In golden light, as children shriek and play in sooty water, a girl gazes across the banks of the snaking Suchiate River that separates Guatemala from Mexico. A gaze towards Mexico, the gateway that must be forged before crossing into the United States can even be attempted. (click on pictures to enlarge)

On makeshift boats called cameras no documents are checked. Both people and goods are ferried across the river at all hours of the day at this illegal crossing point. The ease of this first crossing belies the many dangers facing Central American immigrants whose dreams always point North.

For ten Mexican pesos, from the border town of Tecun Uman, Guatemala, desperate hopefuls flow northward. They come from Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama, Venezuela, Cuba, Peru, a continent of longing. Only the poorest migrants take this route, braving a ride on top of the freight trains that head north. They have crossed multiple borders but the toughest part of the journey lies ahead of them, in Mexico. Mexico, and the southern most state of Chiapas in particular, they say, is far more dangerous to cross than the border with the United States.

They will be robbed, beaten, or raped. They will walk for days on foot until their shoes fall apart. They will face hunger, thirst, wind, rain, and heat. They will run from “La Migra” and be abused by corrupt officials. They are so easy to take advantage of; they pay more for food, water, even public buses. Worse, they could lose a limb or their life to the machine they call the beast, the devil. Here she comes.

Arriaga, Mexico is the starting point for the freight train, which poor migrants who don’t have any money will often ride, facing dangers ranging from theft and rape to mutilation or death if they fall from the train.

Robbed in the Mexican town of Huixtla, Edwin Jose Sirius Cubrillo, 25, of Nicaragua, has been on the road for twenty days. “I have four children and I need to provide for them. In Nicaragua I can earn enough for food but that’s it.” He thinks he has at least 20 more days to go, traveling on the train. He hopes to get to Miami where he has family living.

Just that morning a group of eleven men from El Salvador said they were robbed of all their money just 3 kilometers from the shelter. This after walking for nine days from the city of Tapachula, Mexico where they were also robbed. Four Mexican men with machetes and pistols threatened them, forcing them to hand over all their money. This type of robbery is extremely common on the migrant trail. Cubrillo prays with forty other men, for safety, for luck, in the “House of Mercy” shelter in Arriaga.

In the 100 degree heat outside of a shelter for migrants which feeds and shelters the weary, Digna Emerita Zaldivar, 23, of Honduras, sleeps by her boyfriend Selvin Allende, 22, of Honduras, with Zaldivar’s son Wilmar, who is seven. Selvin is a new boyfriend for Digna. The trail can be lonely. She met him along the route and joined him out of sentiment or perhaps only for protection. The feelings are hard to separate.
The group plans to jump the freight train that heads north. The couple and boy were robbed three times on their way to the shelter in the dangerous area of Huixtla, Mexico. They were forced to strip by six men with machetes who threatened to kill them if they didn’t give over all their money. After that they didn’t eat for two days. Next they were robbed by police who said they’d be turned over to immigration unless they were paid $2000 pesos. After that a house where they went to beg for food said they would turn the migrants in unless they too were paid.

In the fading evening light, 300 migrants bound for the United States from all over Central America line the top of the freight train going toward the town of Ixtapec, Oaxaca, Mexico from the town of Arriaga, in Chiapas. These are the poorest, most desperate migrants. Young men, some barely teenagers, along with men in their 50’s ride side-by-side with pregnant women, newlyweds, and children.

Rudy Gonzales Lopez, who says he is 14 but looks much younger, searches for the oncoming engine while waiting to hop the freight train. He is heading North by himself hoping to work. He hasn’t told his family that he’s going. His new “friends”, men twice his age, try in vain to convince him to return home. A half an hour before, immigration picked up at least five people and he ran to evade them.

The unlucky can lose a leg, an arm, both legs, or their lives to the wheels of the train which suck bodies beneath the steel wheels. Migrants who were mutilated by the trains recuperated and helped to build the “Jesus The Good Shepherd” shelter in Tapachula, Mexico, near the southern border. An angel greets them there, Dona Olga, an oasis among the peril.

Back on the rails migrants lick at popsicles sold by locals in the oppressive heat. Suddenly a rush of people burst past, pursued by two men, possibly Federal Police, complete with shotguns. The migrants want to get away, find a hiding place, wait for the next train that will take them to the town of Ixtapec, Oaxaca, further North. The pursuers grab a woman, Maria Isabel Velasquez, 29, of Guatemala, by the hair and hit her on the chin but then run off as she shouts, “there is a journalist here!” A police officer who refused to be named said that often robbers will dress as police to extort money from migrants, while the migrants said it is the police themselves who abuse their power. “He wanted money,” says a shaking Velasquez, “or he’d report me to immigration.”

