La Tobara and lots of crocodiles
10/09/2009 at 23:51 from (21.527881, -105.282218)
The next day we all agreed to meet beside our palapa around 8am and head into town together to tour La Tobara (or La Tovara, or La Tobarra, depending on which sign you were reading, which locals you talked to, and which guide book you owned). Once I was done procrastinating and fumbling for cash, we took off into town again, a slow, gangly, glaringly white bicycle gang. We chatted in the morning calm, weaving our way through the muddy streets.
Once in San Blas, we all stopped to grab some snacks and run a few little errands, then headed toward the outskirts of town, where we had agreed to meet our guide, Victor. He hailed us as we approached and directed us down the street to his house, where we locked up our bikes. He waded out to his boat, jumped in, motored it toward the dock, steadied it as we all hopped in, then backed us out into the center of the slow-moving river.
Within minutes, we were surrounded by the abundance of a lush and beautiful estuary. Brilliant white egrets skimmed the glassy surface of the river as some relative of the cormorant perched awkwardly in the trees to our left. Occasionally, we would startle one of the hundreds of gigantic blue herons, forcing them to take wing, the thumping of their powerful wings crisp in the cool morning air.
And then, without warning, our guide steered us into a narrow gap in the dense folliage lining the river. Abandoning the wide open views of the river, we found ourselves traveling up a thin tributary, walled in on either side by inpenetrable mangroves. Every few minutes, we'd come across a school of fish on the surface, feeding on the thick mat of insects congregating just above the water. All at once, as if by a prearranged signal, the entire school would duck under with a loud rushing noise, roiling the calm waters.
As we continued on, the vegetation got thicker and taller, hemming us in, and the light grew dimmer. Our guide would pause every few minutes to point out some interesting creature or plant -- huge termite nests suspended from the branches, mangroves whose roots dropped from branches ten meters above our heads, orange and black crabs that clung to the mangrove roots, egrets holed up deep inside the tangled mass, barely visible.
Then, just as we were growing used to the rhythm of the ride, he killed the engine and said in a hushed voice, "¡Cocodrillo!" He pointed to our right, in a dark hollow just inside the wall of mangrove. We squinted our eyes and, in unison, murmured our surprise. Not five meters away from us was a long, dark, rubbery log. Spiny bumps ran along its length and, at the thickest end, were offset by a row of sharp, gleaming white teeth. We snapped photos and whispered, daring each other to get in the water with the beast.
After congratulating us on our first live crocodile sighting, Victor gunned the engine and we were off again. Not much futher along, a small concrete bridge hung impossibly low over the water. We rocketed toward it, reducing speed only momentarily as everybody hit the deck, the bottom of the bridge skimming just above the bows of the boat. After successfully clearing the tiny bridge without decapitating anybody, we pulled briefly into the tour hub, where we paid for our trip, dropped off some trash, grabbed some free water, and then continued upstream.
As we pressed on, the mangroves began to retreat and the vegetation became more varied. The brackish, brown water we had been motoring through until now was slowly becoming fresher, allowing for a more diverse set of plants and animals to thrive. We saw lillies and iguanas and eagles that dined on a type of freshwater snail found only in these estuaries. We also passed by a trio of incongruous huts, part of an abandoned movie set that is now actively preserved as a bizarre highlight for tourists.
And the further in we moved, the more varied the plant life became. Palms, reeds, and trees covered in bromeliads lined the river. For a few minutes, the ceiling of branches and vines that had obscured the sky for so long disappeared, and we caught sight of the mountains in the distance. We became distinctly aware of how high the sun had crept, and how hot the day was growing, and were relieved when we were once again in the cool and shade of the river's canopy.
Along the way, we saw another crocodile, this one basking midstream in the sunshine. As we approached, it moved lazily toward the shore, then slowly sank below the surface without leaving even a ripple to suggest it had been there. Not two minutes later, we caught a turtle doing the same thing, sunning itself on a log a few meters from the bank, oblivious or unconcerned about our intrusion.
Back under the shade of the jungle, we pulled into a crocodile nursery (for which we had to pay a little extra), where conservationists are working to maintain the dwindling crocodile population and preserve its habitat. As we docked, Victor pointed out a bright orange iguana, giant and still, clinging to a tangle of branches a few meters away. As we disembarked, dozens of other iguanas, so well-camouflaged (or at least moreso than their orange relative) that we hadn't even noticed them, scattered in all directions.
The crocodile farm itself was a little too much like Jurassic Park for comfort. While it looks as though the crocs are well cared for, and that the staff is knowledgeable, the pens that the crocodiles are kept in are little more than shallow pits encircled by rusting chain link fence, unsupported at their bases and patched up in places with bailing wire or mesh. There didn't seem to be much between a determined crocodile and our pasty, tasty legs.
We contemplated this as we snapped photos and took turns tentatively petting the crocs (their skin feels just about like it looks: slick, hard, wet rubber). We wandered from pen to pen. Some had two or three crocodiles, while others just had one big, fat fellow. There were other animals, too. There was a family of raucous parrots, a lonely eagle, an antisocial pig, and an animal that Marijana insists was a coati, which looked like a raccoon with a prehensile tail and a stretched out snout. I'm not so sure about the name (there were no signs on any of the pens), but it sounds just silly enough to be right.
After tipping the staff at the sanctuary and boarding the boat, we headed to the endpoint of our upstream journey, a combination swimming hole and tourist trap called La Tobara Restaurant. The swimming hole is fenced off from the rest of the river and was remarkably clear. We stripped down to our suits and plunged in, enjoying a refreshing break from the heat of the noon sun. The pool had a short rope swing hanging out over the water, suspended from bamboo supports.
