jueves, 29 de marzo de 2012

La Isla de Ometepe

Disclaimer: Pardon the present tense: this entry was partially written while I was actually on vacation. I’ve been back in Leon for more than a week now.

I’m sitting in a stone enclave surrounded by leaves, my perch nestled into the slopes of the jungle encrusted volcano Maderas of Ometepe island. It’s the patio like section of El Zopilote, the ecological farm and hostel where I’m staying with Tom. To my left, Latin music entertains a group of three hippies working on elaborate artisan crafts and bracelets. Technically,  I’m in a greenhouse. The mostly transparent roof is held up by twisting logs. An assortment of recycled vases and pots dangle from rustic rafters, each nurturing a plant with fertile volcanic soil.





El Zopilote first appeared in 2002, a land purchase made by two Italian expats who wanted to create an organic tropical farm without the use of even machines. The farm is situated about 500 meters up the side of Maderas, and the owners made the decision not to build a road. All supplies and food are carried up by hand. The result is a self selecting community of tourists, those who are intrigued by a confusing and cryptic hike through jungly farms clinging to the hill, with the occasional sly sign and gate letting you know that you’re probably climbing in the right direction. After fifteen minutes or so, thatched roof cottages begin to appear between the trees and flowers, and you realize that you’ve made it to the mystic, clandestine hippy community of El Zopilote. The next challenge is finding reception. Each building is separated by a narrow, winding stone path, and for much of the day the lush foliage blankets the place in a hush. Small groups of travelers gather at the peak of the “Mirador” tower, with views over the jungle canopy and the lake, playing guitars and assortments of crude handmade wind instruments.





Our tent.





The bathroom.


The shower.


You can see the kitchen in the back through the leaves.





The bus at the entrance to Zopilote- serves as a cafe, crafts shop, and home to a couple of volunteers.

The jungle comes to life on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays: True to its Italian roots, El Zopilote is famous for lively pizza nights where tourist, expats, and locals alike flock to El Zopilote after the sun has set. Long trains of headlamp lights snake up the side of Maderas and the pizza area is slowly filled with voices, clinking beer bottles, and bodies bathed under the twinkling night lights. Pizza after pizza is shelled out from the massive stone wood burning oven while music blasts from speakers perched high in the rafters of the pizza making hut.










Aside from pizza, El Zopilote’s reception house duals as a store for the farm’s produce and products; fresh vegetables and fruit are free when in season, and you can buy freshly baked whole grain bread, natural yogurt, coffee, spaghetti sauce, honey, and various natural liqueurs. The store makes up for the hostel’s lack of restaurant service, by providing the ingredients you need to cook meals for yourself in the communal kitchen. The farm is based around the idea of permiculture:  Humans, plants, and animals working together to benefit all three groups. The trees that envelop the grounds and grow in the nursery are an exotic mixture including fruit trees, royal palms, bamboos, coffee trees, and cacao. A terraced garden of herbs and medicinal plants is cultivated by volunteers and WWOOFers who come to Zopilote from all over the world to learn about permiculture.  

Farms like El Zopilote, including Finca Magdalena, La Brisa, and more are found all over Ometepe island. Just as I knew it would be, Ometepe is a magical place. If Vashon Island could sprout an active volcano and morph its forests into tropical jungles, I think it could be similar to Ometepe; the islands have comparable vibes. I truly feel at home on Ometepe. Unlike Leon, the sky is muddied by a dense cloud cover for much of the day. Below, the land is blanketed by a cloud forest of palms, scarlet Flor de Jamaica blossoms, and a myriad of other plant species. Volcan Concepcion, the second highest volcano in Nicaragua at 1610 meters, dominates the North island, town houses and potholed roads clinging to its slopes. While trees decorate the stately faces of Volcan Concepcion, they completely cover the smaller, dormant volcano Maderas, which lies on the South side of the island.


The island from the shore at San Jorge.