Nightfall. Digna and her seven-year-old Wilmar hold hands tight and say a prayer as the train they have climbed upon finally pulls out of the station. Shouts are heard along the line, “Branch! Branch! Duck and hold on tight!” warns Digna as dark heads duck to avoid low hanging trees.

In the middle of the night the train stops for twenty minutes to change engines and people who live near the tracks sell food, soup, water, and soda to the riders who scurry down the ladder and back up again before the ride continues. Daily rains make the journey even more uncomfortable for the migrants.
After the train stops in Ixtepec there is a large raid by Mexican immigration. Most women, children, and older men are caught, running scared and then sent home to start the journey again. A ragged smattering of men from Honduras have made it to the town of Tierra Blanca, in the state of Veracruz, Mexico on July 10, 2006. Although there is a shelter here too, only the injured may spend the night, and the men are taken to a makeshift shelter, where they will sleep outside under the stars. They haven’t yet made it to Mexico City, less than halfway through this vast country.

After making it across Mexico they still have to cross the desert into the United States, evading the burgeoning security measures – the high tech security fence, surveillance, and the U.S. National Guard. The trip seems insurmountable; the dreams foolish; the effort a waste; the journey – a circle, and yet still they come. “It’s a matter of math,” they say, “they could build the great wall of China and still we’d come.”

Author and Photographer – Jacquelyn Martin

The following night in the bar I talked to a few chaps who had been. The words tough and jungle and indians were mentioned along with kidnapping incident, guns and gringos. “ Wow, that caught my attention.

For the last few days, the words Cuidad Perdida had been going around in my head. Somewhere in my brain a light was blinking. Hadn’t it been mentioned somewhere in that long publication on the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website? It certainly had cropped up as a bit of a buzzword around the odd gringo in Santa Marta.

I found a late night internet café and I checked the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website again:
“We also advise against all travel to southern parts of Meta department and to the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta (including the ‘Lost City’). There is a high risk to your personal safety in these areas.”
The Lost City (Cuidad Perdida) is nestled deep in the mountainous jungles of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. It takes approximately 2.5 days to trek in.

I went to the hotel in downtown Santa Marta where you can book the trip. You could even talk with some of the original band of Tomb Raiders who discovered the Lost City, purely by chance, in 1975. These guys now run guided treks into the region; rather than scratch a living with occasional small jackpots searching for ancient grave goods.

The first day of the trek started with our driver getting arrested for some minor traffic offence. The Cops enjoyed teaching him a lesson by making him unload the entire roof luggage, then they tell him that everything is fine and he can put it all back up.

It took an hour of battling our way through the Tuesday morning traffic, followed by another hour’s drive along the main route between Santa Marta and Barrenquilla. We stopped for arrepas and “shots” of rough black coffee for lunch. When we finally reach the turn-off on the asphalt road, the two jeeps begin the slow and precarious climb up into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta.

We had to walk behind the vehicle on two occasions as the drivers negotiated the tight squeezes where the road had partly fallen away into deep forested canyons below. Three cheery young farm boys with their trademark long machetes in their tasselled scabbards skipped past in Wellington boots, their jeans caked in mud.
When we finally arrived at the start point we walked for 20 minutes and stopped for lunch beside a crystalline river as we slowly allowed ourselves to become accustomed to the multiple jungle odours of dank earth, decomposing vegetation, flowers, shrubs and vines.

The climb took approximately 8 hours each day on a 70% gradient of mud-filled switchbacks, heavily eroded by rain, donkeys and occasional trekkers. By about 6pm I started to think that we were close to our accommodation for the night as it was late in the day and there seemed to be several small houses at the bottom of the trail ahead, just before the river.

I walked into the midst of the houses; no trekkers, just two small boys sharpening some machetes on a wet stone. I looked about for more signs of life; a topless guy with a moustache was wreathed in tobacco smoke in the still air, silently watching the muddy, damp human traffic slowly passing by in one’s and two’s. I correctly assumed that there was further to go and tilted my head to the smoker in a silent hello and pressed on into the quickly growing dusk.

