Climbing el volcán Maderas......

It's suprisingly easy for me to get up at 4am and feel ready to climb a volcano. Piece of cake, right? The ascent up the Maderas Volcano is 5km and rocky, sometimes muddy, and at times feels more like rock climbing than hiking. Our young and agile guide, Omar, appears to be sprinting in comparison to us and he's usually skipping ahead of us and then waiting for us around a bend or up a steep hill. Probably helps to have boots, huh, instead of stretched out, worn walking shoes like I have. No one has enough water and us 3 gals (Me, Abby and a Californian named Kari) are just not quite in the shape that our guide is in, eh.

We come across some ruckus-making and curious howler monkeys and later a branch-throwing white-faced monkey. Omar says the white-faced monkeys are more intelligent and also more aggressive, but he doesn't say whether there's a connection between the two characteristics. Hm.

The trees are amazing and the diversity of the plants even more so- ferns, flowers, thick undergrowth and towering trees completely covered and filled with tinier, just-as-complex ecosystems. Birds scream and chirp and flutter all around us, denying even the thought of quiet in this forest. Yet, it's often hard to focus on the natural beauty all around us because one misstep can mean a nasty fall and if you look to the side, you'll probably get smacked on the head by a low branch.

Somewhere around kilometer 4, we 3 gals get delirious, laughing hysterically at nothing and slipping and sliding all over the place. At one point I even found myself hanging precariously from a branch over a low drop-off, somehow turned around and facing the direction we'd come from, without the slightest recollection of how it had happened. Omar must think we're insane.

After 4 hours, we arrive to a tranquil lagoon in the crater on the top of the volcano. I collapse onto the ground and Kari tries to wade into the lagoon only to find herself up to her knees in mud within seconds. At this point my weak ankles, made worse by my terrible shoes, are aching to the point of delirium. The descent back down is 6km because we take a different route and every step becomes a shocking blast of pain shooting up from my foot to my brain. After a couple of kilometers I consider just laying down in the forest and staying the night there. Instead, I bite my lip and clench my fists and stumble down the hill the best I can, walking freakishly like a Frankenstein-esque character. By the time we get to the bottom, I can't speak and just point to cold-looking beverages at the corner store and mutter about snacks while we wait for our bus. Omar drinks 2 beers while we wait, completely unphased by the day, despite his having only gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before. Whatever.

Abby ices me up at the hotel and we drink a bit to ease the pain. I should probably have just gone to bed but instead, wanting to drive the pain out of my mind, I slammed a few Toñas and a few cups of Flor de Caña. Ahhh.

On to the crazy Isla....

Bye bye San Juan: Abby makes her specialty, pancakes, for the morning of our departure. They turn out more like crepes (yummm) and we smother them with sweetened condensed milk while downing several cups of strong, black coffee. Another healthy breakfast to get a day of traveling started, ha.

Movimiento: We're moving around a lot on this trip, something that is strange for both of us. In Mexico we would stay at least a week, and usually two, in each place but in Nicaragua we can only stay in places for a couple days at a time, unfortunately constrained by those all-too-familiar restraints: time and money. Yet, even at this point in the trip I feel certain that I will return to Nicaragua, hopefully sooner than later. Nicaragua is sunshine and warm smiles and fresh air to me- but at the same time I know that this isn't enough. Engels words still echo in my mind frequently, especially because I am really starting to love Nicaragua and I don't want to look back and see that all I did was take and take and let the beauty seep into me without giving anything back or properly expressing my gratitude.

To Ometeptl: So, we hop in the first cab we see heading to Rivas, I had completely forgot that only a few minutes before I had said I wanted to use the internet before we left. But it turned out to be a lucky, albeit absent-minded decision, because after about 15 minutes riding down the terribly bumpy and rocky road out of SJ, our taxi got not one flat tire, but two, and a few minutes later an older Canadian man picked us up in his pick-up and took us directly to the ferry, free of charge and with a half hour to grab some gallo pinto.