Concepcion and Maderas give Ometepe its name: Two Hills. That’s not Spanish, it’s the native language nahuatl, originally from Mexico. According to legend, prophets from the indigenous tribes of the Northern regions had visions of a paradise made of “two hills” in the South. Many tribes congregated to Ometepe, from Mexico and all the way down throughout Central America, finally settling in the manifestation of their dreams. As a result, petroglyphs, ceramics and statues from these native tribes are found throughout the island. The population is only 42,000 for an island of 106 square miles, leaving room for an impressive display of wildlife: Howler, spider, and capuchin monkeys, freshwater sharks and crocodiles, and about a million species of birds. The sharks are believed to be the only freshwater sharks in the world. Don’t be beguiled by the size of the waves surrounding Ometepe island: Its twin hills rise out of Lake Nicaragua, or Lake Cocibolca if you want to honor the original appellation. It’s not the ocean, but it is the largest lake in Central America.

I have been wanting to visit Ometepe for almost three years now, and have been thwarted several times. In June and July of 2009, I lived in tiny Apompoa, a rural town close to the city Rivas. Unless you were standing directly behind a building or a tree, Ometepe’s two hills were visible from any point of the community. Some of my favorite photographs from that summer are snapshots of Maderas and Concepcion, blue through the haze of distance, in smoky contrast to the bright fields of Apompoa in the foreground. Of course I wanted desperately that my host family take me to the magical island, but there were a couple reasons why it wasn’t a likely option. The rules of Amigos de las Americas,  the organization I was volunteering for, made it hard if not impossible to go on side trips, and my host family probably couldn’t have afforded it anyway. I promised I would come back someday to visit them and the island as well.

And I did! Although my mom and I planned to stay only a night and a day on Ometepe, it was the part I was looking most forward to- and then I got sick. Unfortunately, my third attempt to finally reach the island found me sick again. I had just gotten over a sinus infection that started up at Somoto and got worse until I miraculously found a pack of upper respiratory antibiotics leftover from my never-ending cough of December. As soon as my head stopped throbbing though, my stomach started acting up. Tom and I had planned on traveling to the island as soon as his Honduran friends left, but we decided to give me a rest day instead. So we left for Ometepe on Tuesday the 13th. It was a miserable day of about 8 hours of travel, not the funnest when you’re feeling bad. Despite leaving in the morning, we didn’t arrive until the sun was about to set.






The main port is Moyogalpa; there lies the “muerra”, dock, and a bustling crowd of eager taxi drivers all ready to offer you a ride to wherever you need to go, all charging five dollars no matter the spot. Upon being hassled by several taxi drivers, Tom and I decided to find a bus for a fraction of the price. We hiked uphill passing bright houses nestled in beds of tropical flowers to reach a pulperia to ask for directions. “Buenas!” The woman announced that “ya no”- the busses have stopped coming. We could wait there for a camioneta, or catch a taxi. After a moment of discussion she somehow decided that indeed we could catch a bus at the carratera, several streets up, but it would be better to catch a taxi. Stubbornly insistent, we continued up the road until we were confronted with yet another opinion; the busses would come upon the arrival of the next boat, around six thirty. We started back down. And then- a bus! We hopped on one aimed for the direction of Altagracia, South. Our destination for the night was a campsot at La Punta de Jesus Maria, a point whittling down into a narrow sandbar halfway down the North island.

No one seemed to understand our intentions to camp on the sandbar. “There is no hotel there,” every Nica told us. “We know,” we would reply. If only I could remember the Spanish word for tent... it would help if it wasn’t a different word every time I asked. As we hopped onto the back of the bus, the bus boy expressed his concerns for our plans as well. “There are animals on the beach!” When asked to elaborate, he couldn’t name anything dangerous.