We spent the first night at a mud built farm, with chickens and a few pigs and cattle nudging around the hammocks throughout the night. I didn’t sleep very well as everyone had descended on the supply of smelly blankets like vultures. Therefore wound up blanketless and shivering throughout the night. The next morning we were told by the guide in his beautifully rapid Spanish that those with a lot of gear should leave any non essentials at the farmhouse to pick up on return. The climb was to be very strenuous. We were just carrying one half-full 30 litre rucksack between two of us so it was ok.

We set off after a light breakfast and struggled up the almost impossibly steep, muddy red gash in the undergrowth that lead upward past the last of the occasionally farmed fields, into the gloomy primary forest.
The heat of the day was already taking its toll, I thought, as I heard someone retch their breakfast into the undergrowth far behind.

Despite the fact that there were eighteen of us on this trek, we spent much of each day alone as we strung out along the trail in twos and threes, as the heat and humidity separated the seasoned trekkers from those who felt they may have exceeded their brief on this trip. The latter muttering to ourselves, as we kicked along the trail alone. In an attempt to keep the pain of exertion to the back of our minds.

In total, on day, two I think we crossed four mountain-sized, dense jungle ridges; the hard way, against the grain. But your mind can play tricks on you in close to 90% humidity, 35 degrees Celsius, without more than a 5 minute break every couple of hours because the moment you stopped you were covered in mosquitoes to an extent bordering on the comical.

The second camp was a bit more comfortable. When we finally arrived I walked straight into the crystal clear fast flowing river in an effort to clean the sweat from my wet gear. I was much warmer this night due to my procurement of a smelly blanket, which I’d pilfered from camp 1. We drank cheap rum and a few beers.

Our third day began with a waist deep river crossing. The river was quite fast so five of the guys banded together to form a human chain to get the baggage to the other side. I battled to stay up in the current when several of the larger packs were passed to me as my trousers “flag-poled” and threatened to sheer my feet from the slippy purchase on the circular stones in the river bed.

The day itself consisted mainly of river crossings, eight in all. With a few precipitous parts of the trail in which we had to climb high up into and along the valley wall, dirt and vines falling on us from those higher up. Finally, when we had circumnavigated past the obstacles and descended to the river again, there, opposite our final river crossing, I noticed some mossy steps leading mysteriously upward into the gloomy rainforest. We were close.

There were approximately 1200 almost vertical steps cut and shaped around 600 years previously by the Tayrona, ancestors of the present day Kogi Indians. After climbing these steep, slippery steps for fifty minutes we stumble into the Lost City amidst heavy rain. Thunder and lightening crashing and flashing all around us. The thunder reverberating all the way down through the valley below, which was hidden from view by the clouds we were standing in. the first structures consisted of a few circular walls about 2m high were heavily encrusted with a long, light green moss.

As I walked around the first of these circular stone structures I admit feeling slightly underwhelmed. How does this constitute a city? On hearing the calls from one of our party who sounded lost. I silently rounded the building and made a concerted effort to scare the shit out of him. “Very fucking funny!” he exclaimed as he picked himself out of the mud. “Where is everybody?” “Don’t know; – but I assume they have gone up there”, I said, as I pointed up the wide elaborate stone stairway that I hadn’t noticed before due to the trees.
I clocked the first soldier five minutes later at the top of this ancient stairway; wearing a poncho in the rain and looking pissed off. We were on our own by this stage, so we walked by with little more than a nod to the gunman, unsure if he was an actual soldier, FARC or ELN.

A little further into the spectacular ruins and a second soldier appeared, and I had to assume from his insignia that they were not FARC. He silently pointed in the right direction, but for a while I found it hard to shake the feeling that we had been nabbed. (Cue mothers scolding voice in back of mind).

We were aware of the rumour that there were government troops in the area to protect EL Presidente, who was apparently due to arrive the next day. For the next 20 mins we climbed silently through the overgrown ruins past more and more soldiers. Well at least we wouldn’t be lonely.

Before a final river crossing high up along the valley wall we caught up with two of the Aussies on the trip, being helped across by the troops. One looked over her shoulder at us with a somewhat dubious expression on her face as they disappeared around the next corner.

We met up with the rest of the group at the camp which consisted of a two-storey hut, which could sleep around twenty five people top to tail. There was a campfire-kitchen and makeshift shower/toilet area constructed from Hessian sacks, stitched together to afford the user a degree of privacy.

We dried off and settled in on our slightly odorous mattresses, a welcome change from hammocks. Later, downstairs, we drank coffee and interacted with the soldiers that were hanging around waiting for El Presidente’s arrival the next morning. It turned out these particular guys spend months at a time in the jungle, moving from map reference to map reference, collecting air-drops of supplies and ammunition. So they were naturally quite pleased to see us.

