Of Chinese Canals And Spanish Treasure (#2 in river series)

 

For those of us who like to travel on rivers, San Carlos is a sort of a double bonus.  Maybe even a trifecta.

It's situated where one river, the Rio Frio, empties into Lake Nicaragua, and where a larger one, the Rio San Juan, empties out and winds all the way to the Caribbean, some hundred-and-twenty miles distant.

For those of us who like history as well -- the place is awash; in fact, it fairly laps at the shores.  Some peoples of note who passed this way:

• The earliest Americans, who settled there thousands of years ago.
• The Spanish, who sailed upriver from the Caribbean, crossed the lake and established a city, Granada, on the northern shore.  
• The Buccaneers, who later sailed up the same river to rob and rape said city. 
• The English, who came to lay siege to a Spanish fortress along the way.
• And more, much more.

Wow, talk about a past!  After a few hours exploring San Carlos, as boisterous and busy of a river town as I've ever seen, I heeded the call and headed down the San Juan.

Loading up to head downriver.

Hutch along the way.

A half-mile wide in some places, I discovered that the San Juan is both substantial and interesting to boot.  For we river explorers, a real bonanza.

Nowhere is that more evident than downriver at El Castillo or "the castle."  Named after the Spanish-built fortification that presides over the area, it is perhaps the consummate river town because no roads lead into the place; it's come by river or perhaps drop in by parachute, or else forget it.

 

El Castillo

Completed in 1675, La Fortaleza, as the fortress itself called, was placed there to stop pirates and other enemies from proceeding upriver to cross the lake and raid Granada, which had become a repository of Spanish treasure.

La Fortaleza sets atop a hill overlooking a stretch with rapids -- a seemingly strategic location.  Any boats approaching could be raked with cannon fire.  In addition, the waterway was then infested with crocodiles and sharks, which migrated upriver from the Caribbean en route to Lake Nicaragua.  It made for a dangerous place to have to take a swim.

Despite all this, the fort was conquered by successive waves of raiders, and the riches of Granada plundered again and again.

Nevertheless, give the Spanish their due -- it took a Herculean effort to build it out of that wilderness, and even centuries later it's still an impressive structure to tour.

La Fortaleza

Street in El Castillo.

Seen about town.

You can tell a lot about a place by just walking around, I've found.  Or as Yogi Berra used to say, You can observe a lot about people just by watchin 'em.

El Castillo is the residents going through the morning ritual of sweeping the sidewalks with bundles of straw lashed to sticks.  It is a pig, squealing for dear life, being dragged through by a rope...a woman doing your laundry in the river for $2 U.S., and then hanging it out over bushes and banana leafs to dry.

Woman doing laundry in the San Juan.

It's a mounted vaquero or cowboy romping alongside cattle across-river...or sitting on the porch of the Hotel Victoria watching the flow in the moonlight and listening to a chorus of frogs rise to a crescendo, then fall off -- over and over again.

It's the white linen napkins at the Victoria house...where the whole grain bread comes hot out of the oven and is served with scrambled eggs and tart blocks of cheese...and where the mango juice is served in stem glassware and a single room goes for $16 U.S. per night.

In case you're wondering, in this part of the jungle that 16 U.S. gets you wood paneling, air-conditioning and your own bath.  

Usually I stay at hostels for half that price, for a bunk in a dorm room.  As my father used to say, I was the last of the big-time spenders.  But for those couple of nights in El Castillo, I indulged.  (I don't know.  It just seemed right.)

Your humble correspondent in the lap of luxury.

Magdalena, manager of Hotel Victoria.

Main means of transport here.

Downriver from El Castillo, more history -- the skeletons of paddle wheelers lie in the undergrowth; beams rotting away, their boilers and piping encrusted with rust -- relics from that great American entrepreneur Cornelius Vanderbilt.

Back in the 1800s, he set up a system to ferry 49ers from the Caribbean to the Pacific, and then on to the gold fields of California. This very river, as well as those paddle wheelers, were part of it.
 
Which brings us to present day and possible history in the making:  Our old friends the Chinese want to build a canal through Nicaragua, a rival to the famous one through Panama.  One proposed route would use the San Juan, like Vanderbilt did, cross Lake Nicaragua, and proceed to the Pacific from there.

Another proposal, the most favored one, would use a river farther up north.  As of yet, it's undecided, as far as I can tell.  But supposedly a deal was struck and construction is to start in December.

We shall see.

Could massive freighters someday loom in out of these mists?

Red Hibiscus

At any rate, far too soon, it was time to move on.  I had a date, shall we say, with another body of water, alluring in its own right -- Lake Nicaragua.

