A Visit to Rama Cay
As Published in the National Christian Reporter April and May of 1989
Rama Cay is about a 45 minute boat ride from Bluefields, Nicaragua. Normally. But when six Presbyterians from Grace Presbytery decided to travel to Rama Cay from Bluefields to participate in their worship service on Sunday, March 12, 1989, little did we know what lay in store…
As Published in the National Christian Reporter April and May of 1989
Rama Cay is about a 45 minute boat ride from Bluefields, Nicaragua. Normally. But when six Presbyterians from Grace Presbytery decided to travel to Rama Cay from Bluefields to participate in their worship service on Sunday, March 12, 1989, little did we know what lay in store…
We left Bluefields that morning much later than scheduled in a little fishing boat with an outboard motor. It was operated by a Hispanic fellow who spoke no English, as sort of a "water taxi". We had not ventured far when we spotted three men in the water next to their boats that were inoperative, waving to us for help. As they climbed back into their boats and we tied their boats to ours to tow them back to shore, we noticed their army fatigues and realized – we had just rescued three Sandinista soldiers from the waters off the coast of Nicaragua.
Our journey began again. We traveled south along the coastline from Bluefields. The land to our right was desolate – the forestry had been devastated by Hurricane Joan, and there were no inhabitants. To our right were a few tiny islands scattered here and there – none of them inhabited. This ….. was isolation.
About 35 minutes into our journey, with Rama Cay barely visible in the distance, our motor died. All was quiet and still. Motors here do this often, as we had discovered from previous jaunts. Usually the fellow in the back just puts in more fuel, and we are on our way. Usually. "Surely that's what he's doing now," we think, as we look back at the driver. But you don't need to take the outer covering off of the motor like he is doing just to put in more fuel! His face begins to look twisted and puzzled, and he begins tinkering with the motor. "Lydia, what's wrong?" we ask our Spanish speaking traveler. "The piston," she says. "It's broken." "How far are we from Rama Cay?" we ask. "About ten minutes" comes the reply, sounding like something your mother used to tell you on long trips.
Our journey began again. We traveled south along the coastline from Bluefields. The land to our right was desolate – the forestry had been devastated by Hurricane Joan, and there were no inhabitants. To our right were a few tiny islands scattered here and there – none of them inhabited. This ….. was isolation.
About 35 minutes into our journey, with Rama Cay barely visible in the distance, our motor died. All was quiet and still. Motors here do this often, as we had discovered from previous jaunts. Usually the fellow in the back just puts in more fuel, and we are on our way. Usually. "Surely that's what he's doing now," we think, as we look back at the driver. But you don't need to take the outer covering off of the motor like he is doing just to put in more fuel! His face begins to look twisted and puzzled, and he begins tinkering with the motor. "Lydia, what's wrong?" we ask our Spanish speaking traveler. "The piston," she says. "It's broken." "How far are we from Rama Cay?" we ask. "About ten minutes" comes the reply, sounding like something your mother used to tell you on long trips.
So here we are, s
tranded, in the middle of nowhere, off the coast of Nicaragua during a time of civil war. In a little boat with no motor, only one oar, and no life jackets (they are lucky to have boats). What did we do? Stuart and Mike, both Presbyterian pastors in Texas, grab a dark green plastic garbage bag from the bottom of the boat, sit on each side of the front of the boat, hold their arms up and make a sail. "Two pastors leading us and they don't know where they're going!" we laugh. "Just like at home!" Then we sing hymns. "I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore" takes on new meaning at a time like this. "Down by the Riverside" comes next. And we crack jokes and laugh about our predicament. "I'm sure glad my mother doe
sn't know where I am right now!"
We are going with the current. I spot two little hills on the shore. By watching these, I figure, I can tell if we are moving. So I watch. They don't move. "We're not moving!" I say. "See those two little hills! They're not moving!" The Spanish speaking driver understands none of this. He is standing in the back, with the one little oar in his hand – inside the boat.. "Why isn't he rowing?" we wonder.