When we finally arrived at the point, we were indeed bombarded by animals- a bark happy but harmless pack of dogs. The point was busier than I had anticipated; several families seemed to live right at the end, as well as a “restaurant”, an establishment we hadn’t been sure existed or not. We had heard conflicting oppinions, confirmations and negations out of the mouth of the same Nica. Fortunately this is a phenomenon I’ve gotten used to by now. When I first arrived with my mom, I rolled my eyes as she asked the same question three or four times at every turn. “It’s just to check if they reply with the same answer every time,” she would say. “If I get the same response three or four times in a row, I can expect to trust it.” A worthwhile practice, I now see.

The bus dropped us just as darkness set at the entrance to a black tunnel leading, we hoped, to La Punta. After traveling all day (a taxi from our hostel in Leon to the terminal; a bus to Managua; a taxi from terminal to terminal in Managua; another bus to San Jorge, Rivas; a ferry to Isla de Ometepe; a bus to La Punta), I was single mindedly focused on getting to the freaking point. We wandered town the tunnel in solitary blackness aside from an occasional light at the end of the tunnel, revealing itself to be a motorcycle’s headlight blinking into existence and rolling past with a casual adios from the driver. At long last the tunnel opened up into the oval shaped beach. After being welcomed to La Punta Jesus Maria by the chorus of dogs, we took advantage of the tideless lake by erecting the tent right at the water’s edge.

Stars swirled and lightning bugs zipped past, earthbound shooting stars. We didn’t bother with the tent fly. Tom’s tent is almost 100% mesh and open to the sky. At the end of the spit the mysterious Nicaraguan winds moved the waves in two different directions, convening at the sandbar and spitting up bright foam in delicate sprays.

Without electricity to trick your mind that it’s day, it’s hard not to retire early. My stomach was still upset. I made the mistake of ordering a gigantic overly salted hamburger at a lakeside cafe minutes before we sprinted to catch the 4:00 boat. With the windy season at its peak, the waves were heaving with white capped intensity against the deep gray of the lake. We stood on the beach looking across to the floating pearl of Ometepe. As we watched, a rainbow arched to hug Concepcion’s peak.


Dock on the mainland side.





At the cafe, waiting for the 4:00 boat.

The ferry ride brought on a bit of nostalgia, but was anything but the same as a smooth glide across tranquil Puget Sound. We rocked and rolled over heaving surf for an hour and a half, and my stomach did not thank me for the heavy hamburger tossing around in there. So thankfully I fell asleep fast. Unfortunately, our tent’s wind-vulnerable position, rain fly-less on the sand, did not lend itself to a peaceful night’s sleep. As soon as the wind picked up- an inevitable moment in a Nicaraguan evening- sand started blowing through the mesh and into the tent. I woke several times to ran: of course the only time I haven’t had a rain fly is the only time it rains. Tom tactfully pulled the rain fly inside the tent to cover our down bags.





The next morning I awoke wet, sweaty, and encrusted in sand to a group of tourists passing by our exposed tent to check out the point. I still felt pretty sick. We packed up our tent rather than remain lying there amid the tourists like zoo animals.

Tom was up in a beautiful arching tree above crystalline blue water, wearing a blue shirt that perfectly matched the sky and sea. I climbed up, and broke down. I finally let myself admit that this trip has been hard for me, and my frustration at getting sick. My job is an intense one, and I feel like I’m working really, really hard. I think one of the main issues for me is the distance I feel from the impact we’re making from working here. yes, we see the kids sometimes, but the nature of the work is to be the profit making machine only. It provides only a logical connection to the kids, the reason we’re all here, and lacks in emotional connection.


Our tent at the point.





The point.