It didn’t take much persuasion for them to set up their weapons in a gung-ho display and hand the nearest female a 5.56mm Galil assault rifle. What followed was a fair bit of posing from both the gringos and the soldiers. One of the girls even posed in her bikini top, much to the liking of the troops.

Next day the group scattered into the ruins to explore. My partner had apparently strained both her ankles which subsequently swelled to rather large proportions. This was not helped by the multitude of insect bites. A few hours later her eyes had joined in – not a good look.

By 9am there was a lot of chopper activity so I grabbed my camera and descended toward the main ruins to welcome El Presidente…………..of Royal Caribbean Cruises, and the Minister for Tourism. So much for rumours. But at least they arrived in the presidential chopper (Air Force 3?).

A lot of the local Kogi Indians showed up, along with their Chief/Shaman. All the men chewing big quids of coca. It was quite a photo op. I spent much of the rest of the day exploring the most overgrown ruins on my own while my partner rested up for the imminent descent the following morning.
We trekked back as far as the first camp from day one in less than nine hours and tucked into the beer. Ever tried getting in a hammock when you’re pissed?

I woke at around three in the morning to tend to a call of nature. Not wanting to disturb anyone in the tightly arranged hammocks, I decided to step outside of the main area, unaware that a light rain had fallen over the previous few hours. I promptly went on my arse after a cartoon-esque rapid foot movement and slid rapidly to what I assumed in my sleepy state was to be my doom.

Next morning we were invited to visit a cocaine factory. “Cool, where is it?”, “You’re standing in it”. “Really?” There followed a demonstration of the production of one of Colombia’s most famous handicrafts. Though the term “cottage industry” would have been a bit more accurate.

When we eventually climbed down from the mud splattered jeep in downtown Santa Marta, we collectively looked like a scene from Bridge over the river Kwai. In muddy and torn clothes, but with strangely satisfied smiles and a cheeky glint in our eyes. For we had endured much, and seen alot; met farmers, soldiers and statesmen.

The fact that the good old Foreign and Commonwealth Office stated that there was “a high risk to your personal safety in these areas”. Added the thrill of being a naughty schoolboy. F**k ’em. What do they know? I didn’t once feel under threat in my time in the region and word has it that none of the kidnapped folks back in 2003 had much of a bad thing to say about their “captors”. Yes they were inconvenienced by being asked to spend a little longer. But they did get free food and board as well as free Spanish lessons and a bunch of interesting friends. – It’s never really Black and White is it?

Author – Naithin Rogers

Few cities are as capable of firing up the imagination as Rio de Janeiro. Set to a beautiful backdrop of “morros” (a Portuguese word for the lush hills surrounding the city), and some of the most beautiful beaches on the planet

Rio has always been associated with samba, sex and surf. However, this stereotype hides the poverty and wealth disparity so endemic to the city. Approximately 20 to 25 % of the 13 million that live in Rio live in what are termed “favelas”, hillside slums unique to Rio. Their existence is due to several factors: the fact that the Portuguese crown banned building on the morros in order to ensure beautiful views of the mountains; the Canudos rebellion of the 19th century, which eventually brought numerous homeless soldiers to Rio; and the influx of migrants throughout the 20th century to Rio from Brazil’s impoverished North-East.

In the past few years several companies have sprung up, which give tours of the favelas, with the favelas Vidigal and Rocinha (the two largest in Rio, and set on two sides of the same morro) being the most popular. An opportunity arose for me to accompany one of these tours and I considered the proposition with a mix of curiosity and caution. Would this be some sort of “poor people safari” ? i.e. – A group of 1st Worlders walking through a slum as danger tourists with cameras at the ready – insulated from both the people and the environment ? At the end of the day my curiosity eventually got the best of whatever reservations I had and I decided to go see Rocinha first-hand – the largest slum in Latin America, and by some estimations, the 2nd largest slum in the world (there is only one other, in Indonesia, that is thought to be larger).

My reservations were also eased somewhat by the fact we had small group. There would be five of us in total including our guide, Danielle. The day began with Danielle explaining to us some of the dangers involved in visiting the local favelas. Rocinha is one of the safer favelas to visit, but for the time being, it’s firmly under the grip of one of the three main drug gangs of Rio. Amigo dos amigos, or “friends of friends”, is the gang that controls Rocinha; the other two that operate around Rio de Janeiro are the Comando Vermelho – i.e. “Red Command”; and the Terceiro Comando or “Third Command”. At times, if one of the other gangs tries to invade or take control of the favela, pitched gun-battles can erupt that can, and often do, kill innocent bystanders. In addition, if the police need to enter the favela for any reason (as they did in May, 2006 when a cache of army weapons were stolen and hidden in the favela), gun-battles also occur between the gang members and the police – again with innocent victims often being caught in the cross-fire.

