Of Cloud Forests & Starving Children
It was the last week of January, 2008 and the harsh beep of an alarm pulled me out of sleep. Groggy, I looked up at the peeling cement ceiling three feet above me.
I was on a top bunk in the room of a small inn. ($9 a night didn’t seem like a bad deal.) On the bunk below me was my friend Yoani — a Holland-born boy raised in the tobacco country of southern Ontario (we’d met at university) — and our cameraman, Mike, who we’d dragged all the way from his urbane Toronto to the mountains of northern Nicaragua.
Stepping out into the courtyard, I could see clouds hanging a couple hundred feet above our rooftops. Neighbourhoods of huts drifting into barren, stump-filled openness drifting into heavily wooded hillsides vaulted up the sIopes of the mountains surrounding this highland vale-town. Those treed verticals rose into the mist and gave the low-hanging clouds the look of being a blanket pinned to surrounding peaks, like a child giant’s living room fortress.