Eventually we had to move on. We ate over salted chicken at the “restaurant”, which turned out to actually serve food, packed our backs, and hiked back out through the tunnel. This time we could actually see the bright foliage around us, Concepcion peeking through leaves on our left, and jungle horses grazing on our right. Once we got to the road, we started walking South; we had to get to El Zopilote. When a Southbound bus swept by we jumped on board and after paying the driver, I fell asleep, apparently leaving my wallet on the bus seat. It wasn’t until after we got off at the turnoff to Balgue (the town closest to Zopilote) and stopped at a pulperia to buy bread that I noticed my wallet was gone. Fortunately, I kept the bulk of my cash in another spot, so I had lost about 20 dollars worth of cordobas, my long expired joke of a driver’s permit, and my ATM card. The only item of importance was the ATM card, but I had enough money on me t last the next several days, and there aren’t really any ATMs on Ometepe anyway. I also knew I had an emergency bank card back at Quetzaltrekkers for exactly this sort of a situation.

We waited at the bus stop for almost 2 hours for the same bus to come back around and searched it as best we could, but it was obvious that there was no way we’d find my wallet. The bus was packed with people, backpacks, and bags of produce, leaving not a square inch of empty floor space. The driver was gracious enough to stall the bus while we poked around, but I had to let it go. Life goes on. But because of our delays, we didn’t make it to Zopilote until after dark. We set up the tent beneath the trees, had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, for dinner, and konked out. Ometepe would be there for us in the morning.

domingo, 25 de marzo de 2012

Somoto Canyon

Vacation in Leon just didn´t feel like vacation, and it definitely wasn´t calming my mind. Everywhere I turned I ran into someone I know; got caught up in another obligation. People kept asking why I was still there and where we were going next. We ended up staying two nights- one at Guadabarranco and one at Lazybones. I´ve been wanting to try out Lazybones hostel for a while for one reason- it´s the only hostel in Leon with a pool, a novelty becoming increasingly precious as the dry season soldiers on.




Leon is HOT. I feel like a limpid pool of feverish sweat here. When the pipes run dry, which is common during the dry season, there really is no easy way to cool off. Three fans pointed directly at your face just seem to move the hot air slowly about your face.

The idea was to escape to Ometepe right away. Our plans changed when Tom´s friends from Honduras who wanted to come see him while he was in Nicaragua could only come on Sunday, four days after Tom arrived. Nelson was Tom´s host dad and Fabio his best friend during the summer of 2009 (the same summer I was in Nicaragua for Amigos). He volunteered in a school run by Nelson, teaching English and working in the carpentry shop in the affiliated trade school. A couple weeks ago I received a facebook message Tom had sent out to a big group telling Fabio´s story of being the hardest worker at the school (both the academic and carpentry schools) but that he was unable to pay for university. Tom raised 1,000 dollars just through that plea for Fabio´s first year of university.


Nelson, Tom and Favio at dinner.


The four of us.

It was Thursday; we had three days to kill. We decided to fill up the weekend with a shorter trip to the famous Somoto Canyon. Quetzaltrekkers used to run treks to Canon de Somoto. I don´t know how they rationalized selling a canyoneering trip when the organization´s motto is ¨hike volcanoes, help kids¨ and the canyon is left unfeatured in our classic logo that depicts the Maribios Range of Volcanoes. Whatever the case, for reasons unclear to me, a tantalizingly glossy poster advertising trips into the canyon was left hanging in the Quetzaltrekkers office until mere weeks ago, spurring expectant would be clients to inquire about canyon treks nearly every office shift. This created many an awkward conversation during which I always felt the need to find another tour company that actually offers canyoneering in apology for our false advertisement. You may ask why I didn´t just take the sign down myself? I would retort by pointing out that aside from sheer laziness on my part, the sign remained dangling there even after the entire office was rearranged for the mural, meaning the stupid sign was hung BACK up by another volunteer.

Rebecca is the only current volunteer who has done Somoto Canyon. She insists that due to all the transportation and the abundance of capable local Somoto guides, it makes more sense (and is drastically cheaper) for tourists interested to simply arrange their own tour from Esteli or Somoto. Nevertheless, I have spent many a boring hour during uneventful office shifts gazing at the dramatically intriguing cliff walls depicted in our teasing devil of a poster. Since I obviously won´t get the change to to snag a free trip to the canyon as a guide, I decided long ago that I had to make it happen on my own.

