between the US and Greytown. From there, passengers were transferred to smaller riverboats to fight the currents up to El Castillo. At the foot of the dreaded "El Diablo" rapids, travelers had to disembark, walk around the churning white water, and board a second boat on the upper river to reach San Carlos.
From San Carlos, they crossed the massive Lake Nicaragua to Granada, where a chaotic armada of horse, ox, and donkey carts transported them across the narrow land strip to the Pacific port of San Juan del Sur(then called Puerto Independencia). Finally, they boarded a fresh ocean steamer heading straight for San Francisco.
This grueling but highly efficient 42-day journey became a massive human migration. It is estimated that 84,880 passengers braved the route to California, while another 75,000 made the reverse journey back to New York. The booming jungle highway only came to a halt in 1869 when the transcontinental railroad was completed across the United States. Sensing the shift, Vanderbilt promptly sold his interoceanic shipping empire and transitioned his massive capital into the railroad business.
Facts about Cornelius Vanderbilt. Born in 1794 in New York, Vanderbilt started his transport hustle at just 16 years old. By 1818, he entered the steamship business, buying his first independent vessel in 1829. Through aggressive, calculated expansion, he became one of the wealthiest men in America, universally known as "Commodore Vanderbilt."
When the California Gold Rush exploded, Vanderbilt acted fast. Backed by rigorous topographical studies of the region, he wrote a direct letter to the President of Nicaragua on November 20, 1849. His pitch was bold: he promised to build a fully operational interoceanic steamship company within 90 days. In exchange, he demanded an absolute monopoly—exclusive sea and river rights with zero competition.
Once granted, the massive Gold Rush machinery roared to life. Large ocean liners traveled between the US and Greytown. From there, passengers were transferred to smaller riverboats to fight the currents up to El Castillo. At the foot of the dreaded "El Diablo" rapids, travelers had to disembark, walk around the churning white water, and board a second boat on the upper river to reach San Carlos.
From San Carlos, they crossed the massive Lake Nicaragua to Granada, where a chaotic armada of horse, ox, and donkey carts transported them across the narrow land strip to the Pacific port of San Juan del Sur(then called Puerto Independencia). Finally, they boarded a fresh ocean steamer heading straight for San Francisco.
This grueling but highly efficient 42-day journey became a massive human migration. It is estimated that 84,880 passengers braved the route to California, while another 75,000 made the reverse journey back to New York. The booming jungle highway only came to a halt in 1869 when the transcontinental railroad was completed across the United States. Sensing the shift, Vanderbilt promptly sold his interoceanic shipping empire and transitioned his massive capital into the railroad business.
The Death of the Port: Earthquakes, Ash, and Shallow Waters
Even if the American railroads hadn't killed the transit route, nature was already planning its ultimate destruction. In 1863, a violent earthquake struck the Río San Juan corridor. The disaster caused the entire historic port of Punta Arenas—which sat on a protective sandbank right outside the bay—to sink completely into the ocean waves. Simultaneously, the water depth inside the harbor instantly dropped by three meters, rendering it useless for massive ocean liners.
Today, looking at the shallow, moving currents, it is almost impossible to imagine that massive international steamships ever navigated the Río San Juan. Over the last 150 years, the highly active Arenal Volcano in neighboring Costa Rica continuously spewed tons of sand and volcanic ash into the atmosphere. The heavy tropical rains washed this debris straight into the river system, slowly choking and silting up the waterway decade after decade.
This ongoing environmental suffocation is the exact reason why the river dried up into the shallow labyrinth it is today. The times of global shipping empires are long gone. Today, the water can only handle small 48-passenger wooden lanchas—and during the dry season, as we experienced, you still have to jump overboard to push them across the volcanic sandbars.
Even if the American railroads hadn't killed the transit route, nature was already planning its ultimate destruction. In 1863, a violent earthquake struck the Río San Juan corridor. The disaster caused the entire historic port of Punta Arenas—which sat on a protective sandbank right outside the bay—to sink completely into the ocean waves. Simultaneously, the water depth inside the harbor instantly dropped by three meters, rendering it useless for massive ocean liners.
Today, looking at the shallow, moving currents, it is almost impossible to imagine that massive international steamships ever navigated the Río San Juan. Over the last 150 years, the highly active Arenal Volcano in neighboring Costa Rica continuously spewed tons of sand and volcanic ash into the atmosphere. The heavy tropical rains washed this debris straight into the river system, slowly choking and silting up the waterway decade after decade.
This ongoing environmental suffocation is the exact reason why the river dried up into the shallow labyrinth it is today. The times of global shipping empires are long gone. Today, the water can only handle small 48-passenger wooden lanchas—and during the dry season, as we experienced, you still have to jump overboard to push them across the volcanic sandbars.
The Billionaire Root: The Pellas Dynasty and the Legend of Flor de Caña
There is one more massive puzzle piece to the history of Greytown, and it connects directly to the bottle of 25-year-old Flor de Caña rum that Paul and I tracked down in El Castillo back in 2002.
In 2022, during my return to Nicaragua, I visited the official museum at the Flor de Caña factory in Chichigalpa. I was absolutely blown away by how much of their exhibition was dedicated entirely to the remote jungle of Greytown and the Río San Juan. The reason is simple: the richest and most powerful family dynasty in Nicaragua—the Pellas family—built their entire billionaire empire right on the waves of this river.
In 1875, a young Italian immigrant named Francisco Alfredo Pellas arrived in Nicaragua and aggressively seized the exclusive monopoly for steamship transit across Lake Nicaragua and the Río San Juan. Greytown was his primary eastern gateway. The shipping boom generated an unimaginable fortune for the family, which Francisco used in 1890 to expand into sugar fields and found the legendary Flor de Caña rum brand.
The family never forgot their jungle roots. Today, the empire is run by Nicaragua's first official billionaire, Carlos Pellas. Because their history is so deeply tied to the ghost town, Carlos Pellas personally funded a major historical restoration project in Greytown in 2008. The very signs and pathways that guided Chief Coyote, Alicia, and me through the tangled brush and crumbling international graves were put there by the rum empire itself. Standing in that factory museum in 2022, looking at the old shipping manifests, the full circle of my 20-year journey hit me hard.
There is one more massive puzzle piece to the history of Greytown, and it connects directly to the bottle of 25-year-old Flor de Caña rum that Paul and I tracked down in El Castillo back in 2002.
In 2022, during my return to Nicaragua, I visited the official museum at the Flor de Caña factory in Chichigalpa. I was absolutely blown away by how much of their exhibition was dedicated entirely to the remote jungle of Greytown and the Río San Juan. The reason is simple: the richest and most powerful family dynasty in Nicaragua—the Pellas family—built their entire billionaire empire right on the waves of this river.
In 1875, a young Italian immigrant named Francisco Alfredo Pellas arrived in Nicaragua and aggressively seized the exclusive monopoly for steamship transit across Lake Nicaragua and the Río San Juan. Greytown was his primary eastern gateway. The shipping boom generated an unimaginable fortune for the family, which Francisco used in 1890 to expand into sugar fields and found the legendary Flor de Caña rum brand.
The family never forgot their jungle roots. Today, the empire is run by Nicaragua's first official billionaire, Carlos Pellas. Because their history is so deeply tied to the ghost town, Carlos Pellas personally funded a major historical restoration project in Greytown in 2008. The very signs and pathways that guided Chief Coyote, Alicia, and me through the tangled brush and crumbling international graves were put there by the rum empire itself. Standing in that factory museum in 2022, looking at the old shipping manifests, the full circle of my 20-year journey hit me hard.
The Ghosts on the Water: Ruined Hulks of the River
Paddling down the river, the history isn't just buried under the jungle canopy—it actively floats alongside you. My photos capture a stunning, eerie moment from our expedition: the massive steel hull of a forgotten shipwreck, half-submerged in the muddy brown current and slowly being consumed by the overhanging jungle trees.
These rotting metal giants litter the banks of the Río San Juan, serving as skeletal monuments to the roaring steamship eras of Cornelius Vanderbilt and the Pellas family. Once proudly slicing through the water packed with gold seekers and cargo, they are now just iron reefs, left to rust away in the silent, moving water. Passing them in nothing but a small kayak makes you feel incredibly small, paddling straight through a graveyard of forgotten corporate dreams.
(Remains of a 19th-century steamship on the Rio Sarnoso, a tributary of the Rio San Juan..)
Paddling down the river, the history isn't just buried under the jungle canopy—it actively floats alongside you. My photos capture a stunning, eerie moment from our expedition: the massive steel hull of a forgotten shipwreck, half-submerged in the muddy brown current and slowly being consumed by the overhanging jungle trees.
These rotting metal giants litter the banks of the Río San Juan, serving as skeletal monuments to the roaring steamship eras of Cornelius Vanderbilt and the Pellas family. Once proudly slicing through the water packed with gold seekers and cargo, they are now just iron reefs, left to rust away in the silent, moving water. Passing them in nothing but a small kayak makes you feel incredibly small, paddling straight through a graveyard of forgotten corporate dreams.
(Remains of a 19th-century steamship on the Rio Sarnoso, a tributary of the Rio San Juan..)
The Ghost of the Canal: Blood, Volcanoes, and Forbidden Oceans
Paddling out into the vast, lake-like expanse of the Bahía de San Juan, we steered our boat directly toward the rusted titan rising from the water: "La Draga." This century-old steam dredge is a monumental ghost, marking the exact entry to old Greytown. It stands as a silent witness to the ultimate obsession of this region—the failed dream of an interoceanic canal.
