Letters From Nicaragua: Part 17 - The Island Of Iguanas

As we looked at each other, hopelessly stuck in the jungle, with no idea of what to do next, nobody seemed concerned about the sound I had just heard. The sudden silence was ended by the sound of honking horns, which is a fairly ordinary sound in Nicaragua, except that we were far from the city and traffic. And yet there it was, a mounting line of trucks behind us, wanting those stupid tourists to move over.

I considered for a moment, jumping out of the van and just running for it on my own, but I had seen enough horror movies to know that would merely make me the first victim. There was still hope that I was merely hearing things, and that this was the first sign of me losing my mind, as opposed to the idea that a monster was making his way towards us  in that slow, methodical movement that almost all giant things seem to do.
In a turn of events that almost seemed like machinery of the gods at the time, our friend was able to bring over his "hermano" who just happened to be nearby with a tractor and a chain.  They hooked it up, yanked the van up the hill and we were free, after giving them a quite generous tip. I never felt so relieved, especially because I now had my window up, and we were rolling downhill. It occurred to me much later that it was extremely possible that a jungle telegraph had started the minute a local saw some gringos heading towards Maderas in a city van....in that wilderness, everybody was an entrepreneur. Hey, Florida's not that different. Just think about how many tow trucks like to cruise around Volusia county beaches at high tide..
We finally got back to the lodge with stories to tell. Unfortunately, Pam was having none of my monster tale. She was sure that I had heard a donkey braying off in the distance. As if I couldn't tell the difference between a "E-Haw" and a bloodthirsty moan, indicating sharp, grinding teeth at the same time. I tried to be really specific, using what I had learned from years of working at a music recording school. I said, "It sounded like a Low-Fi recording of a pack of wolves barking, run through a gated-reverb, and with a lot of the bass rolled off at 1k."
"Donkeys", she said.
And so we left Maderas with yet another unsolved mystery. We then drove to our next destination, which was pretty much the opposite of the Eco-Lodge,  an upscale gated community, beach slash golf resort. I could not even imagine that such a thing existed from what I had seen so far, but about two hours later, I was looking at it, or at least the guard gate, which was nothing like the gate at a community in the USA.

This was looked more like a military gate at a Navy base, except no uniforms. The three guards came out of their shack and eyed Sam's papers, while he used his British version of Spanish. Then Miguel did his thing, smiling and making friends, and soon the gate opened. Sam drove on through and I moved forward only to have the gate slam down in front of my truck. The guard approached me with a frown on his face and held out his hand, speaking some rapid fire Spanish, and I can truly say that in spite of my experience, I didn't recognize one word.
My Spanish training was two years of classes back in high school. I can still remember "un vasa de agua" a phrase I will never use again....I need a BOTTLE of water. But I did get further training. I have watched the whole run of "El Patron de Mal" which I figure is worth something, but perhaps not as much as I would like.

I looked at the guard helplessly and saw the van vanishing once again off in the distance. Here I am, stuck without enough Spanish, figuring that speaking more loudly in English would help. He was having none of it, and was one of those guys that didn't want to listen to a woman either, much to Pam's dismay. After fumbling around and not finding my paperwork, I pointed at the van which was now a speck in a cloud of dust and said, "Mi Muchachos!".....he laughed let me through..