The forecast for our visit was calm however, the only thing we were really warned against was taking pictures of the child soldiers who generally act as look-outs and scouts for the gangs. If they saw us taking pictures of them they would not hesitate to take our cameras away, as had happened to several groups of tourists who did not heed this advice. After being instructed in the risks we were taking (and signing a liability form), we made our way from the rich enclaves of Copacabana and Ipanema to the entrance of Rocinha. The five of us arrived and got some local motor-taxis to take us up the main road in Rocinha, to the top of the morro that it’s located on. After paying them each a dollar we proceeded to walk our way back down to the bottom, occasionally stopping to learn about the community.

At first glance it was similar to any other slum I’d been to: squalid, comprised of ramshackle buildings and lacking in many of the public services that we in the west take for granted. Upon closer inspection, however, I began to notice a lack of the feeling of menace or threat I’ve experienced in other slums in the world as well as pervasive and contagious cheerfulness.

This was due to both the beauty of the natural surroundings (unusual for a slum in any part of the world) but more so to the friendliness of the people of Rocinha. At no point did I feel as though as I was on a “poor people safari”, rather we were welcomed and included as part of the community. Numerous residents would wave, smile at our presence or call out “Ola” to our group. Often children, less reserved and inhibited than their parents, would run up and watch us or try to interact with us. It’s true some of them were lured by the prospect of money, but they would work hard in order to get it, usually by a capoeira performance or perhaps a football juggling demonstration. One young girl, no more than 5 years of age, when appraised of our imminent arrival to her doorstep, quickly changed into her best dress and got her mother to fix up her hair. She thought we were magazine photographers and were going to make her famous!

An event at the hostel I was staying there was a demonstration of this sense of community within the favelas: One of the workers there found a wad of cash amounting to about $200USD or so. Instead of pocketing the money, she and her family decided to use much of it to buy another family in the favela some much needed food and necessities, as they had been out of work for several months. In many ways the favela operates like a family, both figuratively and literally – many of the residents are related, and most of the children often have several half-siblings.

Another thing that struck me during our descent back to “civilization” was just how creative people are in conditions such as these and how often communities like these function better than the ones overseen by the often corrupt and inept governments in impoverished countries. As it isn’t really part of the city (although that is starting to change, it has now been given special neighbourhood status), it’s off the grid. In order to deal with a lack of electricity people simply hook up their own cables to whatever wires that do exist and everyone seems to get by. Although some houses have plumbing, many do not. The ones that don’t deal with it by the use of large, blue water tubs on the roof, a simple and effective solution. When it comes to security in the favela the drug lords keep a tight rein on crime. Any theft, rape, or the like, is dealt with severely by their own form of vigilante justice. In many ways it is much safer to walk the streets of a favela (provided, of course that stability and order are being maintained by the current gang in control and there are no challenges to that rule) than the developed parts of Rio de Janeiro.

After finally making it back to the bottom of the hill, we left Rocinha and I looked back with a mix of sadness and hope. Like most communities, Rocinha does have it’s fair share of problems. However, there are also a lot of positive things going on, and a multitude of creative solutions to living in a place where many lack access to potable water, electricity and the so-called “law and order” of the rest of Rio de Janeiro. These solutions are a testament to the community of Rocinha, the resourcefulness and courage of its people and how those traditionally marginalized on the edge of society find ways to survive, and even thrive. As we left Rocinha I wondered if people would say hello while walking the streets of Copacabana, or if neighbours would help each other during times of financial crisis. Unfortunately my experiences in Copacabana proved otherwise.

Author and Photographer – Chris Wirth.

Arya Kazemi leads us on a photographic tour of Nicaragua’s former Liberal Capital, Leon.

When Nicaragua comes up in conversation, a few minds might perhaps flash to Bianca Jagger (or Bianca Perez Morena De Macias, as she was known during her youth in Managua), or even the luscious taste of the country’s exported coffee and cigars. But for most this nation is synonymous with the political violence and repression that gripped the country for nearly half of the 20th century (1936-1979), when the despotic Somoza family ruled with an iron fist, and then afterwards when a civil war raged throughout the 1980’s between the ruling leftist Sandinistas and the American-backed Contra rebels.