The idea of cutting a canal through Nicaragua was an ancient one. Way back in 1567, King Philip II of Spaincommissioned the very first topographical studies of the area. However, a Jesuit priest issued a terrifying, apocalyptic warning to the crown: he claimed that opening a channel between the Pacific and the Atlantic was an act against God, warning that one ocean would violently empty itself into the other, destroying the earth.
Despite the holy warnings, the world couldn’t resist the geopolitical jackpot. A flurry of colonial studies followed centuries later—by Baily in 1837, Oersted in 1848, Childs in 1850, and a US Captain G.C. in 1865.
The man who came closest to actually pulling it off was Napoleon Bonaparte III. In 1869—the exact same year Vanderbilt shut down his steamship monopoly--Napoleon III secured official permission from the Nicaraguan government to finally begin digging the canal. But before the first shovel could touch the mud, Napoleon’s empire was violently overthrown in France, and the grand project collapsed overnight. Sensing an opening, US President Ulysses S. Grant immediately launched fresh military expeditions in 1870 to scout the region for an American-built canal.
Yet, nature always held the ultimate veto. As we drifted beside the rusted iron of La Draga, the real death blow to the canal became clear. Aside from the silt and earthquakes, the final nail in the coffin happened in 1901 with a violent eruption of the Concepción Volcano on Isla Ometepe. Because any transoceanic shipping route had to pass directly through Lake Nicaragua, the sudden, unpredictable rage of a massive active volcano right on the navigation line terrified international investors. The plans were permanently dropped, and the world shifted its eyes south toward Panama—leaving the grand Nicaraguan canal to rust away in the silence of this bay.
Paddling out into the vast, lake-like expanse of the Bahía de San Juan, we steered our boat directly toward the rusted titan rising from the water: "La Draga." This century-old steam dredge is a monumental ghost, marking the exact entry to old Greytown. It stands as a silent witness to the ultimate obsession of this region—the failed dream of an interoceanic canal.
The idea of cutting a canal through Nicaragua was an ancient one. Way back in 1567, King Philip II of Spaincommissioned the very first topographical studies of the area. However, a Jesuit priest issued a terrifying, apocalyptic warning to the crown: he claimed that opening a channel between the Pacific and the Atlantic was an act against God, warning that one ocean would violently empty itself into the other, destroying the earth.
Despite the holy warnings, the world couldn’t resist the geopolitical jackpot. A flurry of colonial studies followed centuries later—by Baily in 1837, Oersted in 1848, Childs in 1850, and a US Captain G.C. in 1865.
The man who came closest to actually pulling it off was Napoleon Bonaparte III. In 1869—the exact same year Vanderbilt shut down his steamship monopoly--Napoleon III secured official permission from the Nicaraguan government to finally begin digging the canal. But before the first shovel could touch the mud, Napoleon’s empire was violently overthrown in France, and the grand project collapsed overnight. Sensing an opening, US President Ulysses S. Grant immediately launched fresh military expeditions in 1870 to scout the region for an American-built canal.
Yet, nature always held the ultimate veto. As we drifted beside the rusted iron of La Draga, the real death blow to the canal became clear. Aside from the silt and earthquakes, the final nail in the coffin happened in 1901 with a violent eruption of the Concepción Volcano on Isla Ometepe. Because any transoceanic shipping route had to pass directly through Lake Nicaragua, the sudden, unpredictable rage of a massive active volcano right on the navigation line terrified international investors. The plans were permanently dropped, and the world shifted its eyes south toward Panama—leaving the grand Nicaraguan canal to rust away in the silence of this bay.
19th-century English dredge in San Juan Bay
The Final Collapse: 1 Kilometer to Bankruptcy
The closer you look at the rusted skeleton of the dredge in the bay, the more you realize it marks the absolute end of a gold-rush illusion.
In 1885, an engineer named Aniceto Menocal, working directly for the US government, declared that a Nicaraguan canal was fully feasible. He estimated the total construction cost at 75 million dollars and promised it could be completed in just six years. The excitement was massive. By 1890, a brand-new settlement named Ciudad América was hastily founded northeast of San Juan del Norte to house the thousands of international laborers arriving to dig the path.
In 1891, the heavy machinery finally arrived. Giant steam dredges were towed into the Bahía de San Juan, ready to rip open the earth. The project officially launched in 1893, spearheaded by a private enterprise called the US Maritime Canal Company.
But the jungle always wins. After aggressively dredging for just one single kilometer, the company completely ran out of capital and collapsed into absolute bankruptcy. The machinery ground to a halt. A few years later, in 1901, the violent eruption of the Concepción Volcano on Isla Ometepe shattered any remaining hope, burying the dream of a Nicaraguan canal for good.
Since that fateful collapse, the lonely, rusted steam dredge has been left entirely abandoned in the moving currents of the bay—a striking, ghostly monument to a multi-million-dollar failure.
The closer you look at the rusted skeleton of the dredge in the bay, the more you realize it marks the absolute end of a gold-rush illusion.
In 1885, an engineer named Aniceto Menocal, working directly for the US government, declared that a Nicaraguan canal was fully feasible. He estimated the total construction cost at 75 million dollars and promised it could be completed in just six years. The excitement was massive. By 1890, a brand-new settlement named Ciudad América was hastily founded northeast of San Juan del Norte to house the thousands of international laborers arriving to dig the path.
In 1891, the heavy machinery finally arrived. Giant steam dredges were towed into the Bahía de San Juan, ready to rip open the earth. The project officially launched in 1893, spearheaded by a private enterprise called the US Maritime Canal Company.
But the jungle always wins. After aggressively dredging for just one single kilometer, the company completely ran out of capital and collapsed into absolute bankruptcy. The machinery ground to a halt. A few years later, in 1901, the violent eruption of the Concepción Volcano on Isla Ometepe shattered any remaining hope, burying the dream of a Nicaraguan canal for good.
Since that fateful collapse, the lonely, rusted steam dredge has been left entirely abandoned in the moving currents of the bay—a striking, ghostly monument to a multi-million-dollar failure.
MARK TWAIN - "The Nicaragua route forever!"
Samuel Clemens, better known by his pen name Mark Twain, first saw the Pacific Coast of Nicaragua on 29 December 1866, after a long boat journey from San Francisco. He described the approach to the bay of San Juan del Sur:"...bright green hills never looked so welcome, so enchanting, so altogether lovely, as these do that lie here within a pistol-shot of us." Twain was writing a series of letters to a San Francisco newspaper Alta California, letters that would be published in book form more than 60 years later, in 1940, in a collection called travels with Mr. Brown. Twains sharp eye has left us some interesting notes on his journey from Pacific to Caribbean, travelling on the inter-oceanic steamship line of Cornelius Vanderbilt.
Twain crossed Nicaragua in 3 days. The first was spent overland in horse-carriage from San Juan del Sur to the Lake Nicaragua port of La Virgen. During the only land part of his journey from San Francisco to New York he was amazed at the beauty of the Nicaraguan people and their land. He and his fellow passengers gleefully exclaimed," the Nicaragua route forever!" It was at the end of that 3 1/2 - hour carriage ride that he first saw the great lake and the island of Ometepe."Out of the midst of the beautiful Lake Nicaragua sprint 2 magnificent pyramids, clad in the softest and richest green, all flecked with shadow and sunshine, whose summits pierce the billowy clouds. They look so isolated from the world and its turmoil-so tranquil, so dreamy, so steeped in slumber and eternal repose." He crossed the lake in a steamship to San Carlos and boarded another that would take him down the Rio San Juan to El Castillo, where passengers had to walk past the old fort to change boats beyond the rapids there. "About noon we swept gaily around a bend in the beautiful river, and a stately old adobe castle came into view a relic of the olden time of the old buccaneering days of Morgan and his merry men. It stands upon a grassy dome-like hill and the forests loom up beyond."
Back on the river Mark Twain was immersed in the beauty that today is the Indio-Maiz Biological Reserve:" As we got under way and sped down the narrowing river, all the enchanting beauty of its surroundings came out. All gazed in rapt silent admiration for a long time as the exquisite panorama unfolded itself. The character of the vegetation on the banks had changed from a rank jungle to dense, lofty, majestic forests. There were hills, but the thick drapery of the vines spread upwards, terrace upon terrace, and concealed them like a veil. Now and then a rollicking monkey scampered into view or a bird of splendid plumage floated through the sultry air, or the music of some invisible songster welled up out of the forest depths. The changing vistas of the river ever renewed the intoxicating picture; corners and points folding backward revealed new wonders beyond." Twain wrote that he would like to return to Nicaragua, but he never did. He would soon achieve fame with his humorist writings, political commentaries and now classic novels, the first of which, Tom Sawyer, was published 10 years after his trip across Nicaragua.
Samuel Clemens, better known by his pen name Mark Twain, first saw the Pacific Coast of Nicaragua on 29 December 1866, after a long boat journey from San Francisco. He described the approach to the bay of San Juan del Sur:"...bright green hills never looked so welcome, so enchanting, so altogether lovely, as these do that lie here within a pistol-shot of us." Twain was writing a series of letters to a San Francisco newspaper Alta California, letters that would be published in book form more than 60 years later, in 1940, in a collection called travels with Mr. Brown. Twains sharp eye has left us some interesting notes on his journey from Pacific to Caribbean, travelling on the inter-oceanic steamship line of Cornelius Vanderbilt.
