Joanna Biggar's Blog

Reuben

He is a tall, sinewy man with eyes that have seen everything in their 60-some years, and with a smile that charms you into his world, his stories, an probably charms the fish into his net. He is missing several front teeth. His name is Reuben (unless it is something else), and when we stepped into the open-sided boat that is like a bus running up and down the Tortuguera and Parisima Rivers, he declared “Welcome to my boat,” and proceeded to pass out business cards with an Internet address. “You need to make any trips, any trips in this country, you call Reuben.”

Reuben's Boat Business in Tortuguero

As time progressed — six hours more or less on that boat — Reuben’s stories shifted like the current.  As Doug and I sat toward the back of the boat, for long stetches Reuben would come join us and spin his yarns. Wonderful tales they were, too.  Just before taking the waterway that led to our lodge,  there was a huge intersection of rivers and canals referred to as Four Corners. We had been up many of them during our stay there. But one river leads into Nicaragua (where we truly would like to go) and his stories of the smuggling trade were riveting. According to him, he had done plenty of it, but only with people who wanted to reunite with their families, and dodging the security boats was dicey. He said he wouldn’t touch arms smuggling, and anybody in the (thriving) narco trade was a fool.

He also told us about life in Limon, the city, where we were heading — of fights, stabbings, robberies. He had only recently been robbed there, he said, which is why he had no shoes. (Note: the boat captain and many others working the boats also wore no shoes).  The boss man didn’t pay enough and he would go hungry until he had honest money. Unless he caught a good fish, like he had landed a red snapper the night before, and then he would cook it, with yucca and coconut.  Some men are fools and waste their money on women. But not he. Anyway, he met a guy from Texas that was going to do some business up there on the rivers, and was going to buy him, Rueben, his own boat.

Among his other talents, Reuben was a master mechanic — happily.  The boat came to a grinding halt three times during the trip, and frankly the options didn’t look great if he hadn’t been able to coax it into starting again. We were in the middle of a rainy, rushing river full of crocodiles and nothing inviting in the thick jungle along the embankments.

Reuben's Boat

But Reuben got it going every time, even when we were running parallel to the sea and huge logs and pieces of wood seemed to threaten the engine. When we reached the port of Moin, there was a battered van ready to take us to Limon.  Over-priced and arranged by Reuben of course. We tipped him handsomely.