We spent a leisurely morning at Lazybones and took the noon thirty bus to Esteli, a far north city in the hills and the takeoff point for organizing guided tours of the canyon. We arrived at the terminal early and were told only after our backpacks had been loaded onto the roof of the bus that it was required to buy a ticket beforehand to get a seat on the bus. Of course, they were sold out. Luckily standing in the isle for the 3 and a half hour ride was an option for ticketless riders, and there were about 50 of us in that boat. It was a mildly uncomfortable 3 and a half hours.

Tom and I passed the time by making friends with a large group of Peace Corps volunteers from all over Nicaragua convening in Esteli for a birthday party. Hard not to start up a conversation when you´re squashed up against their back. We swayed as the bus rounded shallow curves through the hills- the air grew fresher as we moved upward, finally to the mountainous North.

Esteli was a breath of fresh air. It’s a city clinging to rugged slopes and has the feel of the Old West. Every other Nica wears a bright white cowboy hat, and it´s the place to go for personally tailored cowboy boots. We were escorted to our hotel- Miraflor- by a weathered Esteli native (which had hot showers…!) After booking a tour of Somoto for the next day, we wandered the streets of Esteli for a few hours before settling on a café with a live piano and saxophone player and quesadillas.


Arriving in Esteli.

















 The first beep of the alarm sounded at 6- the Somoto trip itinerary demanded that we take the 7:30 bus from the North terminal. Luckily there is a little pulperia that serves tiny, intensely sweet cups of coffee at the terminal, and an orderly row of seats like what you’d expect a bus terminal to look like, unlike the crowded chaos of Leon´s main terminal. The busride from Esteli to Somoto is about an hour and a half long, and in Somoto we were greeted by friendly and strapping Olvil. He´s the brother of the famous Henry Soriano who runs a respectable tour company of which a percentage of profit goes towards supporting families in the community of Somoto.

The town of somoto is located on the Nicaraguan Honduras border, and at the beginning of the hike we were able to see the actual borderline from across the canyon as well as both Nicaraguan and Honuran immingration buildings. The Canyon was ¨discovered¨ in 2004 by a group of Czech and Nicaraguan geologists and since then has exloded as a tourist destination. During our hike we ran into three other groups of roughly fifteen tourists each.

The trip involves a mild hike through vaguely defined paths snaking through dry brush adn farmland, then weaves down into the canyon itself. Between towering 200 meter cliff walls brilliantly blue water fill sthe canyon and reates a slow moving (and excruciatingly cold) river, part of the Rio Coco. Canyon de Somoto is the result of a fault line, and its walls are an ingriguing composite of 50 million year old metamorphic rock and the much younger volcanic rock which is found as far East as the canyon despite its location so far from the coastal volcanoes. Dry season (right now) finds the canyon drastically barren in comparison to the rainy months of Nicaraguan winter. Waterfalls which once gushed from above with fierce power are now reduced to slow trickles down the mossy walls. The river was so low when we arrived that we spent a good couple hours dry hiking over rocks in our water shoes, passsing massive, pure white boulders; one seemed to have molded into the form of a hybernating polar bear.

Despite the dried out nature of the canyon the views were dramatic. We had been hoping to be able to rock climb or atleast rappel in the canyon, but Olvil was concerned about the danger of such activities, even with a top rope and belay device. It looked like the only way to rope up in the canyon would be to hang around in Somoto for several days to sear h for a guide willing to accomodate our hazardous desires.

