25 September 2012.
Who would have thought
there were missionary birders besides ourselves? I didn’t think so, but it turns out there are
quite a few. The last 3 weeks have
brought us 3 visitors, one from Romania, one from Dominican Republic and one
from Canada. (Don’t any Norte Americanos want to go birding?). All 3 are connected with World Renew or Christian Reformed World Missions, and all were birders keen to see some new Nicaraguan species. I had previously and cleverly asked our
supervisor to insert in our job description the role of accompanying in the
field all visiting birders. Even though he hasn’t written the job assignment
that way (not yet anyway), we still got the assignments.
Let me describe a
little of just one of our adventures.
Steve, from Dominican Republic, speaks fluent Spanish. Although the
locals thought he might be from Argentina, it wasn’t for lack of understanding
Spanish directions that we got lost. Understand
that in Nicaragua about 99% of the roads and streets have no names, and there
are no street addresses as you would understand them. Instead, we were headed for a remote lodge about 25
kilometers from the town of Esteli where the nearest point of reference was a
rural bus stop. We found Esteli just
fine, but … well, here are the directions from the lodge's website:
from Uno Gas Station number two (ex Star mart) in
Estelí turn east into the road bound for Yali until you get to the fork in the
road, with an old house in between the two roads. Take a left and follow the
same road to the "Rampa" bus stop, then travel 400 meters uphill.
Sounds easy,
right? It turns out the Uno Gas Station
had changed name to Puma, and of the three Pumas on the main highway through
Esteli, none bore “number 2.” But you
are probably thinking—like me—that it should be the second one, in the middle,
because counting from either direction it would be number 2. That would be wrong. As it turned out it was
the third one we encountered—named neither Star Mart, Uno, nor number 2. And here let me insert a word of wisdom about
asking for directions—don’t ask the young man at the pump at the second Puma
station; it’s the guy driving the Pepsi delivery truck who knows where things
are.
Once we got on the right road
headed east we looked for the fork in the road with an old house in it. Turns out there are several intersections
that look more or less like forks, and usually there was a house nearby. The Pepsi delivery man (even he has some
limitations) thought it was about 5 kilometers from the Puma station—it turned out
it was 12 kilometers, but we didn’t know that for another 2 days. So somewhere around 5 kilometers we turned
left on a road, passing not far from a house between the two roads. Expecting another 15 to 25 kilometers ahead of us, we
settled in for the drive up the mountain, enjoying several stops for
interesting birds along the way.
But somewhere around 15
kilometers into this leg of the journey I begin to have doubts that a bus would
ever make daily runs up and down this particular road to the “Rampa” bus stop,
like the directions said. Within a short
distance of finally expressing this thought aloud, what should meet us coming down
the mountain but a full-sized bus. Thus full of false assurance that we were on the right road, we pressed on. As the road got worse and worse, we stopped 2
or 3 times for our friend to ask if we were, indeed, on the road to our lodge. Yes, the lodge is ahead, they always said. A few kilometers more, they always said.
When we were about 20
kilometers (and about 2 hours) along this road things started to really
deteriorate. Our trusty (I hoped!) Rav4
was beginning to hit rocks as we straddled gaping holes and ruts in the road. At one point Steve got out and peered underneath. “It looks like you have protective
plates covering the important parts. I think
we’ll be okay.” I prayed he was right. The car’s 2 liter engine
was really laboring to carry the 3 of us up some of the really steep and long
grades, and then we would plunge back down into a canyon to encounter streams 10
inches deep crossing the road. Through
them we plunged, committed to finding this lodge and a great weekend of
birding.
Finally, more than 20
kilometers along, as we crept up a very steep and rutted stretch I had to stop,
set the brake and get out. Before going ahead I needed to inspect the ruts, rocks, and roadway just over
the rise. Were we going to make it or would
we have to turn around and spend 2 more hours going back the way we came? If we had to go back then it would be long
after dark before we would arrive (assuming we ever found the place), so I really didn’t want to do that. We looked
the road over carefully, eventually removing a couple of boulders that threatened
to damage the undercarriage of the car.
Yes, we thought, if only the driver is in the car, it will probably make
it up and over the rise without getting high-centered. As we were surveying the situation, we were
watched the whole time by a small family, poor rural farmers sitting on their
porch and enjoying the foreign entertainment we provided. Steve
asked them one more time whether the lodge was ahead on this road, and they assured
us it was, just a few kilometers ahead.
So carefully, slowly
Rav4 crept up and over the hazard.
Though I feared otherwise, the worst was now behind us. We eventually came to a bus stop. But it
bore no name, so was it “Rampa” or not? There
was no clear “uphill” from there, and 400 meters on the road beyond there was
no lodge in sight. But yet another local
assured us the lodge was still ahead, so on we pressed. Finally I saw it on the hillside ahead,
looking like the beautiful pictures I had seen on the internet. We had arrived at last. But having gotten there, I wasn’t sure I
wanted to go home. It took us nearly 3
hours to cover the 25 kilometers (or more) on the roughest road I had ever
driven in Rav4. I knew that if that was
the way to Finca Neblina del Bosque, I’d never be coming back for more birding.
At dinner in the lodge
that night we met a nice Nicaraguan family, a couple with their 10 year old
daughter. How did they get there? we
asked. Oh, we drove up in our little red
sedan, they said. I couldn’t believe it. Their tiny car made our old Toyota Camry look like
an off-road vehicle! So we started
asking questions of the people working in the lodge. Which way did we come? they asked. When we pointed in the direction we came from,
their eyes widened. Why did you ever
come that way they asked?
Well, it was all about
that fork in the road. I have always
admired the wit and wisdom of Yogi Berra, who once said, “if you come to a fork
in the road, take it.” Well, this time
we shouldn’t have followed Yogi’s advice.
The next evening around sun-down about
50 (no kidding) powerful 4x4 trucks came roaring up the same road we had driven up. The 4x4ers were fast,
loud and proud of the mud they had accumulated conquering the same nasty road
we had survived earlier.
 |
| Three-Wattled Bellbird |
Once we finally got there the birding was very good.
Highlights included Cinnamon-bellied
Flower-Piercer, Azure-crowned Hummingbird, and the elusive Three-Wattled Bellbird. This latter bird deserves more comment. A week earlier in another location we heard a
Three-Wattled Bellbird and narrowed its location down to one tree, which we
were standing under. And despite 45
minutes of looking into this tree while the bird called loudly and nearly continually, we
could not see it. So it was particularly
satisfying on this trip to see it fade into and out of view in the mountain
mist, eyeing it through our telescope from hundreds of meters away. God must have been chuckling when he made
this bird. With its wattles dangling from its face, it suggests to me the
inspiration for certain space aliens I’ve seen in the movies.
Two days later when our time was up we drove in the opposite direction away from the lodge. After going about 400 meters down the hill we
passed the “Rampa” bus stop (at last!), and we were on our way home. The ride back down, despite being 25
kilometers of gravel, was smooth and luxurious in comparison to the ride up the
mountain. We enjoyed every minute of
it. I guess we can go back after all.
Wasn’t that an innovative idea? It so effectively called public attention to
a degrading problem, but no harsh words needed to be said. The women got to let off some steam—almost literally—but
without harming anything. Nothing, that
is, except the offending male egos. They
used a humorous means to let their feelings be known publicly while clearly
communicating their displeasure to the very people who caused their pain. Surely it was a remarkable local response to
a common problem for women. I admire their courage and creativity.