Twain crossed Nicaragua in 3 days. The first was spent overland in horse-carriage from San Juan del Sur to the Lake Nicaragua port of La Virgen. During the only land part of his journey from San Francisco to New York he was amazed at the beauty of the Nicaraguan people and their land. He and his fellow passengers gleefully exclaimed," the Nicaragua route forever!" It was at the end of that 3 1/2 - hour carriage ride that he first saw the great lake and the island of Ometepe."Out of the midst of the beautiful Lake Nicaragua sprint 2 magnificent pyramids, clad in the softest and richest green, all flecked with shadow and sunshine, whose summits pierce the billowy clouds. They look so isolated from the world and its turmoil-so tranquil, so dreamy, so steeped in slumber and eternal repose." He crossed the lake in a steamship to San Carlos and boarded another that would take him down the Rio San Juan to El Castillo, where passengers had to walk past the old fort to change boats beyond the rapids there. "About noon we swept gaily around a bend in the beautiful river, and a stately old adobe castle came into view a relic of the olden time of the old buccaneering days of Morgan and his merry men. It stands upon a grassy dome-like hill and the forests loom up beyond."
Back on the river Mark Twain was immersed in the beauty that today is the Indio-Maiz Biological Reserve:" As we got under way and sped down the narrowing river, all the enchanting beauty of its surroundings came out. All gazed in rapt silent admiration for a long time as the exquisite panorama unfolded itself. The character of the vegetation on the banks had changed from a rank jungle to dense, lofty, majestic forests. There were hills, but the thick drapery of the vines spread upwards, terrace upon terrace, and concealed them like a veil. Now and then a rollicking monkey scampered into view or a bird of splendid plumage floated through the sultry air, or the music of some invisible songster welled up out of the forest depths. The changing vistas of the river ever renewed the intoxicating picture; corners and points folding backward revealed new wonders beyond." Twain wrote that he would like to return to Nicaragua, but he never did. He would soon achieve fame with his humorist writings, political commentaries and now classic novels, the first of which, Tom Sawyer, was published 10 years after his trip across Nicaragua.
Few comments of Mark Twain during his trip in Nicaragua:
* Mark Twain described San Juan del Sur as "a few tumble-down shanties" in 1866, and said the town was "crowded with horses, mules and ambulances (horse carriages) and half-clad yellow natives."
* When Mark Twain arrived San Carlos in 1866 he described it simply as Fort San Carlos, making no mentionof any town.
* Mark Twain slept in Greytown on his 1866 journey and described the town as a "peopled paradise... composed of 200 old frame houses and some nice vacant lots, and its comeliness is greatly enhanced, I may say is rendered gorgeous, by the cluster of stern-wheel steamboats at the waterfront. The population is 800 and is mixed-made up of narratives (Nicaraguans), Americans, Spaniards, Germans, English and Jamaicans." He added that "the transit business has made every house a lodging camp and you can get a good bed everywhere for a dollar."
* Mark Twain described San Juan del Sur as "a few tumble-down shanties" in 1866, and said the town was "crowded with horses, mules and ambulances (horse carriages) and half-clad yellow natives."
* When Mark Twain arrived San Carlos in 1866 he described it simply as Fort San Carlos, making no mentionof any town.
* Mark Twain slept in Greytown on his 1866 journey and described the town as a "peopled paradise... composed of 200 old frame houses and some nice vacant lots, and its comeliness is greatly enhanced, I may say is rendered gorgeous, by the cluster of stern-wheel steamboats at the waterfront. The population is 800 and is mixed-made up of narratives (Nicaraguans), Americans, Spaniards, Germans, English and Jamaicans." He added that "the transit business has made every house a lodging camp and you can get a good bed everywhere for a dollar."
Rio Negro
(on the way to Coyote's second home in the jungle)
(on the way to Coyote's second home in the jungle)
Anyone who wants to know more about the history of the Ramas and my time with them should read the chapter "Rama".
The Ometepe Fallout: A Political Thriller in the Jungle
The Secret Whispers of Altagracia
Remember the bizarre characters Paul inadvertently chatted with on the lake ferry from Altagracia? And remember the complete, stone-faced indifference of the police when my backpack vanished from Tío's house? Back then, something felt incredibly off. But the puzzle pieces didn't fall into place until we emerged from our one-week expedition into the jungle and sat down with the locals. San Juan del Norte was a tight-knit community of barely 300 people where everyone knew everyone’s business. The locals were genuinely baffled; they couldn't identify the thief, which was impossible for a village that small. But the moment we told them what had happened to us weeks earlier on Isla Ometepe, the truth hit them like a lightning bolt: It wasn't a local thief. It was the police.
The Day the Press Arrived
To understand why the police targeted me, you have to look back at how my 2002 journey started. I, along with four other travelers, were the absolute first tourists to ever step foot in the remote village of Mérida on Isla Ometepe. While we were there, we walked right into a violent crisis: an aggressive, corrupt land expropriation by the government. The local residents fiercely stood their ground against the authorities, and the entire situation exploded into a chaotic, terrifying shootout.
Armed with my analog SLR camera and a heavy telephoto lens, I didn't hide—I captured the entire bloody scene on film.
Recognizing the power of the evidence, a local resident secretly tipped off La Prensa, Nicaragua’s biggest national newspaper. Against all odds, a reporting crew managed to track us down the very next day. A Basque traveler in our group conducted the interview in Spanish, while two others and I handed over our raw film rolls to be safely driven and developed in Managua. On Monday morning, the story exploded. We were featured on the front page and across a massive two-page spread, visual proof of the government's brutality laid bare for the nation to see. The public outcry was so massive that the government was forced to completely halt the land grab. In the aftermath, the 20 to 30 police officers involved in the raid were fired on the spot.
The Revenge Plot at the Edge of the World
The men Paul had talked to at the ferry port in Altagracia were family members of those disgraced, fired officers. Word of mouth travels fast, and they realized the foreign photographer responsible for destroying their families' livelihoods was heading to the absolute end of the country. They alerted the police unit in San Juan del Norte.
The theft of my backpack was a calculated, retaliatory sting operation. The officers weren't looking for my clothes or money—they raided our room through that open window to seize the original negatives of the shootout. They wanted to destroy the evidence and get their revenge.
The ultimate irony? Their corrupt mission failed. Just like my passport and airline tickets, I had kept the precious negatives buried deep inside my daypack, glued to my body the entire time. They stole my clothes and my gear, but they never got the film. The truth remained safe in my hands.
If you want to read the full, unbelievable story of the shootout, the newspaper headline, and the drama that started it all, head over to my upcoming chapter: Isla Ometepe. For now, we move on to the next adventure...
The Secret Whispers of Altagracia
Remember the bizarre characters Paul inadvertently chatted with on the lake ferry from Altagracia? And remember the complete, stone-faced indifference of the police when my backpack vanished from Tío's house? Back then, something felt incredibly off. But the puzzle pieces didn't fall into place until we emerged from our one-week expedition into the jungle and sat down with the locals. San Juan del Norte was a tight-knit community of barely 300 people where everyone knew everyone’s business. The locals were genuinely baffled; they couldn't identify the thief, which was impossible for a village that small. But the moment we told them what had happened to us weeks earlier on Isla Ometepe, the truth hit them like a lightning bolt: It wasn't a local thief. It was the police.
The Day the Press Arrived
To understand why the police targeted me, you have to look back at how my 2002 journey started. I, along with four other travelers, were the absolute first tourists to ever step foot in the remote village of Mérida on Isla Ometepe. While we were there, we walked right into a violent crisis: an aggressive, corrupt land expropriation by the government. The local residents fiercely stood their ground against the authorities, and the entire situation exploded into a chaotic, terrifying shootout.
Armed with my analog SLR camera and a heavy telephoto lens, I didn't hide—I captured the entire bloody scene on film.
Recognizing the power of the evidence, a local resident secretly tipped off La Prensa, Nicaragua’s biggest national newspaper. Against all odds, a reporting crew managed to track us down the very next day. A Basque traveler in our group conducted the interview in Spanish, while two others and I handed over our raw film rolls to be safely driven and developed in Managua. On Monday morning, the story exploded. We were featured on the front page and across a massive two-page spread, visual proof of the government's brutality laid bare for the nation to see. The public outcry was so massive that the government was forced to completely halt the land grab. In the aftermath, the 20 to 30 police officers involved in the raid were fired on the spot.
The Revenge Plot at the Edge of the World
The men Paul had talked to at the ferry port in Altagracia were family members of those disgraced, fired officers. Word of mouth travels fast, and they realized the foreign photographer responsible for destroying their families' livelihoods was heading to the absolute end of the country. They alerted the police unit in San Juan del Norte.
The theft of my backpack was a calculated, retaliatory sting operation. The officers weren't looking for my clothes or money—they raided our room through that open window to seize the original negatives of the shootout. They wanted to destroy the evidence and get their revenge.
The ultimate irony? Their corrupt mission failed. Just like my passport and airline tickets, I had kept the precious negatives buried deep inside my daypack, glued to my body the entire time. They stole my clothes and my gear, but they never got the film. The truth remained safe in my hands.
If you want to read the full, unbelievable story of the shootout, the newspaper headline, and the drama that started it all, head over to my upcoming chapter: Isla Ometepe. For now, we move on to the next adventure...