The lake is choppy and brown and the ferry plods along, sometimes sickenly slow and heaving and other times just slow slow slow. The breeze is nice though and so is the view of the island, which is gradually becoming greener as we get closer, while the two volcanos that created the Island of Ometepe get bigger and bigger. When we land, a bus is leaving and since we know absolutely nothing about the island, we just get on and watch farms and palm trees and the entirely imposing Volcán Concepción pass by our school bus windows until we end up in the small town of Altagracia. Fine.

Should we stay here? We are indecisive, a vulnerability that the clever young guy at the tourism office exploits, telling us the "only way to see the Island" is to stay in Altagracia. Whatever, we're tired. "And by the way, my dad's hotel is just around the corner and we have a tour guide and food and information, blah blah blah." I think normally I would have been annoyed by this blatant trickery but instead, I shrugged and we threw our bags down. He seems like a nice person anyhow and besides, no more time to waste, bikes and a sweet little beach nearby are waiting!

another day in san juan del sur

The birds here are beautiful and I realize we haven't seen much wildlife on this trip so far. Gorgeous blue and green birds with long, azure pendulum-shaped tails swoop onto low branches and then let their tails switch back and forth mechanically, like clocks. They are the 'guardabarrancos,' Nicaragua's national bird. Other birds that look like giant blue jays with feathery curly cues on their heads make a lot of noise in the mango tree and are curious about everything it seems.

We finally get around to finding the beach. It is hot and empty, and the water is again cold. I'm not interested in swimming anyway and instead pick stones and shells and other things off of the beach, throw most of them back, and keep a few. We wander, have a beer here, and ice cream there, typical beach wandering. Except for at one point when our beach stroll was interrupted by a loud and irritated voice behind us, 'Man, they really f***ed this place up!' We look back and see a middle-aged man walking quickly and angrily and all the while talking out loud, mostly to himself, about how San Juan has been ruined in the past 20 years. Meanwhile, Abby and I feel a bit silly and out of place here anyway, maybe we should have been here 20 years ago? Who knows...It's a nice place, but we're not surfers and it seems like the whole town has been built up just to accomodate those folks. And there's the wild partying people have told us about, but I'm just not interested this time.

After a seriously satisfying dinner of fish, ceviche, and a couple of Toñas, I dropped like a rock onto a thin mattress on Sarah and Baldo's terrace.

movement......

Leaving Tola "No lo creo," dad says, shaking his head. Mom is holding back her tears, "Every guest we have...I just start to love them so much." She gives me the family address, home phone number, and many reassurances that anytime we or anyone in our family want, this is our home. I promise to be back soon. With our bags packed full of clean clothes and a bag of still-green jocote (my prize for english homework translation), and my new flip flops on my feet, we head for la playa.

San Juan del Sur, my first impression Surfboards and bleached hair, tattooed youth in board shorts, people no longer expect or care if we speak Spanish, tourist prices, dusty construction, constant movement, walls of hanging bathing suits and surfboards, that certain sort of carefree energy and thinly-veiled desperation that saturates a tourist beach town, "un pequeño relax." I can see how people get stuck here but we're not really digging it so far. Perhaps we're just pessimistic because we haven't seen the beach yet and definitely haven't come close to eating the red snapper that Omantzin was telling us about. At least the air is warm and the ice cream cheap.

We have dinner later with our hosts, a young Texan woman who moved to Nicaragua at around age 11 when her family founded an orphanage, and her Nica husband, who works in the local real estate office and is also president of the national surf circuit (a huge deal in San Juan del Sur). They're nice, stil in their "honeymoon/new appliance phase" and they have a lovely house with a breezy terrace, only 500 meters or so from the beach. Abby and I trade stories with Sarah about how our family members back in the States insist that places like Nicaragua and Mexico are so dangerous, an idea we all find funny considering how dangerous most U.S. cities are. Ah well. Here's an interesting article about Nicaragua's safety. And Nicaragua doesn´t even make the list of the 62 countries with the highest per capita murder rate. They list the U.S. at number 24, right between Bulgaria and Armenia.

la moto

Morning comes with gallo pinto (I will never, ever tire of rice and beans), egg, cheese, sweet orange juice, and, of course, big smiles and happy !Buenos dias! from the entire family. We hope that our gratitude is expressed in our wide-eyed, grinning faces and our scraped-clean plates. Keila will leave for Managua today for her job as a radio DJ with Radio Disney but mom assures us that she is "at our orders" for anything we might need or want, just ask her or dad. Lucky for us, we are completely content eating delicious home-cooking and then relaxing for the day; the heat really doesn't allow us to do much else, right?