 We did get a chance to partake in one of my very favorite activities: cliff diving! There were several deep emerald pools along the way, and at each Olvil announced that it was ¨time to jump¨. The jumps became increasingly high and terrifying at each stop, and the water became progressively deeper until the only option was to swim. In our bright orange life jackets we thrashed and kicked with the fury of drowning men to quickly escape the biting cold of the water, and scrambled up onto each accessable rock island. Near the end of our journey we climbed a particularly high cliff, and were presented with options of 10, 15 and 30 meter jumps into the narrow sliver of water below. I settled for the 10 meter. The time I spent gearing myself up for the leap was not out of fear of heights, but out of dread for the freezing temperatures waiting to greet me below. When I finally jumped, I was so eager to get to the warm, sunbaked rock aove that I climbed up the cliff in a brainless fury and only stopped once I realized I had gotten way too far. I was stuck. On slippery walls, in watershoes. I spent several minutes clinging to tiny fingerholds, assessing my options and gingerly trying out moves only to find them all to risky. Oops. The number one rule of soloing: Dont get yourself in a situation that you cant get out of. Tom climbed up and helped me take my waterlogged shoes off and I finally found a way down, to my masked great releif.

We quickly swam on, me trying desperately to find alternate routes along the cliff walls to avoid the water. At a sandbar, I choked as the river widened and spread out before us- it looked like a long swim. Luckily, a boat was part of the plan. We drifted down the rest of the canyon in a brightly painted wooden row boat and disembarked on a sandy beach, at which point I threw myself on the warm sand and refused to move.

Its impossible to underestimate the drying power of the Nicaraguan sun durring summer at noon though, and within minutes I was burning up again. We ate lunch at the Sorianos house with another tour group. They were also headeed back to Esteli, and had hired a driver with a flatbed truck. They agreed to let us hitch a ride back, saving us money and time. Best of all, Tom and I finally got to live the dream and ride in the back of a truck along a breezy mountain highway! The others pitied us and offered cramped seats inside the cab, but we heartily refused. For me, freedom was epitimozed in that ride: Imagine a long road stretching into the distance in front of you as you stand wildly hanging on lest you fly away in the soaring breee, whooping in exhaltation and loose hair whipping under peircing blue skies, a broad, uncontrollable smile spread from ear to ear.

We were a bit confused when the driver dropped us several miles outside of Esteli, but our stranding made for a blissful evening walk into the outskirts of Esteli. We passed a river where wild horses drank silhouetted by a setting sun, walked by creative graphiti style murals on the city walls, and admired a towering white church painted pink by the dusky light, architetually very different from Leon's dirtier cathedrals.


Xilma, a Quetzaltrekkers volunteer who works only in the office, lives in Esteli and spends her weekdays at University in Leon. I called her up when we got back to the hotel and we agreed to meet up for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. She couldnt stay out long, but she told us about the special concert that night: Luis Enrique, possibly the most famous musician to come out of Nicaragua, is originally from the town of Somoto and was playing that night just outside of Esteli. You know the song ¨Yo no se manana¨? The concert was 200 cords, which is roughy 9 bucks, but I just had to go to see that one song. Ximlas dad agreed to drive Tom and I to the concert venue. The place was packed, and since it had already started we could only find a table directly behind the band. It worked out well though; during their breaks Luis Enrique himself would walk right past our table to backstage. I couldnt quite work up the courage to shake his hand but I did give him a shy smile. To my dissappointment, the band didnt play the one song I know. That didnt stop Tom and I from having a great time though- we adapted the assortment of ballroom dance moves he knows to fit the groove of the music and danced wildly off to the side, long before anyone else dared to bust a move.














The concert ended around 12 and in a jarring moment the smoth atmosphere of salsa and smooth latin jive morphed into a night club scene. Reguetton suddenly blasted out of speakers and the audience finally moved to the dance floor. We shrugged and joined in. The music leapt from hiphop to salsa to 80s to techno without warning. It was a typical Nicaraguan assortment of US and Latin tunes, layering over one another with gratingly disconcerting transitions and the least smooth DJing skills you could imagine. We had a blast, but we were tired, and when it seemed like the DJ had finally settled on club style beats for the rest of the dance party, we made our escape.

