My first sight this morning was my sweetheart's smiling face. The first words were, "Happy Valentine's Day." I have to say it was an adjustment. Even though Valentine's Day is celebrated here, I felt a little bit of culture shock. All my associations with this day are planted firmly in the U.S., yet here we are in a different world, saying familiar things. The kaleidoscope seems to be slipping into yet another view. It's a little like being inside a washing machine, looking out.
When we came down for breakfast to a smiling Juanita, at the sight of our laptops, she said, "No work today! We are going to Paraiso." After filling us with tea, bread and fried plátanos madura (green plantains), we began the search for ropes for the hammocks. We are going to the cloud forest! I took down the clothesline and found some more rope in the storeroom. Juanita's best friend is going too, with her two children. With a searching look, Juanita asked Vincent, "Do you drive?" Her friend had a bad headache and was not wanting to.
While we waited for her friend to arrive, an excited Emily wanted to jump rope, so we turned for her and Mateo. Vincent and Juanita jumped, too. We were all fairly bouncing with excitement. Vincent especially had cabin fever. The drive took about 45 minutes to an hour up (and up and UP) a winding two-lane highway. I cannot emphasize enough how high it was. I am used to mountain driving, and going around a curve looking down into a ravine full of trees. But this was ten times that. I kept looking down on the top of 150-200 foot trees which were only half-way down the slope--it just kept going! It wasn't frightening because the turns were not really sharp, just numerous, and there was plenty of shoulder. Simple astonishment overwhelmed me in waves of awe.
When we arrived, we were welcomed by a sign that said, "Paraíso del Pescador," fisherman's paradise. I thought of my father, how much he would have loved this. The kids excitedly rented poles, received blobs of "masa" (bread dough) and scampered down to the edge of the lake. In a more leisurely fashion, the adults examined the mass of flowers on display (hydrangea, dahlia, New Guinea impatiens, rose, canna, bougainvillea and some we couldn't name) at the entrance.
As if they had been cued, the fish began jumping onto the kids' hooks, and before we knew it, there were eight fat trout in the bucket. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor things. Suffocation seems like a horrible way to die. An employee delivered the coup de grace, which rendered them more still, but not completely devoid of life. Each of the four kids posed for a picture holding a (still damply wiggling) trout, and we headed up the hill to an outdoor restaurant, whose employees cleaned the fish and cooked them to our order, adding fresh tomato, onion and lime, rice and patacones--five of us for $13. Thirty minutes, they said, so Juanita and I went back down the hill to where the children were playing in the rocks at a very dangerous spot in the rapids. They were directed firmly by their mothers to a more placid stretch of the river, and Vincent, Juanita, Andrés and I tried out the hammocks. Juanita said they try to get out into the natural environment at least once a week. It strengthens the soul for the work ahead.
Thirty minutes later, we climbed back up the hill to sit down to the tastiest fish I have ever put into my mouth. Thoroughly stuffed, Vincent and Andrés retreated to the hammocks, the kids to the river, and Juanita, her friend and I trekked up the steps to the observation tower. Oh my, the views! All afternoon, the clouds had been winding around the tops of the trees, and now droplets of fog spattered our faces. By this time, we were in the clouds themselves. Several mountains arranged themselves in the distance like the teeth of a comb. We could see from the tower 500 feet down to the hatcheries and feeding ponds where they grow the fry and from which the lake is stocked. Once again, my father and the trout he raised in the rocky desert around Beaumont, CA, came to mind. The runs were neat and clean, just the way he kept his. Worlds apart, but he would have loved this, and I felt his imprint on my being like a deep thumbprint. Down we came, feeling less stuffed, and Juanita's friend passed around tamarind and maracuyá lollipops as we all climbed into the cars and headed home.
Only a few yards from the parking lot, Andrés stopped the car, Juanita climbed out and stretched way up toward some overhanging branches and returned with a fistful of mora, or black raspberries. We drove back down the mountain then, in a dreamy silence, punctuated only by a few gasps as other drivers took desperate chances to pass a slow van with bunches of plantains on top, a bus and other slow travelers.
Today was like inhabiting a dream. I could observe all around me, even my thoughts as they slipped by in the stream like the trout, elusive, mysterious, diaphanous as clouds. It seemed to me that each conscious moment was stitched together to the next, the tiny gaps in between simply a part of the slide show, nothing really missing, only my awareness slipping in and out of gear. This was restful, and without stress. I wish I could live like this every day. Perhaps I can. Perhaps I am learning how.
No comments:
Post a Comment