Despite the fact that Managua is the modern day capital, the historic city of Leon was the centrepiece of the aforementioned bloody battles for power. It has always been seen as a leftist haven and it was there that Somoza Sr. was assassinated. Later on most of the FSLN’s (Frente Sandinista de Liberacion Nacional) rank and file members would hail from Leon or the general vicinity.

Alas, very few travelers are aware of the fact that since 1990 (when the Sandinistas were defeated in the general elections) Nicaragua has been free of political violence and that in terms of general safety for tourists it is widely regarded to be the best in all of Central America – much more so than its richer southern neighbor, Costa Rica.

The current regime has such a pro-American stance that it included Nicaraguan soldiers in the “coalition of the willing” that took part in the war in Iraq. It also seems to have made an effort to remove, or at least de-emphasize, the relics of the Somoza/Sandinista era in much of the country. But this is not the case in Leon, as the FSLN’s now splintered factions have their base of support and offices there.

One of the main roads leading into the center of Leon.

A mural with the heading “Leon Is Culture,” and beneath it “after 475 years we have history, we’ll make the future.”

A mother and daughter selling various local fruits (sugarcane, mandarins and passion fruit among others) at the entrance to Leon’s main market.

Varieties of Nicaragua’s delicious cheese (including barbecued, fried, smoked and cream) for sale at the Leon market.

An antique sculpture of the animal, which gave the town its respective name at the side of the historic cathedral.

A variant of Leon’s traditional dish, the “Spotted Rooster” (Gallo Pinto). It consists of rice prepared in coconut oil, kidney beans and fried plantains.

Notice the mosaic on the right saying “no more Somozas’ and the book titled ‘Ode To Roosevelt”.

Sundry CD’s for sale in the center of Leon. The one featuring Daniel Ortega is titled “The Promised Land.”

Memorial marking the 26th anniversary of the death of six Sandinistas (a few weeks before the fall of Somoza Jr.)

Anti US graffiti on the walls of a Leon FSLN office: ‘Bush Genocide’ and ‘enemy of mankind’.

A statue commemorating fallen Sandinista fighter Edgar Munguia Alvarez (nicknamed the cat or “la gata”). As seen on the inscription, Munguia fell in 1976 (during Somoza’s rule) and the memorial was dedicated in 1984 when the Sandinistas were in power. The inscription further states: ” we are not going to cry now for those dead who don’t die. We’ll seize our rifle to continue history.”

Munguia again, this time painted on the side of a Leon edifice.

A mural in Central Leon depicting Sandino, the armed struggle of the Sandinistas and a serpent representing the CIA’s nefarious role in Nicaraguan elections!

A mural commemorating the “martyrs’ of July 23, 1959, when five Leonites were killed during anti-Somoza protests. The Spanish term ‘Presentes” can be roughly translated as “still with us.” The second anniversary of the massacre in 1961 would herald Carlos Fonseca’s founding of the FSLN.

A mural of Che and Fonseca together. The slogan has been partially wiped away but seems to emphasize ‘fighting for a more just Latin America”.

Portraits of Sandino and Fonseca among other artefacts found in an FSLN office in Leon.

The figure of a rock-throwing Sandinista youth (notice the colors of the bandanna covering his mouth and neck) and a sculpture of someone picking up a fallen comrade adorn the entrance to Leon’s museum of legend and traditions.

Above the entrances to the Museum/prison’s rooms, the various methods of torture and execution under the Somoza regime are drawn up.
This building was built as a prison in 1921 and is commonly referred to by the locals as simply ‘la 21″ (the 21). It remained a prison (and occasional boxing gym!) until 1979 and the coming to power of the FSLN. In the year 2000 the city of Leon decided to move the museum of legends and traditions, which mainly displayed traditional ritual masks and costumes and also commemorated the reputed ghost of a former Spanish Colonel and mayor of Leon (Arrechavala).

The “torture pillar” inside 21.

The portrayal of an attempted escape from “the 21,” or just a prisoner trying to catch a glimpse of his surroundings?

A page from a local newspaper (dated August 1979) inside one of the rooms of ‘the 21′. The heading describes all the individuals pictured as ‘victims of tyranny” and at the bottom, the question: “do you know anything about them?”

Some of the traditional masks and figures on display in the “the 21.”

A wall near ‘the 21′ that has been left intact all these years.

A reminder that former President and head Sandinista Daniel Ortega is aiming to regain the presidency in November’s elections.

Author and photographer – Arya Kazemi.

