11.25.2012 - 11.25.2012
We rose early and wound our way out of the mountains on an unpaved road. Some online accounts had called the ride "bone-rattling," and the phrase would not leave my head. The glimpses I caught of the scenery seemed to be lovely, worth paid tours or the effort of climbing, and yet none of us paid any attention. We slept or chatted, stared at our knees.
We saw Julie (whom we met in El Remate) again, on the road from El Estor to Rio Dulce. We are destined to meet again and again we think. Happy in our brief encounters, light-hearted in leaving again, assured of another meeting. The backpacker circuit in Central America is a well-worn path, every traveler clutching her worn Lonely Planet. And those who eschew the guide (like those French musicians), preferring to receive their itinerary through word-of-mouth recommendations, are only getting the guide second-hand. Saves money and space, I suppose.
We're in Livingston now. Caribbean coast. The weather has been drab and decidedly untropical. At night I wear long underwear, and Chris and I shiver together under the single sheet that typically serves as a blanket here. The cold shower is almost unbearable, but it does its job, cleans the day off so we don't go to bed wishing to be away from our bodies. I haven't yet learned to be comfortable with dirt.
I am looking forward to tomorrow. Nothing planned except to wander and eat. It seems a long time since we've had such luxury.