Well, we did decide to use the internet for a few hours, and to do so we had to utilize a connection Keila has with the town elementary school's sub-director (her best friend's mom). Even after Keila leaves and around 30 second-graders come in for class, the computer teacher lets us use the computers until his shift ends.

Dad picks us up one by one on the motorcycle and while we ride through town he beeps, yells or waves at nearly everyone we pass. Everyone knows each other here and it's such a small, peaceful town that it's hard for me to imagine dad fighting in the war only 15 years ago, as he later told us.

As we're recovering from lunch (already?!) of bean and egg soup, rice and plaintains, dad comes into to tell us that when the sun lowers a little more, he'll teach us how to ride a motorcycle. So, a bit later dad takes us to the local soccer/beisbol field (in case we fall he says), where a couple dozen men and boys are kicking around soccer balls. I translate the directions for Abby the best I can. Here's the clutch, accelerate slowly while releasing the clutch, here are the brakes, etc. A lot of information for two gals with no motorcycle experience. Finally, a nervous but daring Abigail jumps on, with dad on the back to watch.

A couple stalls later and they're moving, but the moto quickly starts to weave, first to the right, then to the left, staggering wildly like a drunk. Uh oh. Suddenly (this must be the part where Abby blacked out), I hear a roar of acceleration and the machine and riders are propelled forward, now out of control, with poor dad on the back being tossed around like a sack of groceries. Dad tries to reach for the brake but the motorcycle lurches forward and falls over hard. Within seconds every player on the field is standing above a banged up Abby, dad and moto, but at Abby's fierce "Adios!!" they all scatter. A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing burned or broken, thanks to God.



Now that it was my turn, I decide to wait for my nerves to calm down and for the field of curious and amused spectators to empty. So, dad and I chatted a bit about his life until the players begin to leave. Dad carefully goes over the instructions again, telling me, "Don't think about the motorcycle. If you think you're going to fall just get out of the way and don't even think about what will happen to the bike, it's much more important that you don't get hurt." I stall a few times too but finally get going in order to ride around the field a few times, never daring to leave first gear. Next time.

It's so nice to be fussed over by a mother sometimes. Mom fills Abby up with medicine and puts cream on her wounds, she washes all of our clothes because she's worried about us leaving with dirty clothes and not being able to wash them later and, of course, she keeps us happily fed and asks us constantly how we are, what do we need, do we feel good, want to watch tv? Here's the only English channel. Dad usually just grins or laughs and gives us the thumbs up sign whenever he sees us. He's never upset, even for a moment, that Abby could have killed him. He just laughs and laughs and says "Too bad we didn't get a video of that!"

¡a la puchica!

Arriving to Rivas, a taxi driver offers to take us to Tola for 100 cordobas. Silly guy. We go to buy water and ask the woman working for the best way to get there. She says don't pay more than 40 cordobas for a taxi and for some reason she gives us a huge smile when I told her we were going to Tola. Folks are so friendly here.

The taxi driver drops us off at the "parque central," a small square of cement with a few basketball hoops. Some big pigs roll around in the mud in one corner of the park and people sit around in rocking chairs and on porches. Our HC host, Keila, told us to get to the park and ask for her aunt, who sells vegetables there. So, I walk to the stand closest to us and ask a young guy working. "She´s the last stand in the park," he tells me and I look to see that there is actually only one other vegetable stand, about 10 feet away. Aunt looks at me for a minute and then suddenly brightens and shouts, "Keila!" and proceeds to call everyone in the family and let them know we've arrived. I immediately love this family as mom walks up and gives us a warm hug and dad rides up on a motorcycle with a huge smile. Keila is all energy, throwing our bags in the car and asking if we´re ready to see the ocean. "Yes!" After all, I did promise Abby the ocean on her birthday.