When the four members of our rock band in the UK decided to embark on an excursion to the home of the blues in the deep south, USA; we had little idea we’d wind up spending half our time in a remote swamp… and enjoy it!

Two days of hard drinking in Bourbon Street, New Orleans had chipped away at our constitution and proved to be more than a little tiring, so following a swift discussion and review of our plans, we agreed to head up state to check out the Acadian influences around Baton Rouge and Lafayette; sample the Creole food and listen to some traditional Zydeco music. While we were in the vicinity we also figured a quick sortie into the Atchafalaya swamp basin might be a great way to kill half a day or more.

Covering some 3000 square miles of south Louisiana, the swamp basin lies along the course of the Atchafalaya River, which serves as a major tributary to both the Red River and the mighty Mississippi. Although largely uninhabited, the swamps are also home to a small population of Cajun fishermen and trappers who scratch out an existence fishing for crawfish, catfish and mullet; and trapping and hunting bullfrogs, squirrels and white-tailed deer.

We left the interstate-10 at Breaux Bridge, just east of Lafayette and found ourselves in a little village by the name of Henderson. From there we took a right turn onto a levee road and just kept driving, following the twenty-foot high levee on our left until we were in the vicinity of Catahoula Cove. There weren’t many folks around to ask about swamp tours, but eventually one helpful chap pointed us in the direction we were headed and told us to just keep going until we reached Bayou Benoit and then look for a house set back from the road with a couple of boats out front on the grass.

And so we came to meet Roy Blanchard…

Roy, it would seem is a bit of a legend around these parts in the Atchafalaya swamp. We didn’t realise it at the time, but subsequent research turned him up in numerous books and I even found him mentioned on a couple of internet web-sites. He’s a kind-hearted, fifty-something, unassuming man with toned swarthy skin, wise eyes and familiar southern-states drawl with a lively Cajun twang. He lives with his wife, Annie in a well constructed, single-story house close to Lake Fausse Pointe Park, where he daily sets out his nets for catfish and mullet in the shallow waters and hunts white-tailed deer in the drier parts.

Roy was happy to take us out pretty much straight away, and give us an hour pottering around in the Cocodrie Swamp. It was late autumn, but the temperature was still well into the seventies and the skies were cloudless. With the minimum amount of fuss, he hooked up his 15ft aluminium boat and trailer to the back of his pickup truck and drove us a short distance back along the levee road to a small car park where we could easily slip the boat from its trailer and into the water.

Lofty cypress trees adorned with Spanish moss towered over us as we slowly pushed our way through the water hyacinths and duckweed, ever watchful for a glimpse of alligators and nutria while egrets and herons regarded us warily lest we should drift too close. Rotting tree stumps punctuated the swamp everywhere, many exhibiting a curious large hole penetrating from one side to the other. Roy explained how the locals, pick a suitable tree for building-timber and cut a hole right through just above the water’s surface. Through the hole goes a length of wood that provides a platform for two men to stand on while they saw the tree down.

The water was surprisingly shallow and on numerous occasions we had to rock the boat in order to dislodge ourselves from submerged obstacles, although we were told that at certain times of the year the water could be much deeper and regularly threatened to spill over the top of the levee.

Our foray into the Cocodrie Swamp was very brief but in that short space of time we learned much from Roy about the life of a Cajun trapper and of his uncompromising respect for the swamp. We also learned of his houseboat some miles away in the Lake Fausse Pointe Park and by the time we had made our way back to the pickup and driven back to Bayou Benoit we had made arrangements with Roy to return the following afternoon with the intention of penetrating deeper into the swamps around his houseboat before spending the night there.

We arrived back at Roy’s place by the levee road the next day at 3pm, laden with food for the barbecue and found him ready and waiting. We sorted out the things we needed to take, leaving the rest inside his house, and set off. The launch was a few more miles along the levee and this time the 120hp outboard was put to good use as we tore off along several miles of watercourses that linked a series of open lakes. The bone-jarring ride was exhilarating and we had to keep our heads down as we braced against the spray, barely able to hear ourselves shout above the deafening scream of the engine.

Eventually, as we crossed the largest of the lakes we left open water and there was peace again as Roy cut the engine and we moved back in among the Cypress trees, taller and older than those we had seen the previous day. We wound our way through the low hanging Spanish moss, surrounded by the sounds of the bayou and the constant bursts of motor drive from my camera as the enchanting scenery devoured roll after roll of film. The afternoon sun was getting lower and the dappled light across the water’s surface along with beads of sunlight bursting through the foliage made for some stunning swamp-scapes.

