Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala
November 30, 2016
Latitude 14° 55’
Corinto, Nicaragua
December 2, 206
Latitude 12° 49’
Punta Arenas, Costa Rica
December 3, 2016
Latitude 9° 97’
We arrived in Guatemala at Puerto Quetzal on the white hot morning of the first of December. In a little under a week we’d travelled 2,110 miles from Los Angeles. We had crossed the Tropic of Cancer days earlier and were now within a few latitudinal degrees of the sub-tropics.
For years I’ve listened to “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor on this day. Now the first of December was covered with snow. And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston. …The Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting…” All home imagery and all about the cold white days of December that I miss when I’m not in the far north on a December’s day.
I was a long way home from, as I have often been on the first of December since I retired. To be honest, I missed the cold of December. This is what has surprised me most in my 11th year into retirement—that I would actually miss the cold.
For $59.00 we boarded a bus, was forced to listen to the droning of the guide as we wound our way from sea level to 5,000 feet, an hour and a half away. We passed two volcanoes—Fire and Water—Fuego y Agua—and marveled at the spume of smoke that came out of Volcán Fuego. “Ahh,” went the bus. To be fair, it’s not an everyday occurrence.
Once in Antigua, we hired a very nice man—Fausto if you’re reading this—who, for $15.00 each, led us up and down the cobblestoned streets of this lovely old colonial city. This church and that. Narrative all the way. I lagged multiple steps behind him and Glenda snapping pictures. I can always read up on the history later on. Plus, it wasn’t the first time I’d been to Antigua. It was many years ago, in the late 1990’s, when I was first studying Spanish that I spent a chunk of time in this city. Where have all those years gone? So much time had passed that nothing was even familiar.
We stopped for lunch, Glenda wanting some traditional Guatemalan food. $35.00 for a hearts of palm salad and three sausages with terrible guacamole and a bit of rice and fried beans. A $7.00 lunch at a street restaurant in Mexico City. We paid for a phenomenal view.
By the time we left Antigua the day was shedding its warmth. It was far too short a day and there was far more to see than our mere four and half hours allowed. This is the only thing I don’t like about cruising—there’s never enough time in one port.
That evening, I sat on our deck watching the sun—a brilliant striated orange wafer—set into the Pacific. The sky was soupy gray and there was no alpenglow. The sun was there one minute; it was gone the next.
By the time it was dark, a silver curl of the moon hovered low in the western sky—a moon that would wax and accompany us for the rest of our journey. We pushed out to sea, into the great fresh open. It was nice to feel sea breezes instead of oppressive humidity. That night, it was early to bed. León, Nicaragua, waited for us the following day.
The next day, the 2nd, we arrived at the port of Corinto. León was an hour away and I’d rolled the dice to see if a taxi or alternate tour would bring me to the city. If not, it was no big deal. I’d spent plenty of time in Managua and Granada and León couldn’t be that much different. If I failed in this game of chance, I’d be perfectly content spending the day on the boat.
I got off the boat after all the tour busses left and was surprised to see that Corinto was actually a town. Scores of tuk-tuk drivers were more than willing to bring anyone to the beach or on a tour of the town. I jettisoned any idea of León opting, instead, to spend the day in Corinto. How more typical could a Nicaraguan town be?
I wasn’t disappointed. I was also quite surprised to see how many people either stayed on the boat or didn’t take a tour. The little town was packed with overweight tourists being pedaled around by poor, thin Nicaraguan young men who can’t find work doing much else. This is the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, so I didn’t mind putting some extra money in the hands of these young men. The Mission of Hope had taught me well.
It was monstrously hot, and the 2nd of December. Hot all year round with no air con to cool people off. Not my idea of place to live, but I’d been to far worse places in the world. Corinto could be livable if one lowered his expectations. People seemed to be very nice and real estate is probably a massive bargain.
I spent an hour at the beach—all black sand and far too hot for any serious beaching. Instead, I spent the time at a seaside restaurant then hired another guy to bring me on a tour of town. Ninety minutes later we were back at the Main Square where I checked email, bought a tee shirt and returned to the ship early.
In the end I was totally satisfied with not heading to another colonial city. I know I’ll return to Nicaragua with the Mission—sooner, I hope, than the nine years that have elapsed since I was there last.
It would be another early night. Punta Arenas, Costa Rica and unknown mini-adventures awaited.
We woke to sunshine and warmth, but nothing like the heat of Corinto. We also woke to the true sub-tropics. We were at 9º South and this was the furthest south on a ship that I’d even been above the equator in the Western Hemisphere.
We dawdled out of the ship later than usual to find a heap of people selling four hour packages out of Punta Arenas. It all sounded better than it actually turned out to be. We cruised along a coast road, stopped at a bridge to look at crocodiles then climbed a steep road for a lookout in a rain forest. Well, I don’t think we were really in a cloud forest and there was no evidence of flora that would indicate such. But the view was nice. From there it was the requisite stop at a souvenir shop.
We were back in Punta Arenas by 1:30 where we had lunch. Glenda took off to use the Internet and I wandered around town. Several places were selling Costa Rican grown Christmas trees—cyprus shaped into traditional tree shapes. I was in no rush because there was still lots of time before we had to be back on board the ship. I stopped into a church, gave thanks for this trip, gave thanks for having Bob. I could feel my mood lifting and being able to browse slowly in this small city was part of the shift.
Earlier, I’d seen two women giving foot massages and manicures, so I returned to their makeshift salon near the port, waited my turn and spent a delightful hour having Grace do some deep pressure massaging on my tired feet then cleaning up my fingernails. What was even better was the hour we spent chatting—in Spanish—about things Costa Rican. I realized once again what a gift my ability with this language has given me over the years.
“All aboard” was 5:30 pm and I crossed security at 5:25 along with a California/Vietnamese couple and a few other last minute stragglers. We’d been sitting with others at a nearby restaurant waiting to board at the last minute. It was dusk and I’d been enjoying the last vestiges of light in Punta Arenas. Christmas lights on the buildings in the harbor had been turned on and it was the first time I could honestly say that I felt some element of joy on the trip. Bob’s death has lain heavy on my mind.
Once onboard Glenda looked me. “They called here to see if you were on the ship.” I felt a little bit naughty which was OK. Neither I nor the others were late. NCL was just covering its bases by calling each stateroom.
Punta Arenas had seen shift in my mood and that was a good thing. Bob was dead and there was nothing I could do to get him back. There was no reason to carry this sadness all the way into the second week of this trip. Plus, the weather was OK and I found myself embracing the warmth. For the moment I was just fine with being away from the cold of home.
For both of these things I was grateful.