At the house we meet Grandpa and brothers and cousins and aunt and baby; everyone is so pleased to see us, even when they find out that were from the States and not from Argentina like they'd all thought (though we never really find out why). Oh my, and when the family finds out it's a birthday, everyone immediately starts shouting and clapping and singing all at once. A few minutes later "las mañanitas" is blaring out of a stereo in the house. Keila promises an unforgettable day and we embark for the ocean.

The air is thick with dust and the roady bumpy and rocky and nearly empty besides the occasional herder leading his long-horned cattle home, their ears flopping and necks swaying back and forth. We couldn't roll the window up for the heat, so dust filled our eyes and ears and mouths until we got to the sea. Always lovely and here the sea is heaving onto the filthy beach, which is popular for parties and family gatherings, especially since the water is too cold to be entirely inviting. At the end of the beach we climb some rocks and watch the ocean send tall sprays of water into the air via huge, crashing waves. Around the bend a pristine beach sits empty and isolated, barely accessible because of the rocks, and in stark contrast to the beach behind us, where an enormous pig is making its way through the litter strewn all over.

At home we get our first taste of mom's cooking. The best beans I've ever had in my life (for real), fried chicken, rice and a little glass of rum and orange juice. Mom sits and watches us eat with a huge smile on her face, truly content by our presence. I tell them that in Mexico everyone calls Abby 'Tinker Bell' and they both erupt in laughter, "It's true!! She is Tinker Bell!" Keila shouts. And when brother arrives with Abby's birthday ice cream, he tells us that the only flavor the store had left was "fantasia." "Ahh perfect! Fantasy ice cream for the Tinker Bell!!" Keila and Mom laugh and laugh.

Turns out fantasy ice cream is really just bubble gum flavored but whatever, I'm eating ice cream in flip flops (though mis matched now) and imagining that if I were back in Michigan right now I would be miserably cold and clinging to the hope that spring was actually going to come this year.

Capital-isms

Prior: After our completely too-brief stay in Jinotepe, we decided to take advantage of a hosting offer and a chance to meet up with some young Nicaraguans and spend a day in Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. Mom tells us to be safe, Engels tells us to call him if anything at all happens and he or someone he knows will be there to help us, and Miriam tells us what a disaster the city is. Still, we hop on a microbus without even time for a proper goodbye and arrive at a shopping mall outside the city in a little over a half hour.

Our home: Valerie picks us up at the shopping mall, a place her husband, Sebastien, suggested because "it´s a safe place, it´s modern." So we try not to look completely ridiculous standing outside a "modern" shopping mall with our big backpacks and disheveled looks and we're soon taken to our one-night home in Managua.

As we pull in, Valerie tells us almost apologetically how when her husband was assigned to Central America and they decided to live in Nicaragua, they found that they could rent this enormous house (with swimming pool, house cleaner, groundskeeper and 24 security guard) for the same price as a 2 room flat in Paris. So, they took the chance to live in luxury for a while and, what I think is nice at least, they receive guests every so often. When Sebastien replied to my request he asked, "We only have one queen size bed in the guest room, can you share it?" We had a good laugh about that. And when we arrived, we were quite astounded.

Where are we?: Valerie makes us an incredible salad for lunch; I can't remember the last time I had feta cheese, and olives! Her and her husband refer to themselves as French diplomats, which is not the oddest thing about this couple. Still, they are incredibly kind to us. Valerie takes us to the market, a monstrous snaking thing, the vegetable piles in this market are the biggest I've seen, maybe 8 ft tall, papayas as big as my thighs, 2 ft high blocks of fresh cheese, an entire row of bright colored candies. I never really get tired of markets. Valerie says there's another market but it's too dangerous to go to, I read somewhere that you can get illegal abortions there even, but who knows.