The Solentiname Archipelago
The Island of Artists and Revolution
(2003)
Fast Facts: The Solentiname Archipelago
- The Layout: Solentiname is a remote archipelago composed of 36 islands and islets of volcanic origin. It is tucked into the far southeastern corner of Lake Nicaragua (Lake Cocibolca), located about an hour's boat ride from San Carlos.
- The Scale: The archipelago covers a total land area of roughly 38 to 40 square kilometers. It is extremely sparsely populated, with a total population hovering at less than 1,000 residents across the entire chain.
- The Status: In 1991, the entire archipelago was officially declared a National Monument and a protected areadue to its invaluable natural, historical, and cultural wealth.
The Four Main Inhabited Islands
While there are dozens of tiny, rocky islets that serve strictly as breeding grounds for waterfowl, the vast majority of the human population is concentrated on four relatively large islands (running from west to east):
While there are dozens of tiny, rocky islets that serve strictly as breeding grounds for waterfowl, the vast majority of the human population is concentrated on four relatively large islands (running from west to east):
- Mancarrón: The largest, highest (reaching 257 meters above sea level), and most populated island in the chain. It features the best infrastructure and is home to the historic parish founded by Father Ernesto Cardenal.
- Mancarroncito: A heavily forested, smaller neighbor sitting just west of Mancarrón.
- San Fernando: A key cultural hub widely known for its dense concentration of Primitivista painter workshops and simple eco-lodges.
- La Venada: The easternmost island, famous for its woodcarvers and craftsmen who work with native balsa wood, as well as hidden caves containing ancient pre-Columbian petroglyphs.
Ernesto Cardenal and the Primitivistas
In 2003, my journey led me to the remote archipelago of Solentiname, a cluster of lush islands floating in the southern waters of Lake Nicaragua. I didn't come here just for the scenery; I came because these islands hold a legendary status in the art world. In 1966, the famous poet, priest, and revolutionary Ernesto Cardenal founded a utopian, radical Christian community on the main island of Mancarrón.
Cardenal didn't just preach; he brought paints and wood, encouraging the local fishermen and farmers to express their lives through vibrant, colorful canvas. This gave birth to the world-renowned Primitivistamovement—a unique style of naïve art depicting the dense jungle, exotic birds, and daily survival of the islands in exploding colors.
In 2003, my journey led me to the remote archipelago of Solentiname, a cluster of lush islands floating in the southern waters of Lake Nicaragua. I didn't come here just for the scenery; I came because these islands hold a legendary status in the art world. In 1966, the famous poet, priest, and revolutionary Ernesto Cardenal founded a utopian, radical Christian community on the main island of Mancarrón.
Cardenal didn't just preach; he brought paints and wood, encouraging the local fishermen and farmers to express their lives through vibrant, colorful canvas. This gave birth to the world-renowned Primitivistamovement—a unique style of naïve art depicting the dense jungle, exotic birds, and daily survival of the islands in exploding colors.
The Nuremberg Connection
What most travelers don't know is that this tiny, isolated island community shares a deeply rooted historical bridge with Germany—specifically with the famous Nuremberg Christmas Market (Nürnberger Christkindlesmarkt). For decades, through fair-trade solidarity networks and sister-city initiatives, the intricate wooden sculptures, balsa-wood birds, and vibrant paintings created by the Solentiname artists have been shipped across the globe to be sold at the Nuremberg market. This seasonal trade has provided a vital economic lifeline for the island families, allowing their colorful revolution to sustain itself from the tropical jungle all the way to the winter snow of Bavaria.
What most travelers don't know is that this tiny, isolated island community shares a deeply rooted historical bridge with Germany—specifically with the famous Nuremberg Christmas Market (Nürnberger Christkindlesmarkt). For decades, through fair-trade solidarity networks and sister-city initiatives, the intricate wooden sculptures, balsa-wood birds, and vibrant paintings created by the Solentiname artists have been shipped across the globe to be sold at the Nuremberg market. This seasonal trade has provided a vital economic lifeline for the island families, allowing their colorful revolution to sustain itself from the tropical jungle all the way to the winter snow of Bavaria.
Isla San Fernando
(2003)
Isolated Boats and The Chinela Exorcism
The Two-Boat Gamble
Getting to the archipelago back in 2003 was a massive exercise in patience. There were only two boats a week running from San Carlos to Solentiname—if you were lucky. I somehow managed to snag a spot on a local boat that dropped me off on San Fernando Island.
The island's infrastructure was practically non-existent. There was exactly one eco-hotel on the entire shore, but it was lightyears out of my tight budget. Thankfully, the local soul of Nicaragua saved me again. A humble island family took me in, offering me a basic room in their home for the next few days.
(2003)
Isolated Boats and The Chinela Exorcism
The Two-Boat Gamble
Getting to the archipelago back in 2003 was a massive exercise in patience. There were only two boats a week running from San Carlos to Solentiname—if you were lucky. I somehow managed to snag a spot on a local boat that dropped me off on San Fernando Island.
The island's infrastructure was practically non-existent. There was exactly one eco-hotel on the entire shore, but it was lightyears out of my tight budget. Thankfully, the local soul of Nicaragua saved me again. A humble island family took me in, offering me a basic room in their home for the next few days.
The Candlelight Horror
The honeymoon phase with my new island paradise lasted exactly until the first night. Electricity was a luxury only available to those with noisy gas generators, so I was getting ready for sleep by the flickering light of a single candle.
My room had two beds. Naturally, I picked the larger, more comfortable one, settled in under the sheets, and opened a book to read. After a few minutes, I casually turned my head toward the wooden wall.
I instantly froze. My heart skipped a beat.
Glued to the wood, barely 10 centimeters (4 inches) from my face, was a massive, hairy tarantula. I launched myself out of that bed like a rocket, screaming at the top of my lungs for the Señora of the house.
The honeymoon phase with my new island paradise lasted exactly until the first night. Electricity was a luxury only available to those with noisy gas generators, so I was getting ready for sleep by the flickering light of a single candle.
My room had two beds. Naturally, I picked the larger, more comfortable one, settled in under the sheets, and opened a book to read. After a few minutes, I casually turned my head toward the wooden wall.
I instantly froze. My heart skipped a beat.
Glued to the wood, barely 10 centimeters (4 inches) from my face, was a massive, hairy tarantula. I launched myself out of that bed like a rocket, screaming at the top of my lungs for the Señora of the house.
The Universal Weapon
She came rushing into the room, took one look at my giant, multi-legged roommate, and didn't even blink. With absolute calm, she slipped off her Chinela (the classic plastic flip-flop), raised her arm, and casually smacked the wall to scare the spider away into the cracks.
"No hace nada!" (It does nothing!) she laughed, waving her hand dismissively before walking back out into the dark. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night squeezed into the other, smaller bed, staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes.
And that was only the beginning...
She came rushing into the room, took one look at my giant, multi-legged roommate, and didn't even blink. With absolute calm, she slipped off her Chinela (the classic plastic flip-flop), raised her arm, and casually smacked the wall to scare the spider away into the cracks.
"No hace nada!" (It does nothing!) she laughed, waving her hand dismissively before walking back out into the dark. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night squeezed into the other, smaller bed, staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes.
And that was only the beginning...
The Island of Eight-Legged Terrors
The next day started beautifully. One of the locals offered to guide me into the dense jungle of the island's interior to see the ancient pre-Columbian petroglyphs. Standing in front of those centuries-old stone carvings, completely surrounded by wild nature, was incredible. But the jungle peace didn't last long, and my personal nightmare was about to hit a whole new level.
You have to know one thing about me: I have a severe spider phobia.
The next day started beautifully. One of the locals offered to guide me into the dense jungle of the island's interior to see the ancient pre-Columbian petroglyphs. Standing in front of those centuries-old stone carvings, completely surrounded by wild nature, was incredible. But the jungle peace didn't last long, and my personal nightmare was about to hit a whole new level.
You have to know one thing about me: I have a severe spider phobia.
The Bathroom Hostage Situation
On my way back from the ancient ruins, a massive, hairy tarantula casually strolled right across the dirt path, directly in front of my feet. My heart practically stopped. Desperate for a safe haven away from these monsters, I decided to head over to the island's only hotel to take a breather and catch my breath. I thought a proper concrete building would be a safe zone.
I was dead wrong.
The moment I pushed open the door to the public restroom, I froze in absolute horror. There, proudly ruling the wall right above the toilet bowl, was yet another giant tarantula. It was a brutal realization: when you are trapped on a tiny, isolated tropical island, these creatures have nowhere else to go. They just breed, multiply, and claim every square inch. Needless to say, I decided right then and there that using the bathroom was completely overrated. I turned around and walked straight back out.
On my way back from the ancient ruins, a massive, hairy tarantula casually strolled right across the dirt path, directly in front of my feet. My heart practically stopped. Desperate for a safe haven away from these monsters, I decided to head over to the island's only hotel to take a breather and catch my breath. I thought a proper concrete building would be a safe zone.
I was dead wrong.
The moment I pushed open the door to the public restroom, I froze in absolute horror. There, proudly ruling the wall right above the toilet bowl, was yet another giant tarantula. It was a brutal realization: when you are trapped on a tiny, isolated tropical island, these creatures have nowhere else to go. They just breed, multiply, and claim every square inch. Needless to say, I decided right then and there that using the bathroom was completely overrated. I turned around and walked straight back out.
