Jerez:

Home from my Spanish sojourn and I can’t but help returning to the various encounters I had with horses.  Am I becoming one of those mad old bats who prefers animals (especially horses) to people?

My first foray into the horse world was in Jerez.   A beautiful town in its own right which actually SMELLS of sherry and reminds me of my parents drinking tio pepe out of tiny crystal glasses at lunch time (sometimes quite shortly after elevenses actually).  “Will, just give me another tinsy thimbleful dear..”

The Real Escuela Andaluza del Arte Ecuestre puts on a show of classical dressage and driving. This is an utterly Spanish, deadly serious, male dominated event.

Knowing how difficult it was to get our Lighty, the family pony in Scotland, to arch her neck, canter in a circle, let alone with the outside leg leading, not to mention working in tandem with another horse, performing complicated movements across the arena, prancing, dancing, turning on a sixpence and so forth, I can pretty well assure my readers that Lighty Mitchell was not a PRE (pura raza española – Pure Spanish Horse) nor were we the great trainers we wanted to be.

There seemed to be an invisible string between the trainer and his horse.  It was magnificent.

My only feeling of ambivalence was when they made the horses rear up and walk on their back legs.  This felt like circus skills and I thought it humiliating for the horses to be exposing their tummies.  I think horses like a little privacy when it comes to their underbellies.  I met an English woman in the loo who totally agreed with me.

Tormenta

Off on my solitary road trip to the hinterland of Andalucía I spend a night with my Scottish friend JR.

Would you like to ride?  Asks J

Yes! Squeak I !!

Thinking, my God I want to ride so badly I’m prepared to risk broken bones, ruined holiday, medical fees, brain damage and possible death.  I want to get on that pretty Andalusian horse.  I have probably ridden twice in the last 30 years.  I’m terrified.  I have to put the stirrup down to the bottom hole and heave myself up very nearly capsizing over the other side.  Gammy knee protesting!   Tormenta is far too engrossed with the juicy green grass to pay the slightest attention to this heffalump presence.  We do nothing brave.  We walk round and around in circles and that’s about it. I’m in heaven.  I have fallen in love with Tormenta like I fell in love with my grandchildren. I spend hours grooming her and nuzzling her and telling her she’s a grand beauty and she mustn’t roll in the mud.

Cordoba

The Asociación Córdoba Ecuestre performs their amazing show mostly focused on a flamenco dancer interacting with the dancing horses.  This takes place in the Caballerizas Reales de Córdoba which was commissioned by Felipe ll in 1567.  A cross-vaulted roof supports on sandstone columns which divide the circumference into a series of small stalls.   Our ticket allows us entry half an hour early with not a nod or a wink to health and safety we are allowed to go into the stalls and pet the horses.

The enactment is performed with passion and duende (not an easy word to translate) and I leave the stable seriously contemplating applying to be a stable hand at the very least although my age and  sex might just make it an unrealistic dream – I guess it’ll have to be added to the “next life” list and perhaps I’ll raise my aspirations either to being a flamenco dancer or better still and Andalusian horse.

Bonito the Albino:

Bonito is a tourist pony in El Puerto de Santa María.  He pulls a cart and Jesús, his very talkative owner drives the tourists round the town pointing out places and people of interest.  I have never done such a thing before but we blame Roxy (aged 2) who falls asleep as soon as we clamber on to the cart; we relax into the whole delightful experience and stop worrying about who might see us.  Jesús tells us that Bonito is puro Sangue Lusitano (pure blooded Lusitano) from Portugal and highly intelligent.  For those who don’t know, an apparently white horse is always referred to as “grey” unless, of course, they are albino, in which case you can call them white.  Bonito is charmingly friendly, very handsome, and clearly quite happy about his boss and his job description.

Me and my chums Ch and C board the train at Cádiz and head for Sevilla from whence they will depart the next day.  I’ve become a real Spanish citizen by acquiring an old people’s travel pass for a mere six Euros.  Our Airbnb is just off Plaza de Alfalfa – the flat’s freezing – ice cold marble floors which are like a skating rink.  You can feel the cold through your trainers.  We didn’t help the situation by putting on the AC instead of two rather small blow heaters.  It’s pretty cold outside at night too.  However, Plaza de Alfalfa is the perfect square with its orange trees, two outstanding bars, a playground and the odd musician strumming.  I’ve been wondering what the hell is Alfalfa.  Finally googled it and the most interesting thing about this “forage crop” is that the name comes from the Arabic meaning best horse fodder or horse power.  Such a useful word when I start learning Arabic.

