Incidents of Travel in Latin America

by Lars Holger Holm

  Still, I can’t overemphasise the ruggedness of the rocks along the coast and the narrow straits they create. This, in combination with the fatalism of the pilots and the general unpredictability of the sea, makes any sea-bound excursion in these waters an adventure in its own right. Please don’t think this is only in the timorous tourist’s imagination: a thousand flotsam flip-flops dotting the coast line between Sapzurro and Capurganá bear testimony to the cargo lancia recently wrecked off the coast. And again, only a week after our trip back to Capurganá, the captain of a passenger lancia misjudged a wave and saw his boat tip over off Turbo, throwing everybody inside it into the sea. Luckily the speed must have been moderate and there were other vessels close by, but the potentially fatal event could just as well have occurred in the midst of the Gulf, giving the impartial witness little reason to assume that such calamity would, in the event, meet with an equally happy end. But all’s well that ends well. On our ride from Sapzurro we were spared any such annoyance and could crown our expedition to the back of beyond by crawling out of the boat safe and sound at the choppy landing in Capurganá. Soon Papi emerged refreshed from the shower to pour himself a stiff one from a bottle of Scotch, brought within easy reach, and for his comfort, all the way from Panamá.

  La Coquéra

  At only half an hour’s walking distance up the coast from Capurganá there is a narrow precipice in the jungle called La Coquera in honour of its many coconut palms. On three sides this small geological indentation is hemmed in by vertical mountainsides. The fourth vector opens up towards the rocks and the ocean. A priori there is nothing to suggest this would be a pleasant place to spend a life time in. But thirty years ago local boy Nelson decided otherwise and built himself a nest in this unforgiving environment. Ever since he leads a secluded existence here. True, there are tourists visiting his abode during the day, and it is quite impressive how the man has managed to turn so many natural objects and shapes into useful household items — his drinking glasses for instance are hollow coconuts placed on coconut tops sliced horizontally at the top and turned upside down, allowing the sphere of the coconut (the glass) to rest firmly on the hollow, not unlike an egg in an egg cup. Simple but ingenious. There is also a big natural bathtub, fed by trickling mountain water, which Nelson has arranged nicely for his own comfort and the benefit of the visitor, and from which the view over the sea is rather impressive. To immerse oneself there during the heat of day is simply merciful, and that’s what we did.

  Nelson also has electrical appliances and produces his own energy from solar panels on the roof. All genuine and in exemplary ecological style. Still, I invite the reader to imagine being there all alone, surrounded by relentless wildlife during a night charged with an electric storm, listening to the rain hammering furiously on the tin roof, waiting for the waterfall above to come down in torrents, and huff and puff your piggy away. Even if you survived that, the only way leading out of this sealed enclosure still is a forbiddingly steep path which by now has turned into a black landslide of mud, where you will just slip your way into the rocks beneath and then fall into the ocean, from which there definitely would be no return.

  But then Nelson didn’t look like someone who would worry about imaginary problems. His suspended model fish made from different kinds of organic spheres collected from the trees in his hollow are graceful and humorous; he has used all kinds of trees and branches to make and decorate walls and fences; even the water basin is a piece of hollowed tree trunk and its water switch a conch. In this setting he treated us to delightfully cool lemonade. After having chatted for a while we parted in good spirits, but not before having wished Nelson good luck for the coming 30 years in his Saint-Anthony style retreat.

  The walk back to town once again confronted us with the natural wonders of the coast: its small pebbled beaches, its nearby small islands shooting up like reptiles from the bosom of the water, its jagged skyline and intense vegetation.

  Aguacate

  A good hour’s walk south along the coast from Capurganá there is a settlement called El Aguacate. Initially a road leads in its general direction, passing across a (at this time of the year) dried up riverbed and the coastal plain until the latter hits upon another petrified protuberance. In order to advance further there is no other possibility at hand and foot than to take on the rocky challenge. I asked an elderly man, enjoying a meal outside his humble abode, if the path from here on would be identical to the beach itself. In a voice resounding of myth and saga he informed me that this was not the case. No, ‘the sea is at one side and the path is on the other’. This proved to be true in so far as the path never completely merged with the water. However, it came indeed as close as a few feet from it. Still, there was the path and there was the sea. By all means the walk culminated in a 500 foot coastal climb (at least that’s what it felt like, although it’s actually just another very steep walk) which made arriving at the top feel like something akin to breaking the surface of water after having ascended through crushing masses of it.

  From the narrow ridge at the top Capurganá, to the north, and the windward side of Aguacate are visible simultaneously. But that’s the last thing you see of the former. Once we began descending we noticed, apart from even denser vegetation, an agglomeration of houses exposed to waves unperturbed by an opposite coastline whenever the trade wind dominates. Believing these scattered buildings to be all there was to Aguacate, we at first felt slightly disappointed. But the path continues, and after we had passed over a last hill of modest height, the following descent took us into the heart of the small bay that makes up downtown Aguacate. This is also where the pier and landing for the boats are located. The village and its well-kept properties bear witness to the interest which eccentric Europeans and laid back Antioquians, long since retired from the hustle and bustle of their native Medellíns, take in the place, and the overall impression is that of a tranquil garden set against the ever impressive background of the selva. We took a well-deserved break and then continued the path further down the coast where views went from spectacular to breath-taking.