The Goblin’s Cave and the Guatuzo Sanctuaries
The next day, I escaped the eight-legged terrors of the bathroom by hopping back onto the water for a boat tour toward Isla La Venada. Our destination was one of the most enigmatic spots in the archipelago: La Cueva del Duende (The Goblin’s Cave).
The next day, I escaped the eight-legged terrors of the bathroom by hopping back onto the water for a boat tour toward Isla La Venada. Our destination was one of the most enigmatic spots in the archipelago: La Cueva del Duende (The Goblin’s Cave).
As our boat drifted close to the rugged shoreline of the island, the dense jungle canopy parted to reveal a network of dark, subterranean caves carved directly into the rocky water's edge. Centuries ago, these hidden chambers served a vital, life-saving purpose. They were used as strategic sanctuaries by the indigenous Guatuzo nation, who hid deep within the pitch-black caverns to protect themselves and defend their borders from invading forces. Drifting past those hollow stone entrances, you could practically feel the ancient spirits still guarding the secret channels of the lake.
La Cueva del Duende - Isla La Venada
- Petroglyphs from the Guatuzos Indians -
- Petroglyphs from the Guatuzos Indians -
The Colorful Farewell
My time on Solentiname had finally come to an end. To be completely honest, I just couldn’t handle the tarantulas anymore. After that horrific first night, I refused to sleep alone; I managed to spend the remaining nights with someone else in the room just to survive the anxiety. When the departure day arrived, I felt a massive wave of pure relief stepping onto the ferry back to the mainland. Yet, despite the eight-legged nightmares, the artistic soul of the archipelago left a permanent mark on me, and I know I will return one day.
Before I fled, I managed to capture one final photograph that perfectly embodies the spirit of Solentiname.
Mural by the Rodolfo Arellano artist family from Isla La Venada: The image shows a stunning, large-scale Primitivista mural painted on wood, splitting the daily life of the islands into two vibrant scenes. On the left, locals are working hard in the dense, emerald-green jungle, building a traditional open-air wooden structure and hauling goods up from the shoreline. On the right, the painting opens up into a beautifully manicured tropical garden with a long stone staircase leading up to a large, bright colonial house. Small fishing boats glide across the deep blue waters of the lake at the bottom. It is a masterpiece of storytelling in exploding colors—proving that while I was fleeing the wild terrors of the dark, the humans here have transformed their isolated jungle into pure, permanent art.
My time on Solentiname had finally come to an end. To be completely honest, I just couldn’t handle the tarantulas anymore. After that horrific first night, I refused to sleep alone; I managed to spend the remaining nights with someone else in the room just to survive the anxiety. When the departure day arrived, I felt a massive wave of pure relief stepping onto the ferry back to the mainland. Yet, despite the eight-legged nightmares, the artistic soul of the archipelago left a permanent mark on me, and I know I will return one day.
Before I fled, I managed to capture one final photograph that perfectly embodies the spirit of Solentiname.
Mural by the Rodolfo Arellano artist family from Isla La Venada: The image shows a stunning, large-scale Primitivista mural painted on wood, splitting the daily life of the islands into two vibrant scenes. On the left, locals are working hard in the dense, emerald-green jungle, building a traditional open-air wooden structure and hauling goods up from the shoreline. On the right, the painting opens up into a beautifully manicured tropical garden with a long stone staircase leading up to a large, bright colonial house. Small fishing boats glide across the deep blue waters of the lake at the bottom. It is a masterpiece of storytelling in exploding colors—proving that while I was fleeing the wild terrors of the dark, the humans here have transformed their isolated jungle into pure, permanent art.
A Wild "Garten Eden"
- The Birds: Because the islands are so isolated and largely unpaved, they boast the highest concentration of diverse bird species in Nicaragua. The canopy is alive with tiger herons, roseate spoonbills, toucans, and brilliant parrots.
- The Aquatic Predators: The waters surrounding the islands are historically famous for hosting unique marine species that adapted to the freshwater lake, including freshwater bull sharks and giant sawfish.
- The Raw Material: The economic lifeline of the local artisans relies heavily on the native Balsa tree. Its incredibly soft, lightweight wood is harvested sustainably by the islanders to carve the intricate birds and animals that eventually travel all the way to global markets.
San Carlos
The gateway to the Rio San Juan and Lake Nicaragua
Stalled by the Cash Crisis
(2002)
The Dollar Trap
When we rolled into San Carlos on a Friday back in 2002, we immediately hit a financial brick wall. The local bank strictly exchanged cash US dollars—they didn't accept credit cards, and they absolutely refused to touch our traveler's checks. We were completely broke. Our only lifesaver was the border town of Los Chiles just across the river in Costa Rica.
Since San Carlos was the official border post, Paul decided to act fast. He grabbed his banking documents, dashed over to the immigration hut, and hopped onto the next riverboat to cross into Costa Rica to get us some cash. I promised to wait for him at our under-construction hostal.
First two photos: View of the Rio San Juan and the Rio Frio
(2002)
The Dollar Trap
When we rolled into San Carlos on a Friday back in 2002, we immediately hit a financial brick wall. The local bank strictly exchanged cash US dollars—they didn't accept credit cards, and they absolutely refused to touch our traveler's checks. We were completely broke. Our only lifesaver was the border town of Los Chiles just across the river in Costa Rica.
Since San Carlos was the official border post, Paul decided to act fast. He grabbed his banking documents, dashed over to the immigration hut, and hopped onto the next riverboat to cross into Costa Rica to get us some cash. I promised to wait for him at our under-construction hostal.
First two photos: View of the Rio San Juan and the Rio Frio
The Vagabond in Costa Rica
We agreed that if anything went wrong and he missed the return boat, he would send a message back with the boat captain. And of course, everything went wrong. Paul arrived too late in Los Chiles, only to discover that the banks were closed on weekends. He was completely trapped until Monday—without a single penny in his pocket.
To make matters worse, he had rushed out so fast that he forgot every single toiletry—no soap, no toothbrush, nothing—back in Nicaragua. He got lucky that a local Costa Rican hotel took him in without upfront payment, but he spent the entire weekend starving and completely unwashed.
We agreed that if anything went wrong and he missed the return boat, he would send a message back with the boat captain. And of course, everything went wrong. Paul arrived too late in Los Chiles, only to discover that the banks were closed on weekends. He was completely trapped until Monday—without a single penny in his pocket.
To make matters worse, he had rushed out so fast that he forgot every single toiletry—no soap, no toothbrush, nothing—back in Nicaragua. He got lucky that a local Costa Rican hotel took him in without upfront payment, but he spent the entire weekend starving and completely unwashed.
The Immigrations Comedy
Back in San Carlos, Paul’s SOS message was handed to me by the local immigration officer. This guy was incredibly friendly, always joking, and we quickly became buddies. I ended up spending the next few days hanging out in his border office, the two of us hilariously imagining what kind of wild state Paul would be in when he finally returned with nothing but his bare hands.
When the day finally arrived, I was sitting in a waterfront restaurant right next to the immigration office. From far out on the water, the boat captain started shouting toward the shore. The immigration officer heard him, turned around, and yelled across the dock to me: "Paul is on board!"
And there he was. Stepping off the boat, Paul looked like a total, battle-worn vagabond—completely exhausted, unwashed, but incredibly happy to have the cash. He sat down and immediately devoured a massive, well-deserved breakfast.
Back in San Carlos, Paul’s SOS message was handed to me by the local immigration officer. This guy was incredibly friendly, always joking, and we quickly became buddies. I ended up spending the next few days hanging out in his border office, the two of us hilariously imagining what kind of wild state Paul would be in when he finally returned with nothing but his bare hands.
When the day finally arrived, I was sitting in a waterfront restaurant right next to the immigration office. From far out on the water, the boat captain started shouting toward the shore. The immigration officer heard him, turned around, and yelled across the dock to me: "Paul is on board!"
And there he was. Stepping off the boat, Paul looked like a total, battle-worn vagabond—completely exhausted, unwashed, but incredibly happy to have the cash. He sat down and immediately devoured a massive, well-deserved breakfast.
FIESTA PATRONAL
Procession San Pedro de las Montanas
El Castillo
(March 2003)
The Roots of the Fiesta
Held every year in late June in honor of the patron saint San Pedro de las Montañas, this vibrant festival transforms the jungle village into a hub of energy. The celebration pulses with traditional dances, loud live music, and high-speed horse races held right on the main village square. Together with the wild bull riding and traditional games, the entire community gathers to celebrate their heritage, creating an electric atmosphere that is a dream for any photographer.
Procession San Pedro de las Montanas
El Castillo
(March 2003)
The Roots of the Fiesta
Held every year in late June in honor of the patron saint San Pedro de las Montañas, this vibrant festival transforms the jungle village into a hub of energy. The celebration pulses with traditional dances, loud live music, and high-speed horse races held right on the main village square. Together with the wild bull riding and traditional games, the entire community gathers to celebrate their heritage, creating an electric atmosphere that is a dream for any photographer.
The Call of the Río San Juan
My journey into the heart of Nicaragua began in 2002 when I first set foot along the wild Río San Juan to visit the remote Rama indigenous people. During this initial adventure, I spent a few unforgettable days in the historic, roadless village of El Castillo. Drawn back by the magic of the river, I returned later, stopping by El Castillo once more to deepen my bonds with the incredibly welcoming locals who make this jungle outpost feel like home.