I had decided to head back upriver to San Carlos and go for an all-nighter across the lake.  Little did I know what lie in store.  Even for an old Coastie, supposedly accustomed to such things, it turned out to be one helluva time.

Last look at El Castillo -- where even the dogs were friendly.

[Part Three to follow, next Sunday, March 2]

Jungle River To Nicaragua (#1 in Central America river series)

 

On the Rio Frio, heading toward the border.

Besides all of its natural wonders, Costa Rica has some interesting border crossings.  One of these, on the southern end, is detailed in a previous blog post, "In Search Of Panama Hats."  Another, even more out-of-the-way, I traveled this year.  It's located on the northern side, where C.R. butts up with Nicaragua.

To take advantage of low airfare offered by AeroMéxico ($268 round-trip out of NYC) I flew on New Year's Eve and landed in C.R. on Jan. 1.  It meant that I was 40,000 feet up when the ball dropped, but who cares?

After two weeks in San Jose, the capital, where I got dental work done, visited Dr. Montero, one of my chiropractors (the other is in Montrose, PA), visited with friends, made the rounds of various hostels, casinos, restaurantes, etc., I was ready for something -- something adventurous, that is.  Los Chiles came to mind, a little town on the northern frontier where you can transit into Nicaragua. 

I had wanted to go that route for years.  Mainly because I had heard that there was boat travel involved, and with such things I cannot help myself.  So I arose in the night like a ghost and caught the 0530 bus for Los Chiles.

Waiting to get passports stamped at Los Chiles, Costa Rica.

The bus trip, five hours, was the kind that I've come to love -- the road wound past sweeping green mountains, providing wonderful vistas of the countryside, and slowed through neat little towns or pueblos, as they call them here, providing glimpses of local life.  So it was a look at C.R. that I've  never seen.  

In addition, the bus was full, with people standing in the aisles, yet I was the only gringo or white person on board!  With the country a-swarm with sunseekers, backpackers, and the like this time of year it was a nice respite from the tourist zones.

A lot of the passengers were Nicaraguans (Nicas, as they're called) heading across the border to visit relatives or simply return home.  For whatever reason, I've always hit it off with these people, and this came in handy because some of them helped me with getting through immigration.  I speak some Spanish now but with officials barking orders and directions, demanding money for this and that, it's hard to figure out what's what and not get scammed.   

Eventually, though, we got through and headed for a brown, sluggish river down the road from inmigración -- the curiously named Rio Frio. 

 

A river ferry coming in at Los Chiles.

The name is curious because Rio Frio means "cold river."  However, it's about warm as wash water, as least when I was there.  Yet it's what makes this border crossing unique.  The river is the "highway" leading up north, across the international border -- the only way to get there.

It's not a scenic tour, as such, but it could be:  You cruise through trees and dense jungle alive with monkeys, sloths, cranes, storks, turtles with the most colorful heads I've ever seen, fish, including tarpon and snook, caymans, which are a type of crocodile, and more. 

In the wish-that-I'd-had-my-camera-ready department, we passed a dozen iguanas laying out on a branch, warming themselves in the sun.  They had a yellowish, even gold-like cast to their skin and would have made quite a picture. 

Generally though, I just sat back with mouth open, taking it in... 

Some kind of herons, I think.

Nicaraguan military shake us down mid-voyage.

Reminds me of the Upper Amazon.

As trying as they may be sometimes, I like to cross these borders.  Often you have to wait for hours in the sun outside immigration, only to be grilled by authorities or hustled by shysters posing as officials, but they can be quite the travel experiences.  

Call this one a border crossing with elements of a nautical safari.  Other such transits are scattered about the Lower Americas, but this was certainly noteworthy.

All good things must come to an end, and this one came to a rather grand one.  The Rio Frio empties into spectacular Lake Nicaragua, about a hundred miles across.  Quite a sight, after being on jungle-enclosed river for so many miles, to be unfolded onto that massive body of water.  Our boat steered toward a town simmering off in the distance, San Carlos. 

San Carlos, from the mouth of the Rio Frio.

Reception committee at Nicaraguan immigration.

 

We were entering another country, of course, so we had to pass through immigration there.  Under the watchful eyes of soldiers with AK-47 rifles, we hauled luggage off the boat and sweltered for an hour or so in line. 

Eventually the AKs were slung across their backs and they became absorbed in their cell phones, like much of the rest of the world.  I paid my twelve dollar entry fee, got my passport stamped, and wheeled my duffel out into rollicking, little San Carlos, to begin Part Two of my Nicaraguan river adventure.

San Carlos dock, with Lake Nicaragua beyond.

[Part Two to follow next Sunday, Feb.23]