Finally, he picks up that one little oar and begins to row. We inch along. Slowly, very slowly, those two little hills begin to move behind us. One hour later, after what should have been a ten minute ride, we drift ashore.
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part II
Rama Cay is but a speck in the water. It can be no more than a mile across. I find myself wondering why in the world would anyone want to settle here? A few native children in tattered clothing sat on the shore and watched our little boat drift in. As I sit in amazement at what lies ahead, I recall a conversation with a native pastor the day before. "We have no reliable transportation," he told me. "Many times there are no boats with motors on the island. It all depends on when the fishermen are in. It takes me six hours to get to Bluefields by canoe. We get all our groceries there." Wasn't this pastor from Rama Cay? I began to calculate. We were arriving at 11:30am, taking part in worship and eating a meal, which meant we would probably leave about 1:30. Traveling by canoe, we would be returning AGAINST the current and still be on the water late afternoon when the current got very rough. If we spent the night in Rama Cay, we would miss our early morning flight from Bluefields to Managua, and THEN miss our flight home the next day. This….was isolation ……
A little dirt pathway led up the hill, past the children and the homes of the inhabitants, which were nothing more than a few unpainted boards nailed together haphazardly. Their doorways had no doors, their floors were dirt. When it rained, they got wet inside their homes.
For the first time on the entire journey to Nicaragua, I became panicky. My heart began to pound. "What if I have HEART problems out here??!! There's no hospital!! And we're SIX HOURS by canoe from Bluefields!!!" We continued up the little dirt path until we came to a weathered, concrete school building. It had withstood Hurricane Joan last October. Their church had not. This w
as where their service was to be held. It was surrounded by islanders, many of them children, who watched us as we entered the small room and peered at us through the open windows once we were inside. About 25 people sat at small wooden school desks – all towards the back of the room. Their altar was a small wooden table covered with a simple cloth with an embroidered cross which lay across the front. A little man, elderly and weather-beaten, stood in the far right corner holding a tiny, battered red accordion – their "organist".
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part III
My heart was still pounding as we walked towards the front of the room and sat in those little school desks. It was so primitive, so simple. This little table for the altar – it was all they had. As I sat and prayed in silence, my fears subsided.
One of the pastors from our group preached a sermon, and we sang a couple of hymns. There were not many hymnals, and as we began to sing I moved back a few rows and stood next to a young Indian woman dressed in the best Sunday clothes she had. She was holding a tattered Moravian hymnbook. Its binding was loose, and its pages were worn. But as we sang, the voices of those natives echoed vibrantly through that little room, up through the air…to the heavens.
The service ended and we were escorted to an adjacent room in this two room schoolhouse. A meal had been prepared by the island women – fresh fish and a BIG bowl of rice – and we sat to eat on a short, oblong table meant for children. "You almost felt guilty eating it", one of my fellow travelers told me later. "They have so little, and we have so much." Their water had not been boiled, and we could not drink it. Conditions were so primitive that I found myself fearful of my food. I had not been sick yet, but this could be the place to do so and I would not want to be sick here. I guiltily picked the skin off the fish. We were dining in their "clinic" – two tables piled high with medicines – aspirins, cough syrup, etc. Their nurse was a native man with a long ponytail.
Just prior to eating, one of the church members had informed me that he had a 9hp motor. Knowing nothing about motors, my fears were soothed and I ate in peace, only to discover on completion of the meal that we had arrived on a boat with a 55hp motor. We waited for quite some time to leave. A man with a 25hp motor had been located, it seems, and was being convinced to let us borrow it.
The motors were switched, and we departed. The pastor's son who attended school in Bluefields had planned on returning with us, but we had to leave him behind as our motor could handle no more weight. We waved to him as we pulled away, sorry we could not take him with us.
The current was against us now, and strong. Our tiny motor sputtered, and sputtered, and the waves splashed against us. I wondered if the men knew what they were doing as we inched away from Rama Cay. "Brrrn…brrrn….brrn….brrrrn….brrn" it sputtered, and sputtered, slowly along. The two hills I had spotted when we were stuck on the way in took us thirty minutes to reach, and I calculated we should arrive in Bluefields – hopefully – in three times the usual amount of time – 2-1/4 hours.