Photographer on the Fence
My timing was perfect: the village was erupting into its vibrant Fiesta Patronal. Armed with my trusty analog SLR camera and a heavy telephoto lens, I became the unofficial community photographer. The locals loved it and guided me to the ultimate vantage point for the chaotic bull riding—perched precariously on top of a shaky wooden fence. With no safety margins and furious bulls slamming directly into the barrier, balancing while shooting high-octane action in mid-air was pure adrenaline.
My journey into the heart of Nicaragua began in 2002 when I first set foot along the wild Río San Juan to visit the remote Rama indigenous people. During this initial adventure, I spent a few unforgettable days in the historic, roadless village of El Castillo. Drawn back by the magic of the river, I returned later, stopping by El Castillo once more to deepen my bonds with the incredibly welcoming locals who make this jungle outpost feel like home.
Photographer on the Fence
My timing was perfect: the village was erupting into its vibrant Fiesta Patronal. Armed with my trusty analog SLR camera and a heavy telephoto lens, I became the unofficial community photographer. The locals loved it and guided me to the ultimate vantage point for the chaotic bull riding—perched precariously on top of a shaky wooden fence. With no safety margins and furious bulls slamming directly into the barrier, balancing while shooting high-octane action in mid-air was pure adrenaline.
The Heartbreak in the Dark
After capturing spectacular, high-flying shots, I tucked my camera safely into my hotel room for the evening to freely mingle, chat, and celebrate with my local friends. What I didn’t know was that a 50-year-old predator from Managua staying at the same hotel had been eyeing my gear. On the third night, I returned to a shattered reality: my room door was forced open, and my camera—along with 60 priceless rolls of shot film—was gone.
Live on the Capital’s Airwaves
The village was devastated. Because El Castillo is only accessible by boat, the thief had already slipped away into the misty dawn before we could seal the borders. The locals were furious and deeply saddened to lose the visual memories we had created together. Countless machete-wielding hands would have made short work of the thief had we caught him, so I counted my blessings and headed to the capital. Together with my trusted Nica friends in the Centro Viejo neighborhood, we scoured the chaotic black markets and went live on five different radio stations, offering a $100 reward for the films. Sadly, the airwaves remained silent, and I flew back to Germany empty-handed.
After capturing spectacular, high-flying shots, I tucked my camera safely into my hotel room for the evening to freely mingle, chat, and celebrate with my local friends. What I didn’t know was that a 50-year-old predator from Managua staying at the same hotel had been eyeing my gear. On the third night, I returned to a shattered reality: my room door was forced open, and my camera—along with 60 priceless rolls of shot film—was gone.
Live on the Capital’s Airwaves
The village was devastated. Because El Castillo is only accessible by boat, the thief had already slipped away into the misty dawn before we could seal the borders. The locals were furious and deeply saddened to lose the visual memories we had created together. Countless machete-wielding hands would have made short work of the thief had we caught him, so I counted my blessings and headed to the capital. Together with my trusted Nica friends in the Centro Viejo neighborhood, we scoured the chaotic black markets and went live on five different radio stations, offering a $100 reward for the films. Sadly, the airwaves remained silent, and I flew back to Germany empty-handed.
The Jungle Sends a Message
Weeks later, a miraculous piece of mail arrived in Germany, stamped from the deep jungles of Nicaragua. A villager from El Castillo had traveled 20 kilometers downriver to visit an acquaintance. There, the woman mentioned that her children had made a bizarre discovery on the muddy riverbanks—a discarded plastic bag stuffed with 30 mysterious film rolls. Recognizing immediately what they were, the man rushed them back to my friends in the village, who tracked down my European address to ask for instructions.
A Miraculous Reunion
Sensing the fragility of jungle mail, I sent two separate reply letters to guarantee delivery, announcing my return in four months to reclaim the treasure. True to my word, I journeyed back into the wilderness. Holding those weathered rolls again felt impossible, but the real magic happened back in Germany after development: the recovered films contained the irreplaceable, surviving photographs of both the Rama people and the breathtaking fiesta.
Weeks later, a miraculous piece of mail arrived in Germany, stamped from the deep jungles of Nicaragua. A villager from El Castillo had traveled 20 kilometers downriver to visit an acquaintance. There, the woman mentioned that her children had made a bizarre discovery on the muddy riverbanks—a discarded plastic bag stuffed with 30 mysterious film rolls. Recognizing immediately what they were, the man rushed them back to my friends in the village, who tracked down my European address to ask for instructions.
A Miraculous Reunion
Sensing the fragility of jungle mail, I sent two separate reply letters to guarantee delivery, announcing my return in four months to reclaim the treasure. True to my word, I journeyed back into the wilderness. Holding those weathered rolls again felt impossible, but the real magic happened back in Germany after development: the recovered films contained the irreplaceable, surviving photographs of both the Rama people and the breathtaking fiesta.
The Greasy Challenge of Palo Lucio
Of course, no Nicaraguan fiesta would be complete without the legendary Palo Lucio! This wild spectacle features a massive wooden pole erected in the center of the village, with the grand prize money temptingly attached right at the very top. The catch? The entire trunk is thickly smothered in slick, slippery engine grease. Watching the locals form chaotic human pyramids, sliding down over and over in a hilarious, muddy struggle against gravity, was an absolute highlight—and another unforgettable motive for my lens.
El Castillo
- Anektdoten einer Weltreise -
* meine Kanureise 190km auf dem Rio San Juan 2003*
Wer den Osten von Nicaragua vor allem die Route an die Atlantikküste (man spricht dort vom Atlantik wegen der rauhen Meeresbedingungen, wobei es an der Karibik liegt) bereisen möchte, muss sich darauf einstellen, das die meisten Strassen Flüsse sind. Anstatt einen Bus zu nehmen, nimmt man ein 25-Mann-Kahn, der einen mit seinen 2 starken Aussenbordmotoren schnell oder weniger schnell (in der Trockenzeit ist die Hilfe aller Passagiere angesagt, sprich: ab ins Wasser und mitschieben) und sicher an sein Ziel bringt. Natürlich nur, wenn man puenktlich (auch in Lateinamerika gibt es puenktliche Abfahrten!) an der Mole steht. Und ist der Weg weit, so wird dementsprechend frueh abgelegt. So wie in meinem Fall, wo ich versuchte mit einem Freund das Boot von San Carlos nach San Juan del Norte zu erreichen. Das erste Uebel was wir hatten, als wir an einem Freitag in San Carlos ankamen, das die Bank nur Dollars wechselte und keine Travellers Checks oder Kreditkarte akzeptierte und der naechste Weg war Los Chiles in Costa Rica. Da San Carlos auch der Grenzposten ist, beschloss mein Bekannter sich auf den Weg zu machen, um so schnell wie moeglich Geld zu wechseln und wieder zurueck zu kehren. Ich versprach auf ihn zu warten. So begab er sich zum Grenzhaeuschen, um mit dem naechsten Boot den Fluss zu ueberqueren und nach Costa Rica einzureisen. Sollte etwas schiefgehen, dass er nicht mehr am selben Tag zurueckreisen kann, wuerde er dem Bootsfuehrer eine Nachricht mitgeben.
Und so kam es, das er zu spaet in Los Chiles ankam und zu seinem Bedauern feststellen musste, das die Banken auch samstags geschlossen waren, so das er bis montags warten musste, und das ohne irgendeinen Pfennig an Geld. (Er hatte Glueck, das ihn ein Hotel bis Montag ohne Bezahlung aufnahm, aber er hungerte und hatte auch jegliches Badeutensil (Seife, Zahnbuerste,..) in Nicaragua vergessen) Als er zurueckkam, sah er aus wie ein Vagabund!!
Er schickte mir eine Nachricht, die mir der Grenzbeamte freundlich gesinnt und immer zum Spassen aufgelegt, aushaendigte. Ich verbrachte die naechsten Tagen immer wieder in seinem Buero, um mit ihm sich auszumalen, wie Paul zurueckkommen wird, da er ja nichts weiter mitgenommen hat, als seine Bankunterlagen.
Er schickte mir eine Nachricht, die mir der Grenzbeamte freundlich gesinnt und immer zum Spassen aufgelegt, aushaendigte. Ich verbrachte die naechsten Tagen immer wieder in seinem Buero, um mit ihm sich auszumalen, wie Paul zurueckkommen wird, da er ja nichts weiter mitgenommen hat, als seine Bankunterlagen.
Als der Tag XY kam, sass ich im Restaurant, das direkt am Wasser neben der Immigration lag, und von weitem schrie der Bootsfuehrer dem Grenzbeamten zu, der wiederum zu mir herueberschrie, das Paul an Bord sei, und so war es auch. Er sah total abgekaempft, aber gluecklich aus und goennte sich erst einmal ein Riesenfruehstueck. Wir beschlossen, am naechsten Tag nach San JUan del Norte abzuhauen, da das Boot nur zweimal die Woche fuhr. Doch wie es sein sollte, verschliefen wir am naechsten Morgen. Da ich die Schnauze voll hatte von San Carlos (es ist kein attraktiver Ort!), fuhren wir in das 30km entfernte El Castillo, das ein kleines, verschlafenes Dorf ist, ohne Strassen und Autos. Wir wussten, dass das Boot nach San Juan del Norte auch dort zwischenanlegte, so konnten wir jederzeit an Bord gehen (sprich 2x die Woche!!), was wir Donnerstags auch vor hatten. Doch wir verpassten auch diese Chance!