The Alcazar: We plunge in to the winding streets and head for the Alcazar.    As my two buddies are gardening experts, we make the huge garden the focus of our visit.  Ch has a beautiful walled garden in Yorkshire full of Clematis and roses and C has acres of land looking on to the snow-capped Pyrenees.  The “English” garden is not at all like Ch’s, but it does remind me of the famous garden in the North West of Scotland – Inverewe.   Pines and Palms form a happy union. There are acres of linked gardens to be wandered through – all with their own histories.  Fountains and patios and orange groves and baths and grottos and mazes abound.  There is a marvellous walkway which gives you a birds’ eye view of this little corner of heaven.

I was determined to give Murillo another chance – I read that he painted scenes from daily life as well as his more well-known religious paintings which can get quite repetitive and boring.  However, we had a Murillo at home, at least it was a Murillo until I married an old-master art dealer who completely put paid to that idea.  Dream spoiler!  Fortunately, the Museo de Bellas Artes had a special Murillo exhibition for the 400th centenary of his birth of just 50 paintings and many of them from the more realistic genre.  Whoop whoop!  It was, indeed, magnificent and I think if Murillo hadn’t fallen off his ladder (fatally) at the age of 35 he might have been known as a different sort of artist and not so closely associated with that dreary Ribera and the much less dreary Zurbaran.

Next day was change over day.  Away went the Cs and in came VBG and another C.

Sight-seeing conjures up horrible images of tired feet, queues, boredom, guilt, bafflement, duty, martyrdom and a whole lot more.  I do still feel a certain obligation to torture myself into ticking every box and hold imaginary conversations with my x husband about what I have seen, where and ‘Oh My God did I miss the Murillo in the chapel of Sta Maria!’  The dual facts of an upbringing which centred around duty and guilt PLUS a husband who could sightsee for 12 hours without sitting down has turned me into a confounded, freaky sight-seer.  I hate it! I love it!  None of these emotions assaulted the new team VBG and C.  Not a bit of it – they had no intention of going in to the cathedral “queue far too big” so we walked round the outside three times and that was pretty brilliant!

The Rio Sabalos (Tarpon River) is a tributary of Rio San Juan.  A tarpon is a large air-breathing fish and in appearance has a rather bad-tempered countenance.   I have yet to meet one, however, I met some Texans who were on a tarpon-fishing-mission which suggests that they do actually exist.

dugout canoe

The River splits Sabalos in two and Sabalos Lodge where I am staying is away from the main part of the village.

If the hotel isn’t prepared to ferry you (which they are) you need to get a dugout canoe for two cordobas.

Last time I was in a dugout canoe I fell out.

What with the bus journey and the beasties of yesterday I decide to have a nothing day.  Nothing I do worse than nothing.

I can’t really remember the last time I had a proper meal but I stick to the principle that a huge breakfast and a very early dinner is the way to go. I won’t say the Nicaraguan food is revolting but … there is a limit as to how charitable I can be about beans, rice and fried bananas.   I haven’t been terribly impressed by the river fish either.  Flabby, grey and slightly bitter.

I spend the first half of the day squirming around in the hammock and wishing it was as comfortable as it looks.  Some of the hazards of hammocks are as follows: fear of falling out, motion sickness, claustrophobia, leg/arm/foot hyperextension.

This activity is complimented by watching the three fat Germans.  They are wallowing in the river on rubber tyres attached to ropes.  I wonder if they will encounter an alligator.  I am told they find Europeans tasty.  Last year I brought home a parasite embedded in my arm which caused the Hospital for Tropical Diseases a lot of interest until they lost my notes and the parasite disappeared.  The German ladies avoid me.

I organize my day for tomorrow and plan my evening with military precision.  The bugs drive me out of the cabin at dusk and the bats drive me out of the reception area about 8 p.m.  I go to bed in total darkness and in the safety of my mosquito net read on my kindle which has a back light. The bugs know they have met their match and don’t come near me.  “Lucky we have bats to eat the bugs” says Ismael.  Definitely a glass half full sort of guy.

Glorious Night!  Delicious pancakes for breakfast and off I go at 7.30 a.m. to learn about cacao.  Julio is my guide and Brian (of all names) is the boat driver.  Julio is a first-rate guide.  He tells you things and then he tests you.  Sometimes he tests you and then corrects you or congratulates you.