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part IV
Slowly we sputtered, and sputtered, and sputtered. Our Hispanic driver constantly worked with the motor – the choke – to keep us going. Sometimes the motor would die. We'd look back questioningly, to see him start it again. We inched along. About halfway through the trip it sputtered again….and died. Our driver's face became distorted, and he said some things to that motor in Spanish that I bet even I could translate……
"What's wrong?" we ask, again. "The pump" Lydia translated. "It's not pumping fuel automatically from the tank to the motor." It starts again, and we look back. Now we have the driver fiddling with the motor to keep it going and pumping the little bulb on the fuel tank so that the fuel will go into the motor. Moments later I look back again. He's got a tin can, and he's dipping water out of the back of the boat. "It must be water that splashed in from the sides," I think to myself. This time I didn't ask.
Our two Presbyterians sitting in the back seat decided this poor fellow could use some
help. Nancy takes the can and begins bailing water. Mike grabs the plastic bulb to the fuel tank and begins pumping. This leaves our driver to do what he's been doing all along … working with the motor trying to keep it going. "Brrrn…..brrn….brrrn….brrrn….brrrn" our motor sputters along for perhaps 30 minutes or so. Those of us in the front are singing and joking about our predicament. Mike continues to pump the gas, nervously cracking a joke here and there but secretly whispering to Nancy, "They're not taking this SERIOUSLY enough! I'm glad YOU'RE taking this SERIOUSLY!!!" At one point I ask, "Mike you've been pumping for over 30 minutes now. Don't you want someone else to help you? "NO!" he replies quickly. "This is the only thing that is keeping me SANE!" I burst out laughing. He doesn't.
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part V
The two in back are close to the motor, and cannot hear as well as those of us in the front. 'POW!!!" Off on the shore we hear the sound …. of gunfire! About that time, Mike, who missed the noise, panics. "We're NOT gonna make it! We're just NOT gonna make it! We're gonna run out of gas! I think we'd better pull off to the shore and HIKE the rest of the way!" All of us in front turn to him in unison, "NO, Mike! WE'RE not going on shore! YOU go on shore!" 'POW!!!...POW!!!.....POW!!!!...POW!!!" more shots echo through the air. Our Hispanic driver grimaces, his eyes get wide, he shapes his hand like a gun and gestures, pulling the trigger. Mike's face turns a peculiar shade, his eyes bulge out, and suddenly his little hand begins pumping as it's never pumped before!! I don't think it made us go any faster, but it must've made him feel better.
Slowly, we inch towards Bluefields, and away from where the gunshots were heard. They could have been anything those gunshots. But this is Nicaragua, in the midst of civil war. And even though we sensed that we were far enough from shore we could not be hit by one of them, their break in the silence instilled a fear in us that these people must live with every day. Eventually, Mike relaxes. "Boy, I'm sure gonna have a hard time explaining to my wife why I have muscles on just one arm when I get back!!" he quips.
We ease into Bluefields, nestle in the arms of the port … and run out of gas. The fol
ks in Bluefields have begun to miss us, and a Moravian search boat is headed our way. We change boats and go ashore.
Isolated villages only accessible by water; fishing boats with one oar and no life jackets; motors they cannot afford to replace or repair properly; shorelines of devastated forestry as a constant reminder of the fury of Hurricane Joan; the sound of gunfire in the distance; the continual fear of warfare and death in your midst. This is the reality these people experience every day. This …. is the experience of Nicaragua.
tranded, in the middle of nowhere, off the coast of Nicaragua during a time of civil war. In a little boat with no motor, only one oar, and no life jackets (they are lucky to have boats). What did we do? Stuart and Mike, both Presbyterian pastors in Texas, grab a dark green plastic garbage bag from the bottom of the boat, sit on each side of the front of the boat, hold their arms up and make a sail. "Two pastors leading us and they don't know where they're going!" we laugh. "Just like at home!" Then we sing hymns. "I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore" takes on new meaning at a time like this. "Down by the Riverside" comes next. And we crack jokes and laugh about our predicament. "I'm sure glad my mother doe
sn't know where I am right now!"We are going with the current. I spot two little hills on the shore. By watching these, I figure, I can tell if we are moving. So I watch. They don't move. "We're not moving!" I say. "See those two little hills! They're not moving!" The Spanish speaking driver understands none of this. He is standing in the back, with the one little oar in his hand – inside the boat.. "Why isn't he rowing?" we wonder.