  La Moira, a mile to the south, is not even a village but just a locality with a few plantations and some corralled domestic animals. But from its shores the magnitude of the Darién wilderness appears unimpeded, allowing imagination to run amuck, with vistas reminiscent of Kublai Khan’s Xanadu (as rendered by Coleridge), of landscapes transforming into architectural visions impervious to measure and reason. From here, days of hiking could be imagined before there would again be any signs of civilisation. After having nibbled at that piece of terra incognita, we felt, without even telling ourselves so, that our visit to Capurganá and its surroundings had come to its natural conclusion. We could have changed our plan to take the boat next morning further down the coast, and instead have moved over to Aguacate to hang out there for another week or so. But the feeling was that we had done what we had to do. The return to base thus came to be shrouded in a peaceful melancholy of farewell, so appropriate to the strange, yet profound attraction, of this enigmatic landscape. We met one single person as we were going back. I immediately assumed it must have been the German I had heard about, because, as opposed to locals, he didn’t bother to say hello. In fact he didn’t even bother to look up as he passed by us. Must have been the German.

  We came back to Capurganá just as time was getting ripe for a shower and a sunset cocktail. I bought ice for our drinks just as afternoon turned into evening. An hour later the world was embedded in darkness over which Orion and his faithful corredor (canis major) stood watch.

  Triganá

  Our ten days in Capurganá were up. The previous evening Asíle had bought tickets for the morning lancia and I believe she was all ready to go as I was only beginning to wake up. Luckily our quarters were only about 20 steps away from the pier and after a cup of coffee I packed my few belongings — Asíle would unerringly take care of everything else. On our way out we did spot D
on Tranquilo at a distance, barely managing to produce a wafting of the hand for goodbye — relieved probably that there would be no more complaints from obnoxious guests about his tendency to turn his stereo system on full blast after midnight for the benefit of some locals seeking amusement in the hotel’s waterfront ‘restaurant’. The morning departure was attended by a strong military presence and a boat crew indifferent to the welfare of the passengers and their luggage. Asíle had wrapped our bags in the plastic garbage bags available on the landing, but since everyone used the same convenience, while the bags themselves were moved around by careless hands, there was after a while no telling which ones belonged to us — a difficulty which only presented itself in clear relief as we eventually disembarked at the boat’s first port of call.

  Before that there was a two hour boat ride ahead of us. I mentioned earlier that the only things that move fast in the area are the lancias with their over-dimensioned outboard engines, allowing maximum speed at the cost of minimum comfort to the passengers. It was only now that it began to sink into my mind how lucky we had been to opt for a flight straight to Capurganá from Medellín, instead of spending an entire day on a bus in order to then embark on a three hour boat trip against the choppy, unpredictable swell of the Caribbean in the Gulf of Urabá. In truth, just going with the waves is an ordeal. The lack of general security is one thing. But that really is ‘no thing’. I had taken the precaution to strap money and passport in watertight plastic containers onto my body, vainly hoping that if worse came to worse we would still be able to swim. I soon realised we wouldn’t stand a chance were the lancia to capsize. Alone the speed of the boat would have been enough to jolt us against the concrete hard sea surface and instantly kill, or so incapacitate, us that we’d only be good for the sharks afterwards. So there was really only one hope: that we’d make it the ordinary way. But even the ordinary way meant some degree of discomfort.

  Sitting up front, as we did, being among the very last to embark, it involved getting constantly hissed seven feet up into the air and then brusquely deposited on the backside of every single wave. It suffices to have the slightest spinal problem to be maimed for months to come, unless, of course, you do as I did, and that is to raise slightly from the seat every time the prow of the vessels descended in free fall towards the sea. This is how I passed the next two hours, keeping close to Asíle, holding her hand while finding her very brave. She in turn sported an irresistible smile on her beautifully curved lips throughout the voyage. It was only afterwards I understood that she too had been terrified. At least that’s what she led me to believe, because I never knew — although she kept reassuring me, here as well as in many other instances, that she was in dead earnest — if that’s what she really felt, or if she only wanted me to feel better about my own misgivings, blended as they were with a strong dose of enthusiastic fatalism. Standing up and sitting down alternatively for the better part of two hours, throwing weary glances at a distant coastline shrouded in mists, I thus acquiesced.