We meander down the river spotting sloth, alligator, various birds and all the beautiful lush vegetation on the rio Sabalo.  Arrive at the cacao finca which is owned by a German.  Walking round Is extremely bitey and very muddy but on the basis I know nothing about cacao it is pretty interesting.  The jefe (not the German) who shows us round is monosyllabic. I am stressing about giving him a tip as I still haven’t worked out the value of the Cordoba so he doesn’t get one.

Then, back in the boat to the village of Sabalos where we go to the factory where the cacao is treated.  Not really a factory.  A dear girl, who is very nervous and earnest explains all the processes and at the end we get to eat the chocolate (horrible) and drink it (quite nice).  I give her a day’s wages as a tip I worked out later.  Good! She deserves it!

Julio and I then go to the hotel Sabalo which is much cheaper than here and has proper rooms but none of the magic.  This is better.  However, some advantages of being in the town.  Nice girl at the bar and we have a good chat.  My Spanish is awful but I have my moments.

I give Norma an English lesson.  She works in the kitchen and is the wife of the guy at reception – Ismael.  Spent an hour and a half saying things like:

Managua is the capital of Nicaragua

London is the capital of England

And she inevitably says:

Enjand is capital of Lungdun

Very sweet girl, with a nervous tick and inability to pronounce the word “would”.  I think the American accent might be easier for her.

I speak with some nice Dutch people who have been in Costa Rica.  They also came by bus and there was a truck broken down on the road which meant they had to get off the bus, walk round the truck and wait for another bus to collect them.  Their journey was worse than mine.  Taxis refused to take them as the road was so awful so I made the right decision.  Just been picked up by a Danish man who asked me to join him at dinner!  Ha! Ha! The benefits of travelling solo!

I decided to pay Norma’s “university” fees for a month ($45) Perhaps a better teacher than I can get her to pronounce “would” correctly.  We all go to Sabalos together for me to get the boat to El Castillo and Norma to go to hospital to get her tick attended to.  I love these people. I’m deeply happy.

 Solo Travel

I wanted to go to Nicaragua to meet the Rama tribe who live nine hours down where the Río San Juan meets the Caribbean – a magical river which slashes across the country from East to West on the Costa Rican border.   It is  known  as the Amazon of Central America.

Why the Rama Tribe?  There has been a black cloud of a threat hanging over the Río San Juan for the last 500 years to turn the river into a canal.  That would be the end of the Rama tribe, the wild life and the river communities.  How many times do we describe a place to someone who says, “Oh, it’s completely different now, you should have been there in the 60s/70s – whenever!”  I want to be that annoying person.

Now I can be a bit tricky but I do have friends.  So I cast around for a travel buddy and am met with a baffling array of excuses which amount to, “Where the fuck is Nicaragua?” “Why the fuck are you going there?”

So, I go on my own.

The First 24 Hours:

There are a few things that go – shall we say – not exactly to plan.

It is Sunday and I climb out of the 10 seater plane in San Carlos and wend my way down a dusty path to the port where my trusty friends have promised me there is a public boat to transport me to Los Sábalos – my first destination – two hours down the river.   This is an important connection as there are no made up roads leading to the village.

A toothless old woman tells me: “No boat – go away … find the bus stop.”  In Spanish of course, but that’s OK… I speak Spanish.

I make my way to the bus stop which turns out to be a bus station.  On arrival, I notice my case is dragging a bit.  “Oh, no” I think , “that’s all I need… broken wheels” however, it turns out, I am giving a naughty little boy a free ride.  He is lying astride my suitcase.  “Shoo!”  say I.

Chaos reigns:

If you’ve had the misfortune to be in a Central American bus station you will know what I’m talking about.  There are gangs of ambulant vendors all with the same things:   leather belts, jewellery, and shower curtains.  I ask three people times of buses to Sábalos and get three different answers and a taxi driver with an angry face how much to drive me.  2 hours, 2000 córdobas.  Bus: 2 hours 60 córdobas.

Am I worried that I have just read an article about that very same route where a bus  slid into the river whilst trying to unload a cooker from the top? The driver forgot to put the hand break on.   Eight people drowned and the driver went to prison for two years.  Yes! I’m not thrilled I happened on that story.