Finally, he picks up that one little oar and begins to row. We inch along. Slowly, very slowly, those two little hills begin to move behind us. One hour later, after what should have been a ten minute ride, we drift ashore.
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part II
Rama Cay is but a speck in the water. It can be no more than a mile across. I find myself wondering why in the world would anyone want to settle here? A few native children in tattered clothing sat on the shore and watched our little boat drift in. As I sit in amazement at what lies ahead, I recall a conversation with a native pastor the day before. "We have no reliable transportation," he told me. "Many times there are no boats with motors on the island. It all depends on when the fishermen are in. It takes me six hours to get to Bluefields by canoe. We get all our groceries there." Wasn't this pastor from Rama Cay? I began to calculate. We were arriving at 11:30am, taking part in worship and eating a meal, which meant we would probably leave about 1:30. Traveling by canoe, we would be returning AGAINST the current and still be on the water late afternoon when the current got very rough. If we spent the night in Rama Cay, we would miss our early morning flight from Bluefields to Managua, and THEN miss our flight home the next day. This….was isolation ……
A little dirt pathway led up the hill, past the children and the homes of the inhabitants, which were nothing more than a few unpainted boards nailed together haphazardly. Their doorways had no doors, their floors were dirt. When it rained, they got wet inside their homes.
For the first time on the entire journey to Nicaragua, I became panicky. My heart began to pound. "What if I have HEART problems out here??!! There's no hospital!! And we're SIX HOURS by canoe from Bluefields!!!" We continued up the little dirt path until we came to a weathered, concrete school building. It had withstood Hurricane Joan last October. Their church had not. This w
as where their service was to be held. It was surrounded by islanders, many of them children, who watched us as we entered the small room and peered at us through the open windows once we were inside. About 25 people sat at small wooden school desks – all towards the back of the room. Their altar was a small wooden table covered with a simple cloth with an embroidered cross which lay across the front. A little man, elderly and weather-beaten, stood in the far right corner holding a tiny, battered red accordion – their "organist".A Visit to Rama Cay
Part III
My heart was still pounding as we walked towards the front of the room and sat in those little school desks. It was so primitive, so simple. This little table for the altar – it was all they had. As I sat and prayed in silence, my fears subsided.
One of the pastors from our group preached a sermon, and we sang a couple of hymns. There were not many hymnals, and as we began to sing I moved back a few rows and stood next to a young Indian woman dressed in the best Sunday clothes she had. She was holding a tattered Moravian hymnbook. Its binding was loose, and its pages were worn. But as we sang, the voices of those natives echoed vibrantly through that little room, up through the air…to the heavens.
The service ended and we were escorted to an adjacent room in this two room schoolhouse. A meal had been prepared by the island women – fresh fish and a BIG bowl of rice – and we sat to eat on a short, oblong table meant for children. "You almost felt guilty eating it", one of my fellow travelers told me later. "They have so little, and we have so much." Their water had not been boiled, and we could not drink it. Conditions were so primitive that I found myself fearful of my food. I had not been sick yet, but this could be the place to do so and I would not want to be sick here. I guiltily picked the skin off the fish. We were dining in their "clinic" – two tables piled high with medicines – aspirins, cough syrup, etc. Their nurse was a native man with a long ponytail.
Just prior to eating, one of the church members had informed me that he had a 9hp motor. Knowing nothing about motors, my fears were soothed and I ate in peace, only to discover on completion of the meal that we had arrived on a boat with a 55hp motor. We waited for quite some time to leave. A man with a 25hp motor had been located, it seems, and was being convinced to let us borrow it.