Genervt, nicht an mein Ziel zu gelangen, traf ich einen Estlaender, Rivo, der mit mir einen Einheimischen namens Miguel kennenlernte und der uns anbot, mit seinen Kanus die 160km zu paddeln. Gluecklich ueber die Moeglichkeit doch naeher an mein Ziel zu kommen und nicht noch einmal 4 Tage warten zu muessen, vergass ich total die Strapazen, die so eine Reise mit sich fuehrt und willigte ein. Dabei war ich koerperlich eingeschraenkt. Mich plagte eine Entzuendung oberhalb meines Fusses, doch ich musste ja nicht marschieren, sondern nur paddeln, also schraenkte es mich nicht ein. Wir bereiteten uns auf unsere Reise vor, fuer die wir 5 Tage einplanten. Wir kauften Vorraete und packten unser Gepaeck wasserdicht ein. Ich konnte es kaum erwarten, bis es losging.
Genervt, nicht an mein Ziel zu gelangen, traf ich einen Estlaender, Rivo, der mit mir einen Einheimischen namens Miguel kennenlernte und der uns anbot, mit seinen Kanus die 160km zu paddeln. Gluecklich ueber die Moeglichkeit doch naeher an mein Ziel zu kommen und nicht noch einmal 4 Tage warten zu muessen, vergass ich total die Strapazen, die so eine Reise mit sich fuehrt und willigte ein. Dabei war ich koerperlich eingeschraenkt. Mich plagte eine Entzuendung oberhalb meines Fusses, doch ich musste ja nicht marschieren, sondern nur paddeln, also schraenkte es mich nicht ein. Wir bereiteten uns auf unsere Reise vor, fuer die wir 5 Tage einplanten. Wir kauften Vorraete und packten unser Gepaeck wasserdicht ein. Ich konnte es kaum erwarten, bis es losging.
Am naechsten Tag brachen wir um 4.00 Uhr in der Fueh auf. Dampfschwaden lagen in der Luft, da das Wasser eine Temperatur von 36*C hatte, das wir bald in vollen Zuegen geniessen konnten, als unser Kanu mit Wasser vollief, da wir als erstes die schlimmsten Stromschellen "Los Diablos" vor El Castillo (genannt Teufelssog) durchqueren mussten. Toll! Wir waren noch nicht einmal 10 Minuten unterwegs, als wir schon bereits in den Genuss einer heissen Badewanne kamen. Gott sei Dank war Miguel mit dem zweiten Kanu gleich vor Stelle und half uns beim Schoepfen. Endlich konnte es los gehen und wir genossen die Stille auf dem Fluss und die Natur um uns herum. Nach 2 Stunden legten wir das erste Mal an einem Grenzstuetzpunkt an, da der Rio San Juan die Grenze zu Costa Rica bildete. Wir kochten bei den netten Beamten unsere erste Portion Reis mit Bohnen und machten uns dann wieder auf den Weg. Nach weiteren 3 Stunden Paddeln wusste ich, das ich mich auf was Heftiges eingelassen hatte. Meine Schultern und Arme schmerzten vor Anstrengung! Die Sonne schien und brannte auf unsere Koepfe. Nach 4 Stunden spuerte ich meine Schultern nicht mehr, nach 5 Stunden war ich erschoepft und konnte nicht mehr, doch wir sind nicht einmal 20km voran gekommen. Nach mehreren Pausen und 8 Stunden paddeln, wusste ich, da muss ich mehr oder weniger durch. An diesem Tag ruderten wir 12 Stunden und haben zwischendurch noch gefischt, da wir bald von Miguel lernten, das man hier am Fluss noch vom Tauschhandel lebt und Geld hier nicht viel wert sei.
Wir kamen in dem Dorf von Miguels Freundin an, um sie dort abzusetzen, aber auch um dort zu uebernachten. Es war bereits dunkel, worueber Miguel froh war, da das Dorf auf Costa Ricanischer Seite liegt und wir uns am gegenueberliegenden Grenzposten registrieren lassen muessen. Wir werden das Morgen nachholen. Da wir also illegal waren, wateten wir durch 30-40cm hohen Schlamm zum Ufer, vertaeuten die Kanus und bestiegen die Boeschung, um zum Haus eines Freundes zu gelangen. Dort durften wir in unseren Haengematten auf einer Baustelle eines neu gebauten Hauses niederlassen. Da es finster war, kam es wie gerufen, dass ich mir einen rostigen Nagel in den Fuss rammte. Na Bravo! Gut, das ich in den naechsten Tagen nur meine Arme gebrauchen muss!
Am naechsten Tag waren wir wieder Frueh auf, um gleich nach dem Fruehstueck zum Grenzposten zu rudern und unsere Paesse registrieren zu lassen. Danach hiess es wieder: paddeln, paddeln, paddeln!
Doch an diesem Tag kamen wir nicht soweit. Miguel meinte, wir sollten nicht uebertreiben. Wir hielten an einer Siedlung mit 4 Haeusern, wo wir die Huette von einem Freund von ihm, der nicht da war, benutzen durften. Es war noch hell, so beschlossen wir, zum naechsten Laden zu laufen, um eine Flasche Plata, selbstgebrannten Rum, zu besorgen. Wir dachten, nach all den Strapazen, die wir schon hinter uns hatten, haben wir es verdient. Nur hatte Miguel die Strecke zum Laden leicht unterschaetzt und als wir dort ankamen, wurde es bereits dunkel. Wir schickten uns an, unsere Einkaeufe zu erledigen, um dann zuegig zureuckzukehren, doch machten mir beide Fussverletzungen einen Strich durch die Rechnung. Ich konnte nicht mehr laufen, zu sehr schmerzten die Wunden. Also trug mich Miguel zurueck zum Lager, selber in Panik, da wir alle nur unsere Latschen anhatten und es war bekannt, das nachts die Gegend von Schlangen wimmelt. Doch das Glueck war auf unserer Seite. Ein Schlangenbiss haette uns in so einer Region noch gefehlt. Es gab nichts ausser den 4 Huetten, den Fluss und der Dschungel um uns herum.
Zurueck in unserem Lager duschten wir uns mit einem gefuellten Wasserkeubel, kochten uns ein feines Mahl, nachdem wir unseren heutigen frischgefischten Fang gegen Fleisch tauschten (Mal eine Abwechslung im Speiseplan) und goennten uns danach zusammen in unseren Haengematten liegend die Flasche Rum.
Doch an diesem Tag kamen wir nicht soweit. Miguel meinte, wir sollten nicht uebertreiben. Wir hielten an einer Siedlung mit 4 Haeusern, wo wir die Huette von einem Freund von ihm, der nicht da war, benutzen durften. Es war noch hell, so beschlossen wir, zum naechsten Laden zu laufen, um eine Flasche Plata, selbstgebrannten Rum, zu besorgen. Wir dachten, nach all den Strapazen, die wir schon hinter uns hatten, haben wir es verdient. Nur hatte Miguel die Strecke zum Laden leicht unterschaetzt und als wir dort ankamen, wurde es bereits dunkel. Wir schickten uns an, unsere Einkaeufe zu erledigen, um dann zuegig zureuckzukehren, doch machten mir beide Fussverletzungen einen Strich durch die Rechnung. Ich konnte nicht mehr laufen, zu sehr schmerzten die Wunden. Also trug mich Miguel zurueck zum Lager, selber in Panik, da wir alle nur unsere Latschen anhatten und es war bekannt, das nachts die Gegend von Schlangen wimmelt. Doch das Glueck war auf unserer Seite. Ein Schlangenbiss haette uns in so einer Region noch gefehlt. Es gab nichts ausser den 4 Huetten, den Fluss und der Dschungel um uns herum.
Zurueck in unserem Lager duschten wir uns mit einem gefuellten Wasserkeubel, kochten uns ein feines Mahl, nachdem wir unseren heutigen frischgefischten Fang gegen Fleisch tauschten (Mal eine Abwechslung im Speiseplan) und goennten uns danach zusammen in unseren Haengematten liegend die Flasche Rum.
Am naechsten Tag ging es weiter. Heute wollten wir wieder ein grosses Stueck schaffen. Das Wetter machte uns leider einen Strich durch die Rechnung und es regnete, was nur ging, doch dafuer war die Motivation voran zukommen groesser. Doch kurz vor unserem Ziel schlug uns Miguel vor, in einer Flusskneipe Halt zu machen. Sie lag direkt am Ufer und wir kletterten durchnaesst und durchfroren an die Boeschung. Ich dachte, ich koennte mir einen heissen Kaffee oder Tee bestellen, da ich bis auf die Knochen durchnaesst war und mir den Tod nicht holen wollte, doch es war ja ersichtlich, das die Leute in der Bar so was nicht besassen. Das einzige, was waermen koennte, war eine Flasche Plata, den wir daraufhin uns auch bestellten und anfingen, die Gaeste in unserer Naehe, auf einen Schluck mit einzuladen. Doch als es spaeter wurde und die anderen Maenner immer aufdringlicher wurden, dabei Miguel dazu draengten, wir koennten ja hier uebrnachten, verschwanden wir mit einer Ausrede zu den Kanus, um daraufhin davon zu paddeln. Bevor wir starten konnten, mussten wir Miguel aus dem Schlamm herausziehen, da er bis zur Huefte mit meinem Rucksack auf dem Ruecken in dem vom Regen aufgeweichten Morast versank. Warm ums Herz und froehlich mit den Bruellaffen im Takt singend, ruderten wir in der Dunkelheit, um bald festzustellen, das wir unserem Ziel fuer heute sehr nahe lagen. La Trinidad / Costa Rica, eine kleine Anlage mit Bungalows, wo wir nach Tagen im Dschungel wieder mal Duschen konnten und in schoenen warmen Betten schlummerten.
