The screams of howler monkeys woke us early the next day. It already felt as hot as the Sahara, and our mosquito bites itched. Sweating morosely, we sought refuge in the swimming pool and refused to emerge.
"We do not go back to Palo Verde today," Raul said, causing us to brighten considerably. "Instead, I have arranged a boat trip for us. We will see many birds on the Rio Bebedero. It will be cooler there." We got out of the pool, and Raul smiled in relief.
Boarding our blue-canopied pontoon boats, we sputtered off down the river. Raul was in his element, pointing out the wildlife along the way. Iguanas peered down from trees lining the bank, while Jesus Christ lizards -- lime-green basilisk lizards that can walk on water -- scurried along the shore. A small crocodile grinned devilishly. An orange-chinned parakeet fluttered past and yellow-naped parrots squawked "NWAH WAH WAH" at our approach. Several troops of howler monkeys, including a mother and youngster hanging by their prehensile tails, stuffed their mouths with leaves in the branches overhead.
Wow. This must be the jungle. Way cool.
Toward late afternoon, hundreds of white birds began flying in. We looked to Raul for an explanation.
"Ah, yes. You see those trees lining both sides of the river? They make a rookery for white ibis and egrets."
It was an amazing sight, all these birds flying in to roost. Crowding the branches, they looked like white blossoms on flowering trees. The snapping of camera shutters almost drowned out their calls.
That was about the time the Evinrude 70 finally stopped sputtering and just outright died. Our captain, trying to restart the engine, merely flooded it. While we were drifting helplessly, machine gun fire erupted from around a bend in the river. Hundreds of birds started screaming and took wing.
Here we were in a country that had banned its army in the 1940s, a country with more teachers than policemen. So who were these guys? Contras? Sandinistas?
A boat rounded the bend, roaring toward us. In it were four National Guardsmen, falling down drunk and laughing and firing a few rounds by way of saying hello. Ha-ha, is very funny, no? Scare the birds as well as the turistas.
We sat frozen in our seats. Our captain, however, seemed to find this vastly entertaining, and as he turned to smile at the guardsmen, the gold in his teeth flashed in the late afternoon sun. Swell. We're dead in the water with Long John Silver.
Raul was not amused. In a low and menacing voice, he said a few words to the captain, who finally coaxed the engine back into operation. We set course for the dock in a blue cloud of gas fumes. Raul looked grim, and avoided our eyes.
The plan called for dinner, followed by a surprise birthday cake to be served in celebration of Jan's birthday. We hurried through our sea bass in anticipation. The lights dimmed, an expectant hush fell, and our waitress emerged from the kitchen.
Surprise!
But instead of a candle-emblazoned cake, she carried a flat brown piece of flan, barely large enough to support three candy-striped candles. We swallowed hard, and sang "Happy Birthday" just the same.
Afterwards, Raul took me aside. "I am very sorry about the cake," he said sheepishly. "I tell the cook this morning to make it. But he leave at 2:00, and never tell the night cook."
Which was why Raul felt obliged to make the remainder of our visit more successful.