CARNAVAL’S MORN

I am awakened by an explosion & a faint flash of orange light.

& the successive blast of rocket after rocket shakes these four-a.m. streets.

Gunpowder smoke drifts down the main avenue towards the pier.

Nearby, at a makeshift stall, men sit drinking beers.

They yell in English at this foreign lady up on the hotel balcony of termite-gnawed wood.

She ignores them.

A weak shaft of light shines out from her room.

The stall owner sprawls in her chair.

Her blue dress stretches across splayed knees.

Her closed-eye head rests on an upturned hand.

Cumbias flow from a jam box, gentle wash of waves behind them.

After the last reverberation of the last rocket fades, a marimba begins playing up in that central park.

~      ~     ~

Several hours later, morning dusk washes over the gulf, the islands, the shoreline.

The rose-colored full moon fades.

On the corner of the pier avenue & Calle Marina, a person lies stretched in a hammock strung under a palm-thatched porch, unawakened, unmoved by the loud voices of those men who are still drinking.

A couple hurries down that long pier to where others await a panga for the mainland.

Soon one leaves riding deep in the leaden water.

The buzz of the outboard motor fades with its distance.

Twittering birdsong fills the sparse-scattered trees.

The distant landscapes clear.

CROSSING THE ISTHMUS

I.

We escape the banana plantations

            & enter mountains

Stilted homes of

            cane slat, palm thatch

                        nestle into the folds of

The land carpeted with

            bamboo, ficus, palms &

                        flamboyant flame-colored flowers

In this sear noon sun

            clothes hang on lines

Wending       now  & again

            glimpsing below a plain &

                        Bahía Almirante

Near San Agustín a cemetery

            of nameless same white headstones

                        deeply carved with numbers

Then on the heights

            above that bay &

                        its islands

II.

Into the cordillera

            that is the spine

                        of this country

Serpentining

            a river serpentines

                        through the jungle

Serpentining

            past small cattle ranches

A mother & her children

            walk under a large umbrella

Serpentining        serpentining higher

            these mountains

                        the trees tower

Deep valleys in patched

            shadow & sunlight

Broad ríos meander

            a swift roadside waterfall tumbles

The air is cooler

            clouds descend on peaks

III.

& dimly on the horizon

            sabanas stretch to

a lacey coast

wending       wending

            down into warmer air

Away from the clouds

            towards the

                        Pacific Ocean

FROM SHORE TO SHORE

When we leave the south side of Isla Santa Cruz, the light rain still falls.

And into the highlands, the misting fog heavy. The scent of escalesia and lichen-draped palo santo is so faint – like a fading watercolor in this garúa.

To the twin craters of this island’s volcano, heading north. Here, the sky is sun-cleared, sun-dried. The landscape a bit more sere, less green – but much greener than when I came three months ago.  And on this side, the earth is free from the hand of man. We are ascending, drying. Then, descending to Canal de Itabaca which separates this isla from the island to the north.

Outside this bus window, I watch for the gentle giant, the Galápagos tortoise, who – at times – wander to this highway, watching the humans come, the humans go in their metal shells.

That channel is now visible, a broad blue ribbon draping the northern coast / shore. To the west the Daphnes, Mayor and Menor, dot the sea. On the distant horizon is a large, hazed island, perhaps Santiago.

And on the shore of that canal, I watch small dory fish swim this way, that way, above larger, blue-bellied fish. Across the turquoise water, several frigatebirds soar above the rough, red-lava cliffs streaked with guano. A great blue heron wades along on the shore green-laced with mangrove.

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Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks.

Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at:

www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.