Wir hatten bschlossen gehabt, den naechsten Tag zur Erholung zu nuetzen, oder besser gesagt, Rivo und ich entschieden uns, illegal nach Puerto Viejo / Costa Rica zu begeben, um unseren Familien per Internet ein Lebenszeichen zuzuschicken und vor allem, in die Bank zum Geld abholen zu gehen, da es die letzte Moeglichkeit vor San Juan del Norte ist. Jeden Morgen faehrt ein kleines Passagierboot bei den Bungalows vorbei, das die Leute am Fluss einsammelt, um sie dann nach Puerto Viejo, ins Landesinnere Costa Ricas zu bringen. Da wir bereits uns auf costaricanischen Territorium befanden, ging keiner davon aus, das wir gar nicht befugt waren, dorthin zu fahren und wir hatten Glueck, das es keinerlei Stichkontrollen gab.
Als wir in der kleinen Ortschaft ankamen, die wie aus dem Nichts im Dschungel auftauchte, fuehlten wir uns nicht mehr, als kaemen wir gerade von einer 3 tagelangen beschwerlichen Kanufahrt, die Mitten im tiefsten Urwald stattfand, sondern wie gewoehnliche Touristen, die einen Abstecher in dieses doch sehr geschaeftigte und moderne Staedtchen machten, um einen Teller Spaghetti zu essen und ein bisschen im Internet zu surfen. Wir genossen diesen kleinen Ausflug sehr und machten sogar noch einen Einkaufsbummel, bevor wir uns wieder auf den Rueckzug machten. Selig darueber, wieder etwas Geld in der Tasche zu haben ohne dabei von der Einwanderungsbehoerde Costa Ricas ertappt worden zu sein, kamen wir Abends in La Trinidad an, um 1 Stunde spaeter, ganz ungeniert und ausgelassen mit den Grenzbeamten Billard zu spielen. Wenn sie wuessten!
Am naechsten und unserem letzten Tag unserer Reise brachen wir sehr frueh auf. So lag doch noch die laengste Strecke vor uns, und das Wetter spielte nicht so mit, wie wir es wollten. Es war grau und nieselte, oder war es doch besser, als sich bei Sonnenschein in einem Hummer zu verwandeln?! Wir paddelten los und bald merkten wir, das der Fluss immer breiter wurde und wir uns langsam dem Delta naeherten, die breiteste Stelle des Flusses, der sich dort teilte, um einmal suedlich als Rio Colorado nach Costa Rica weiterzufliessen und noerdlich als Rio San Juan, der sich jetzt als kleiner Dschungelfluss durch ein weitraeumiges pflanzenueberwuchertes Gebiet durchloechert mit zahlreichen Seitenfluessen durchschlaengelt.
Am naechsten und unserem letzten Tag unserer Reise brachen wir sehr frueh auf. So lag doch noch die laengste Strecke vor uns, und das Wetter spielte nicht so mit, wie wir es wollten. Es war grau und nieselte, oder war es doch besser, als sich bei Sonnenschein in einem Hummer zu verwandeln?! Wir paddelten los und bald merkten wir, das der Fluss immer breiter wurde und wir uns langsam dem Delta naeherten, die breiteste Stelle des Flusses, der sich dort teilte, um einmal suedlich als Rio Colorado nach Costa Rica weiterzufliessen und noerdlich als Rio San Juan, der sich jetzt als kleiner Dschungelfluss durch ein weitraeumiges pflanzenueberwuchertes Gebiet durchloechert mit zahlreichen Seitenfluessen durchschlaengelt.
Eine atemberaubende Natur, mit zahlreichen Bruellaffen, verschiedenen Vogelarten, Krokodilen und was sich sonst noch so im Urwald tummelt. Dazwischen tauchten immer wieder vereinzelte kleine Strohuetten auf, vor denen Scharen von Kindern herumtobten. Die meisten Indianer, genauer gesagt Rama Indianer, aber auch Mestizen, die dort in der Einoede, abgeschnitten von der Zivilisation sich angesiedelt haben, um ein kleines Stueck Land zu bewirtschaften.
Stunden vergingen, und wir waren bereits in das eintoenige Paddeln eingespielt,. kaum das man noch die Arme spuert, genossen wir die Landschaft, die an uns vorueber zog. Unser Ziel war nahe, das spuerten wir und das spornte uns noch mehr an, kraeftiger am Paddel zu zerren, aber auch weil die Daemmerung kam und die letzten Kilometer keine richtige Schlafmoeglichkeit bot, ausser das schuetzende Dach der Baeume.
Der Regen wurde staerker und Kaelte und Erschoepfung machten sich breit. Doch das Ende nahte. Als wir um eine Biegung ruderten, tauchte vor uns frontal eine Sandbank auf, die sich entlang des Meeres zog und an der wir schnell vorbei ruderten mussten, um nicht in die Stroemung zu geraten, die einen am Ende der Flussmuendung, ein Spalt von mehreren Metern in der Sandbank, ins offene Meer ziehen konnte. Und dort erwarteten einen nicht nur ein turbulentes Meer, nein, auch ein paar gefraessige Haie gehoeren dazu.
Genau in diesem Moment tauchte das Passagierboot von San Carlos auf (welches ich immer schon nehmen wollte). In dem sassen auch noch meine alten Bekannten, das oesterreichische Paar Herbert & Eva und mein baskischer Freund Inigo. Unglaublich! Die Welt ist so klein.
Ploetzlich kamen die ersten Lichter von San Juan del Norte in unser Blickfeld. Das war der Moment, wo jeder noch einmal alles gab. An diesem Tag paddelten wir zwischen 10 und 11 Stunden, hatten kaum Pausen, und wenn, dann assen wir im Kanu sizend die Reste unseres Proviantes, um gleich wieder ans Ruder zu greifen, um weiter zukommen.
Was fuer ein Gefuehl! Wir legten am Steg an und konnten es kaum glauben. Geschafft! 5 aufregende Tage liegen hinter uns.
Wir kletterten an Land, zitterten vor Freude, Kaelte und Erschoepfung und da waren sie ploetzlich. Meine Freunde. Es entstand eine rege Unterhaltung und nach gemeinsamer Hotelsuche (Die Auswahl ist sehr minimal.. Entweder Melvin oder Tio Pun. Melvin ist teuer und Tio Pun besitzt eine giftige Hausschlange. Man hat die Wahl!). Wir nisteten uns bei Tio Pun mit der netten Giftschlange ein, um gleich daraufhin ein kraeftiges Mahl im einzigen Restaurant des Dorfes einzunehmen. Die Frage ist nur: wer wurde satter? Die Moskitos, die einen durch die Kleidung hindurch frassen oder wir Paddler, die es immer noch nicht glauben konnten, am Ziel zu sein.
Genau in diesem Moment tauchte das Passagierboot von San Carlos auf (welches ich immer schon nehmen wollte). In dem sassen auch noch meine alten Bekannten, das oesterreichische Paar Herbert & Eva und mein baskischer Freund Inigo. Unglaublich! Die Welt ist so klein.
Ploetzlich kamen die ersten Lichter von San Juan del Norte in unser Blickfeld. Das war der Moment, wo jeder noch einmal alles gab. An diesem Tag paddelten wir zwischen 10 und 11 Stunden, hatten kaum Pausen, und wenn, dann assen wir im Kanu sizend die Reste unseres Proviantes, um gleich wieder ans Ruder zu greifen, um weiter zukommen.
Was fuer ein Gefuehl! Wir legten am Steg an und konnten es kaum glauben. Geschafft! 5 aufregende Tage liegen hinter uns.
Wir kletterten an Land, zitterten vor Freude, Kaelte und Erschoepfung und da waren sie ploetzlich. Meine Freunde. Es entstand eine rege Unterhaltung und nach gemeinsamer Hotelsuche (Die Auswahl ist sehr minimal.. Entweder Melvin oder Tio Pun. Melvin ist teuer und Tio Pun besitzt eine giftige Hausschlange. Man hat die Wahl!). Wir nisteten uns bei Tio Pun mit der netten Giftschlange ein, um gleich daraufhin ein kraeftiges Mahl im einzigen Restaurant des Dorfes einzunehmen. Die Frage ist nur: wer wurde satter? Die Moskitos, die einen durch die Kleidung hindurch frassen oder wir Paddler, die es immer noch nicht glauben konnten, am Ziel zu sein.
Und nicht zuviel des Guten: Am naechsten Tag beschlossen Rivo, Miguel und ich nochmals zu paddeln. Diesmal zu einer kleinen Lagune, der Laguna Azul, die in der Naehe des Dorfes lag, um dort unsere Ankunft zu feiern und ein erfrischendes Bad in der Frischwasserlagune zu nehmen.
Viva Rio San Juan!!!
Viva Rio San Juan!!!