Roll up the windows, lock the doors: Valerie gives us a "tour" of the city. Managua is a sad city, like a ghost without anything to haunt. People forced it into existence to end petty bickering and nature repeatedly destroyed it, with the city caught in the middle and without any say in the matter. Now it is an absolute mess of wide streets and shopping malls, with no center, no history, no beauty, and no sense. "People have to go to the mall just to be able to sit down and drink a coffee," Valerie tells us. People seem sad when they talk about this city. Even people who live and work here avoid it, which is surprisingly easy because it's almost as if it doesn't exist at all. We see monuments and flags and the National Palace, and a bizarre church with bubble structures all over the top with a lifesize Jesus inside who appears to be inside some sort of space bubble. We pass fragments of the old city, or rather of something that might have been a city had the earth not burned or shook violently.

Regalos: As we walk past the ruins of the old, once beautiful and impressive cathedral, children run up to us, pushing palm fronds that they have twisted into flowers into our hands. "I don't have any money," I repeat and try to hand a flower back to a girl, she had actually just dropped it into my bag. "I'm sorry, amiga, but not today." She follows me, insisting I take the flower, telling me it's a gift. "I really don't have any money today, amiga, sorry." But, oddly enough, she insists that it really is just a gift. She hands it to me and walks next to me for a few moments singing a song very quietly to me. The only words I can make out are, "Doy la rosa a la mas hermosa." Before she runs off I find out her name is Estacy.

Ok, where are we?: For dinner, we have an interesting psuedo-Nicaraguan experience. Meaning, we drink Nica beer, eat Nica cheese and nacatamales, and listen to a disc of a famous Nica folk musician, only we are from the States and our hosts are from France and we are sitting in a comfortable home that is carefully guarded from Nicas. During our dinner, a few couchsurfers show up to take us to a "summer party," so we toss the rest of the queso chontaleno in our mouths, down our beers and jump in the car.

The music is absurd and brings us hysterical memories of high school. The live band is much worse so we escape to a disco, where the music only worsens. How? At least we got to meet some cool folks. But, the night wears away slowly and the guard lets us in after a lengthy search for our home.

Departure: After a morning of dark, fresh coffee and toast with organic tamarind jam, Sebastien takes us to the bus station. "Rivas!" We hop on, hop off to buy enchiladas (not like in Mexico, here they're fried empanadas stuffed with chicken and rice with cabbage thrown all over the top of them), and look up to see our bus rolling slowly backwards, with our bags on it. We run and jump on while it's still rolling, a burning hot enchilada in one hand and the other to steady our balance.

"You girls laugh too much"

Morning. I just want to write a brief note about my saving grace, my dear companion, my absolute crutch and cane and, at times, wheel chair. When I get stubborn and cross my arms and glare, she knows to just grab my hand. When I have not a penny to my name, she only says that someday I can repay her. When our eyes happen upon something we like (a piece of chocolate cake, for example, or a pile of cheese), we know better than to speak and instead just say "one, or two?" Most folks are confused by us, "Are you sisters, cousins, lesbians?" We shake our heads and laugh and refuse to care how people define us. Maybe the most accurate description so far, though not the prettiest, was offered to us by a couple Australian guys who share it as well, "heterosexual life partners." No use translating it to Spanish, here we can be sisters. We push each other's buttons, more often on purpose than not and then drink a beer and laugh about a moment that only we know and understand. It's a lovely thing, but, alas, my dear Abigail will board a plane soon and I'll go home to Mexico and we'll be forced to rely on lengthy emails and gmail chats.

Night. When we arrived to Jinotepe, this is something that I forgot, we were starving. Absolutely starving and tired. We called our host and waited in the town park, comprised of concrete and basketball courts, and wondered what to do about food. We didn't want to show up to our new host's house with such an obvious and fierce amount of hunger, but the streets were small and dark and certainly there are no quesadilla stands anywhere around. "Oh, mexican food," we groan, thinking more of availability than of taste, and we wander around the park, only seeing junk food snacks. We return to where we were standing in front of two older women who sit and only chat with eachother, but they have a cooler. "Do you have food?" I ask. They do, and imagine our surprise when one of the woman hands each of us a warm, soft tortilla wrapped around a thin, salty piece of cheese bursting with vinagery onions and crema. Sour and warm and soft and absolutely what we need.

Even though I can write about moments like these, only Abigail and I truly understand what it means to actually be in the moment and only able to look at each other and laugh and laugh.