Bus slides in to river

I remove myself to a comedor to mull over the choices and order a coke to sugar me up.  A lame dog comes and sits on my feet under the table. Not sure what a Córdoba is worth (I have a wodge of them in my wallet) but it seems a bit of a no brainer, particularly as I am thinking I will be safer with a group in a bus than with a dodgy looking taxi driver in a dodgy looking car on a road that isn’t a road and isn’t marked on any map.

lame dog

Boarding a Bus:

This is Steve Simpson’s description:

I’ve been on quite a few now.  I’m beginning to understand some of the problems. You’ll remember that there are two doors, one at the front and one at the back, and every bus is full.  The idea is that you get in at the front and struggle down the aisle in time to get off the back at your stop.  Timing is important.  I’ve only seen one hefty woman with a box of tangerines on her head capable of moving from halfway down the bus to the back between two stops.  I was forced out before my stop that time, and a couple of other causalities occurred – broken foot and crushed groin, nothing fatal. Most people aim to get to the back well before their stop, but this creates the CLOT, which is difficult to get through;  it often happens that you get empty standing space at the front while there’s a CLOT of people crushed at the back for fear of missing their stop.  Some passengers deal with the CLOT by staying up front and nipping off at their stop before passengers get on. However, if too many people do that you get big pressure up front too – this is the DOUBLE CLOT. There’s no real answer to the DOUBLE CLOT.  One woman was bodily passed through a middle window when confronted with the DOUBLE CLOT, but this move is not generally advisable.  

My problems are a little different but none the less problems.  My main priority is to get on the bus and get an inside seat which will ensure a whole seat rather than having one buttock waving out into the aisle.   There is indeed a back and a front entrance and it is at the back that the bundle/suitcase/chicken has to be loaded either on the shelves in the bus or on top of the bus.  My strategy is to board the bus at the back but having disposed of my case I find there are no steps.  The people are piling in at the front. My only hope is to scramble up the two feet gap and grab a seat.  However, half way up, on all fours on the floor of the bus, I am pulled back down and ordered to go to the front.  Screwed again!  I reconcile myself to sitting next to a very fat lady with a very fat  child on her lap and a very jabby plastic chair on top of the child.  I get the numb bum treatment as I feared.

Arrival at Sábalos:

Three hours later I arrive in a dark and deserted village at the very spot where the bus slipped in to the river.

Anxiety check list:

The hotel is on the other side of the river 20 minutes away by fast boat.  Am I worried? Yes!  I have absolutely no idea if anyone will meet me.

“Doña Maggie” says a small boy emerging from behind a tree.  He bundles me into a large boat and off we go at high speed in the pitch dark across and down the raging river.  I offer him the light on my phone.  He declines.

Beastly Beasties (or Mod-Cons-Aren’t-All-They’re-Trumped-Up-To-Be):

I arrive at my “hotel” which is a cabin on stilts without walls dangling over the river.  I am shown with pride that there are two plugs to charge phones etc.  Not only that, there are overhead lights. Exactly the sort of hotel I love: A shower with only one knob so there’s no confusion; towels cleverly made in to the shape of swans (wish I could do that!); And a very strong looking mosquito net. I unpack in my new home making full use of the 20 watt light bulbs.  I look at what was a sparkling white mosquito net, I look at the light bulbs… everything is a heaving dancing mess of yellow wings, they descend on me, my phone, my face, my hair.  I run through the jungle, along some planks to the reception hut. Nobody there.  I was going to say, “Excuse me señor, I can’t stay here.  Take me home!” By home I mean ISLINGTON.   I slink back along the planks through the jungle and decide I am not dead so it could be worse.  How in God’s name to get into the safety of the mosquito net without bringing in the whole population of beasties?   The next half hour is spent thrashing around in the dark and randomly squirting DEET  inside my net.  In the middle of the night there is a storm of such monumental proportions that I am almost certain that my little house and I are floating down the river.  I’m beyond caring.

The bed cover is a morgue in the morning – I am sharing my bed with about 1000 deet victims.

I prod myself…

I question my anxiety register.  Am I suffering from PTSS?

I feel no symptoms.  I scramble out of my mosquito net, lean over the rickety fence on my balcony and breathe in the sweet fresh air, I watch the relentless journey of the river, I am exactly where I want to be.

Unbelievable but true – at my great age I’ve only just discovered the joys of travelling ALONE!

Information

Lonely Planet gives most of the basic information you will need.

La Costeña Airlines goes to San Carlos and San Juan del Norte on certain days of the week

Sabalos lodge: www.sabalos.lodge.com tel: 8823-5515.  sales@sabaloslodge.com

Quoted: Postcard from Nicaragua by Steve Simpson. Ryburn publishing, 1987