The motors were switched, and we departed. The pastor's son who attended school in Bluefields had planned on returning with us, but we had to leave him behind as our motor could handle no more weight. We waved to him as we pulled away, sorry we could not take him with us.
The current was against us now, and strong. Our tiny motor sputtered, and sputtered, and the waves splashed against us. I wondered if the men knew what they were doing as we inched away from Rama Cay. "Brrrn…brrrn….brrn….brrrrn….brrn" it sputtered, and sputtered, slowly along. The two hills I had spotted when we were stuck on the way in took us thirty minutes to reach, and I calculated we should arrive in Bluefields – hopefully – in three times the usual amount of time – 2-1/4 hours.
A Visit to Rama Cay
Part IV
Slowly we sputtered, and sputtered, and sputtered. Our Hispanic driver constantly worked with the motor – the choke – to keep us going. Sometimes the motor would die. We'd look back questioningly, to see him start it again. We inched along. About halfway through the trip it sputtered again….and died. Our driver's face became distorted, and he said some things to that motor in Spanish that I bet even I could translate……
"What's wrong?" we ask, again. "The pump" Lydia translated. "It's not pumping fuel automatically from the tank to the motor." It starts again, and we look back. Now we have the driver fiddling with the motor to keep it going and pumping the little bulb on the fuel tank so that the fuel will go into the motor. Moments later I look back again. He's got a tin can, and he's dipping water out of the back of the boat. "It must be water that splashed in from the sides," I think to myself. This time I didn't ask.
Our two Presbyterians sitting in the back seat decided this poor fellow could use some
help. Nancy takes the can and begins bailing water. Mike grabs the plastic bulb to the fuel tank and begins pumping. This leaves our driver to do what he's been doing all along … working with the motor trying to keep it going. "Brrrn…..brrn….brrrn….brrrn….brrrn" our motor sputters along for perhaps 30 minutes or so. Those of us in the front are singing and joking about our predicament. Mike continues to pump the gas, nervously cracking a joke here and there but secretly whispering to Nancy, "They're not taking this SERIOUSLY enough! I'm glad YOU'RE taking this SERIOUSLY!!!" At one point I ask, "Mike you've been pumping for over 30 minutes now. Don't you want someone else to help you? "NO!" he replies quickly. "This is the only thing that is keeping me SANE!" I burst out laughing. He doesn't.A Visit to Rama Cay
Part V
The two in back are close to the motor, and cannot hear as well as those of us in the front. 'POW!!!" Off on the shore we hear the sound …. of gunfire! About that time, Mike, who missed the noise, panics. "We're NOT gonna make it! We're just NOT gonna make it! We're gonna run out of gas! I think we'd better pull off to the shore and HIKE the rest of the way!" All of us in front turn to him in unison, "NO, Mike! WE'RE not going on shore! YOU go on shore!" 'POW!!!...POW!!!.....POW!!!!...POW!!!" more shots echo through the air. Our Hispanic driver grimaces, his eyes get wide, he shapes his hand like a gun and gestures, pulling the trigger. Mike's face turns a peculiar shade, his eyes bulge out, and suddenly his little hand begins pumping as it's never pumped before!! I don't think it made us go any faster, but it must've made him feel better.
Slowly, we inch towards Bluefields, and away from where the gunshots were heard. They could have been anything those gunshots. But this is Nicaragua, in the midst of civil war. And even though we sensed that we were far enough from shore we could not be hit by one of them, their break in the silence instilled a fear in us that these people must live with every day. Eventually, Mike relaxes. "Boy, I'm sure gonna have a hard time explaining to my wife why I have muscles on just one arm when I get back!!" he quips.
We ease into Bluefields, nestle in the arms of the port … and run out of gas. The fol
ks in Bluefields have begun to miss us, and a Moravian search boat is headed our way. We change boats and go ashore.Isolated villages only accessible by water; fishing boats with one oar and no life jackets; motors they cannot afford to replace or repair properly; shorelines of devastated forestry as a constant reminder of the fury of Hurricane Joan; the sound of gunfire in the distance; the continual fear of warfare and death in your midst. This is the reality these people experience every day. This …. is the experience of Nicaragua.
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