After everybody else (except Max, who wisely sat out such foolhardy endeavors) had taken a turn, I was stupid enough to try to top previous swings. I tried to double swing, but on the way back, didn't retract my legs far enough, cutting my foot open on the dock before awkwardly tumbling into the pool. Believing that it would be piling idiocy on stupidity to remain in the water in the tropics with an open wound, I clambored out and limped over to the restaurant, where a quiet young guy poured hydrogen peroxide on my foot and applied a strange iodine-based glue that sealed up the flap of flesh hanging off my big toe and left an alien, purple stain on my foot.
I slowly put my clothes back on and chatted with Max while the rest of the group cheerfully cavorted in the water until they were spent. After towelling off and throwing clothes back on, we all sat at one of the tables abutting the pool and ordered a decent meal of fried plantains, fish, and shrimp quesadillas. We chatted over beers, occasionally tossing a few breadcrumbs to the writhing mass of fish swarming at the foot of our table.
We left the restaurant in the center of the jungle feeling content and lucky (Victor remarked that it was exceptionally rare to see so many crocodiles in the wild, and that most visitors only got to see them at the farm). It was a quiet ride back, and we covered it in almost half the time since we weren't stopping every couple of minutes to ogle at some new and spectacular sight.
When we once again found ourselves back on the openness of the main body of the river, we noticed dozens of fishermen lining either side. They were each holding a line in their hands, twitching it occasionally to entice the fish below to bite. As we docked, we thanked and tipped Victor, then discussed our next move. Max highly recommended that we hike a couple of kilometers up the steep hill to our left to the ruins of a colonial fort and counting house called La Contaduria.
We debated briefly whether we would do it, since my toe was still bleeding and Max didn't want to do the hike again. He mentioned a mosquito swarm near the top that he wasn't particularly keen to walk through again, and cited the steep slope as another factor. We all elected to go, though, for the view, agreeing to meet Max back at camp in an hour or two.
And so up the hill we went, Christian and Malin taking the lead and Marijana and I bringing up the rear. After a short climb up the impossibly steep hill, we happened upon a small shack on the side of the road, in which two official-looking woman sat, chatting. They informed us that we had to buy tickets to enter the ruins, but we didn't have any more pesos on us. I offered them a roughly approximate amount of dollars, which they readily accepted, handing us back four tickets and pointing us further up the hill.
We strode only a few steps further and became almost instantly surrounded by an inescapable cloud of mosquitoes. We quickened our pace and quietly took note that we should pay more attention to Max's observations in the future.
Just around the bend, we came across the ruins. The floors, walls, and arches were all well-preserved, but the ceiling had long ago rotted away, giving the place an expansive, spacious feel. On the outside, trees and vines sprouted from gaps between stones in the walls, while on the inside, grass and moss grew on the tops of the arches and columns. The emptiness of the place and the beauty of the architecture captured our imagination, and we almost didn't want to know its real history. But even as pretty as it was, we didn't linger long because the mosquitoes were relentless and we were accumulating bites.
We pressed on as the road seemed to level out a bit. Just over a little rise, we saw another stone building, longer than the first, but shorter and less grandiose. This was the port's counting house during colonial times, and the walls surrounding the building were lined with huge, imposing cannons. The inside was spare, just like the building down the hill, but this had a wooden roof and appeared to be wired for concerts and banquets. The views from the fortifications were the real attraction, though, because the fort commanded an impressive view of the entire town, beaches, and the surrounding swamp.
Marijana and I lounged along the walls, holding hands and taking in the sights. We tried to find our little cabaña, gaped at the wide swath of palm trees, and admired La Tobara's vast expanse as it pushed out all the way to the horizon. Tired and hot, we then turned on our heels, ready for the long, interesting ride home. The way back was essentially the same as our morning ride, but in reverse. We arrived around noon and Marijana instantly changed into her suit, grabbed a board, and headed into the surf. I hung back, using my toe as an excuse to drink and chat with the rest of the group in the shade of the palapa.
It was four more hours before Marijana was tired enough to head back in. We changed into clothes and then pedaled into town, with the setting sun as our only light. Once in town, we caught a bite to eat, looked for a cafe with free wifi (and, believe it or not, found one called Wala Wala!), then headed next door for drinks and lively conversation with the group. When we sat down, we were introduced to Miguel, a man from San Blas who, after asking us where we were from, casually said in English, "Oh, I've been through Issaquah."
I refused to believe him until he said, "Well, I haven't stopped there many times, but I've driven through it a lot. It's between Bellevue and the Pass, right?" Satisfied but curious, I drilled him on this how he came into such local knowledge. As we soon found out, Miguel had a house and business in Kent, and even maintains a phone number in the Seattle area, traveling there several times a year for business and to visit with friends.
As the rest of the group grew silent and tired (probably of us, as we had dominated the conversation from the start), Miguel offered to show us his house, which he had been thinking of converting into a bed and breakfast. We waved goodbye to the group and followed his truck (with Washington plates!) on our bikes. He stopped in front of a massive, colonial-style villa across the cobbled street from a canal.
Inside, the furniture was piled up out of the way, a clear sign the place hadn't been lived in for awhile. He guided us from room to room and, the more we saw, the more we liked. We stridently urged him, if he wanted to make money, to open the bed and breakfast up now and plow some of the profits into the remodel he was planning to do, instead of the other way around, as he had mentioned. The place was nicer than any of the other accommodations we had seen in town, and was centrally located. Besides all that, it also matched up well with his other business: excursions.
After we concluded our tour and said our goodbyes, sleepy after a full day and a few drinks, we turned our bikes homeward and passed out amid the thin smoke of our many mosquito coils.
