We were warmly greeted at the port of Corinto by shy, pretty girls in native dress and a marimba band with guitar, güiro, a Latin merengue rasp-like percussion instrument, and guitarilla, a small guitar like a mandolin, playing for our pleasure and their hope of monetary offerings. With a population of about 16,000, the small town, which I could see from our suite terrace, was only two blocks away. It was hot, and the wind blew the dust into reddish brown clouds.
The town was awaiting our ship with multitudes of pedicabs that, for a couple of American dollars, would give you a half-hour deluxe city tour. So, I “shopped” for a driver who was friendly and less persistent, and found a nice young man, born in Corinto and the father of a one-year-old daughter. Full of pride for his hometown, he enthusiastically pedaled me past his former school, to the small, rocky, local beach with oceanside restaurant, and introduced me to his friend at the fisherman’s pier to show off the catch of the day. He wound me around through the local neighborhoods and commercial district, waving to his acquaintances, and ending up at the town square, with its retro-futuristic clock tower, some informative placards illustrating the local fish species and types of boating knots, and brightly painted food trucks parked along the curb.
I gave him a little extra pay for his kindness and we said our good-byes. I wandered some more alone on foot, and finally left the dusty, windy, lazy town and returned to the docks, past the cargo containers, to the ship tied to the pier, with metal rat guards on the mooring lines to keep the vermin at bay.