Sometime later we steered into a narrow waterway between two areas of dry land and shortly arrived at the houseboat, a simple affair not dissimilar to a caravan on floats.A plank of wood bridged the watery gap to a forest glade, cleared months before, and here Roy set to getting the barbecue fired up while we excitedly laid claim to our respective bunks inside. With time to kill while the barbecue heated up, Roy suggested we go back out, this time to lay some nets so he might have a nice bit of catfish for his supper the next day and so I might get some good shots of the swamp as the sun was setting.

I never thought I could take so many pictures of trees, but the golden light shimmering across the still water and setting the Spanish moss ablaze was truly memorable, and in the short time it took for the sun to finally dip out of sight I snapped through another half a dozen rolls of film, catching the myriad of colours in the low sky through the trees, ranging from pale sulphur through powder blue to rich lilac.

Darkness comes quick in the Atchafalaya basin and as the bullfrogs began their crepuscular chorus we made our way back to the barbie. The evening was spent eating good food, playing guitar and listening to Roy’s tales of daring swamp rescues, and of how he, on one occasion, had found himself lost deep in the swamp at night in thick fog with a dead battery in his flashlight. It was familiarity to the point of recognising individual trees that saved him in the end and he told us of how after several hours he eventually found his way back in almost zero visibility to the houseboat and a very anxious wife. On another occasion, a young boy of ten years old had become separated from his father while they were out hunting squirrels. A few locals including Roy were quickly recruited to do a sweeping search of the area but found nothing more than a few footprints. Against general opinion Roy had insisted the search be extended to beyond the dry areas where the boy had last been seen. It was firmly believed that if the child had tried to cross any of the wet swamp he would certainly have perished from a venomous snakebite or been taken by one the thousands of alligators that inhabit the region, but some 48 hours after going missing, tracks were found across the other side of an expanse of swamp and soon after, a very frightened and very grubby ten-year old was found safe and unharmed exactly where Roy had guessed.

Tales of the wilderness kept us spellbound well into the evening, until one by one we began to fade and drift away to our bunks for the night, knowing we would have an early start in the morning. John queried Roy as to what he would favour for breakfast, expecting to be told squirrel or racoon or something equally enterprising. “I quite like Cheerios,” retorted our host, swiftly putting an end to that line of enquiry.

Sunrise was at about 05:45 and I had asked Roy if he wouldn’t mind taking me out to shoot it as the others slept. With that in mind, I was up and about by 5am and ready to go soon after. As it turned out, the guys were all just as keen so no one slept in. We made it out to the Cypress trees that fringed the lake just in time to catch the sun making its appearance above the trees in the distance, recreating the same soft colours we had seen less than twelve hours previously. As the sunrise took hold, it washed through the trees around us, catching the last wisps of early morning fog drifting across the water’s surface and illuminating pristine spider webs laden with fresh dewdrops, creating a magical and surreal landscape. Shortage of film was not a problem; lack of pockets was as roll after roll was spent and unceremoniously stuffed into my jacket. The sun climbed rapidly along its arc and the golden tones hardened, but Roy had one last spectacle for us: Out on the open water of Lake Fausse Pointe he motored us to a lone tree, growing in about 3 feet of water. The tree wasn’t anything special but it was surrounded by a cloud of birds, feeding on the flying insects that were swarming about this single point of focus in an otherwise empty lake. I recognised the birds as martins but Roy explained the locals call them “rain birds” because of the illusion this flocking behaviour generates.

And that’s when the batteries in my camera decided to give up. By the time I’d stuffed them down my pants and warmed them up enough to get a token shot, most of the rain birds had grown nervous of our presence and had departed.

It took us next to no time to nip back to the houseboat and grab our belongings, and as the sun climbed relentlessly into another azure sky, we hurtled back through the watercourses towards the slipway where the truck was parked.

Back at Bayou Benoit, we grabbed a cold drink and sat with Roy and Annie in their living room for a while, recounting the last 48 hours and ruminating over life in general.

A close friend of theirs, Greg Guirard, had written a book called Atchafalaya Autumn, http://www.accesscom.net/gguirard/ filled with photographs of the swamp, taken over the course of several years, and as we flicked through the pages of remarkable pictures, I felt certain that I would have also captured some equally dramatic images. I readily promised to send copies back to Roy and Annie as soon as I returned to the UK, but haven’t done so yet; rather I will use it as an excuse to drop by some time in future and give them copies personally while we share a cold beer.