i traded my bicycle for a mule

To find me on the remote Carribean Coast of Nicaragua, one would have to fly to Managua, travel 8 hours by land through the night, and two hours by Panga, a small speed boat that winds down river until river opens into bay just as the sun rises. Upon arriving at the colorful docks of Bluefields, the smells, music and diverse languages of the Carribean Coast drench the skin in a waft of thick, moist ocean air. From here to the small, off the grid hillside village of San Pancho, a four ride in the panga, smacking down over wave upon wave until the bay turns back to river while the air (or rain) strikes the skin at 60 mph. The river shrinks smaller and smaller, the boat passes other pangas trucking pepsi and chips, rice and masa flour down river, passing fisherman paddling canoes, passing iguanas and rainforest birds, the potential of snakes dripping from vines into the boat, a serious threat. Arriving in San Pancho, one would trade boat for mule for a four hour trip into the interior, into the communities of the campo, trudging through swamp, mud, down canyons, through rivers, across wooden bridges, through barbed wire gates, separating one farmers´cattle from another.
I made this trip in stages, over the course of a month. Not having the opportunity to share my experiences before leaving for the campo, with only a journal and pen to occupy my mind, I began a lengthy journal that I hope to transcribe here, now that I am back on Tierra Firma (I´m referring to the mud, of course) for the length of a week, to enjoy Thanksgiving with a few expats, a reunion with my host family on the Finca Demostrativa, a workday at my friend Georgina´s farm, and a lesson in planting seeds with Doña Coco and her group of street children who visit the farm.
Please enjoy my stories, share them, share your own stories, leaf through photos, and know that I spend many lazy hours rocking in the hammock, thinking of friends and family in Philly, Boston, and Vermont.