  At the end of the second hour we approached a series of small islands, or should I say deadly dangerous looking rocks, jutting out of the frothing sea. We passed between them at full speed and in the next instance the boat rounded a cape. We were protected from both wind and waves, and in particular from the mercilessness of Captain Ahab apparently having mistaken me for Moby-Dick or some other object of his intense hatred. Getting up and out of the boat proved to be our last ordeal in connection with the transport, since no one would lend us a helping hand to reach the wobbly, wooden, makeshift pier, at this time of the day standing under 20 inches of water. In addition, and as I mentioned, all luggage stored in the prow of the boat had been put in black plastic bags and sealed off with strong tape to prevent water damage. Problem was they had also been tossed there randomly by someone who couldn’t have cared less whether the passengers knew where to find them. Since the rest of these were destined for Turbo, the last stop on the run, the remaining passengers would find the time to sort things out once arrived. We on the other hand were the only ones to disembark in Triganá and we had to help ourselves to find our luggage as best we could. Here Asíle once again showed a wonderful presence of mind and after some trial and error selected the correct black wrappings out of the bundle while I, standing on the pier up to my knees in water, hoisted them up as quickly as I could, trying not to drop them back into the sea. Loaded like a camel destined for the unforgiving desert I then managed to reach the shore; Asíle followed right behind me carrying the handbags.

  Meanwhile, additional cargo was thrown into the lancia by the port crew; there was an exchange of excited remarks as the pier readied itself to sink to its grave under the weight of the five people loading stuff from it. Then the familiar roar of the outboard engines, a strident turn and the lancia again gained the open sea. Around us the stillness of a tropical morning moving towards noon closed in. It was like a sudden vacuum from which we only emerged gradually, little by little perceiving the density of the jungle around us, the sounds of its animals and birds, the humid smell of its porous sandy banks. It all seemed beautiful and desolate at the same time — another one of those ‘end-of-the-Earth’ kind of places where notions of beauty, placidity, simplicity, melancholy and despair no longer seem to contradict one another, but rather enter the mind as indistinguishable representations of one and the same thing.

  Knowing the day to be early and the housing market ours — the total absence of tourists was salient evidence of this — we took our time to first have a general look around, then inspect a couple of bungalows, all a bit depressing and, more importantly still, thoroughly overpriced. The narrow beach, principally composed of fine, black sand, was only partly navigable by foot, here and there intersected by huge tree roots and rocks intersected by trails, making pedestrian progress with luggage along the beach slow and painstaking. But there wasn’t really any other principal road and we noticed that many of the locals had the habit of taking to it on horseback. In order to avoid being bogged down and left to wither like two dead branches in the incoming tide, we left our luggage at the tienda serving as cafe, shop, restaurant and landing dock in one. A cold beer was necessary before we set out to seek shelter, which we ended up finding in a private home owned by another motherly lady recently returned from her native Manizales to start taking care of all the things that had deteriorated during her absence.

  It was past noon and Asíle felt we should have something to eat. Though I could certainly have done with a bite, the local cuisine on offer in the village seemed so far from inspiring that I’d rather just have another beer. However, as we returned to pick up our luggage we opted for lunch at the tienda and ended up receiving a bony fish unceremoniously reduced to a brown amorphous chunk by rancid oil. I simply couldn’t finish it and Asíle, though habitually braver than I, wasn’t too happy about hers either. Although it would be unfair to say the dish was expensive by Champs-Élysées or Beverly Hills standards, it still wasn’t for free which instantly made me start dreaming about an accommodation where once again we could cook our own meals.

  Happy to get out of this deadlock where the proprietor family was now also having lunch — unperturbed by the fact that the oil in their deep frying device had remained unchanged over the past two months — we found shelter in a room on the second floor of Rita’s spacious house with its second floor terrace offering what, (abstraction made for a couple of trees blocking the view), could have been a panoramic vista of the bay from a tangle of hammocks swinging in the breeze. The room itself, at the back of the second floor terrace, wasn’t too bad. It had an adjacent toilet where the flush seemed to work and a trickle of water from the wall even made an almost plausible impression of a shower. To take one was another matter because there was no floor console to prevent water from the shower to flood the entire bathroom. But the real novelty was that all the walls, including that of the bathroom, just went half way up to the ceiling, rendering privacy, in co
nnection with any intimate activity of your imagination, well-nigh impossible.

  There was also a young woman living in the house with an even younger child, susceptible, as kids are, to crying whenever the crudity of life pitilessly revealed itself. Borrowing from the kitchen, asking for a tomato as though it had been a piece of gold, or a garlic clove as though it had been a truffle of the same size, as well as searching for utensils, felt like an intrusion on my part in spite of the inhabitants’ cheerful reassurances to the contrary, and I soon grew tired of having to guess where cutlery and plates were hiding instead of being shown to their storage places right away. We did spend the night in the house, and although the rooms did have window frames these had no glass windows. Now that really wasn’t necessary either considering temperatures there are always reliably tropical. Ideally though there should have been mosquito nets. Their absence made the one and only net covering the bed all the more important, but it was too small to properly fit around the mattress, with the consequence that swarms of mosquito bastards found sneaky ways to my veins feasting on blood of Englishman all night long (Asíle, being next to native, was better off in this respect). But we survived and next morning the kind and talkative landlady presented us with an alternative, feigning the sudden arrival of guests of her own during the weekend as an excuse to get rid of us and simultaneously cater to our comfort.