We got to the hotel around 1, expecting a night watchman to let us in. The hotel is set back from the road with a fifteen foot gate; you walk along a short path and then arrive at the front door. Well, the gate was locked. We knocked and knocked for 10 minutes and finally realized that there really was no night watchmen. We shouldnt have been surprised, but we stood there wstaring blankly at the heavy padlocked wall barring our way from a nights sleep at a loss for what to do, until- Hey! Were climbers!

It may be a lesser known fact the perhaps the only practical application for rock climing is cat burgulary. In our case, we used potentially lethal skills in innocence, but it still feels pretty bad ass to break into a building, even if all youre trying to do is get into a room that you already payed for and in a normal case (AKA in the US) should be accessable at any time of the night.

We climbed the gate with what tiny hand and footholds were available and were thankfully both skinny enough to squeze through the narrow gap above the door. We had made it into the courtyard, but how to get through the locked front door? I waited aprehensively while Tom scaled a brick wall separating the hotels plot from the neighbor, and snuck along a terrifyingly tiny roof ledge to a ladder, where he somehow hoisted himself onto a balcony that led into the main hotel area. Giggling uncontrollably like mischevious kids, we skipped into the darkened hotel and pondered how dangerously fun and thrilling our little adventure just was. Luckily, neither of us are the theiving type, but let me tell you, breaking into buildings seems to be a scarily seductive sport.

miércoles, 21 de marzo de 2012

Backtracking to the Beginnings of a Much Needed Vacation

Back! Back from vacation from working, from Leon, and from internet access; consequently, the last two weeks have graced me with a vacation from blogging as well. It was a much needed vacation. So needed, in fact, that I was compelled to finagle myself out of working the three or so days before my time off was scheduled to commence.  I got out of a Cerro Negro trip out of feeling sick, and then strategically rearranged my office shift to fall on the day of the optional La Rota training trek, sadly forcing me to skip that one too. I was scheduled for El Hoyo on the 6th and the 7th, and found out that Tom (whose visit was the reason I took off time on those particular dates), was actually coming on the 7th so I bailed on that one too. Good thing I jumped ship early; right after my name was officially wiped off the schedule Janet fell ill and Nils found out he had a friend visiting on that day too. Annika ended up going to fill a spot, which completed a run of six days straight of trekking for her, including a Full Moon trip. Rough. But I was free!

Unfortunately just hanging around the Quetzaltrekkers house not actively working on a project is like having a sign around your neck blaring: “I’m here and not doing anything! I’m available to help! Quick, give me something to do!” On Tuesday I was wrangled into visiting Las Barilettes (one of the street kids projects) with Andrew, which actually ended up being far more enjoyable than my previous visits because I got to play with the really little kids. In contrast to the orderly tables for the teenage crowd in front, the inside of Barilettes is a chaotic jumble of kids running about the room, wrestling under tables, fighting over the very few picture books available, and reading out loud simultaneously. In rare cases they sat quietly and attempted to study. I leapfrogged between tutoring geography, spelling, reading, math, and instigating vicious tickle fights. At four a piecing bell confused us and prompted the once chaotic mess of kids to form an orderly line behind the kitchen door for... lunch? dinner? Quetzaltrekkers is, as far as I know, the only source of funding for food at Barilettes, so it was a bit of a shock to see the pitiful meal served: Half a cup of sloppy spaghetti noodles, no silverware. After a bit of calculation Andrew and I realized that with our funding each kid was allotted next to nothing per meal; we will probably have to increase our donations.

That night Julia, Jelmer, Lynn and I went to the beach for what was my first Oceanside overnight. A load of lumber and several mattresses were waiting to be transported to Quetzal Playa, so Victor came with his truck; the mattresses were kind enough to leave us room to hitchhike. Julia and I sat in the back for the half an hour ride. The full moon glowed over darkened fields blurred as we zipped along the breezy night highway. We went straight to dinner at a “comedor”, which boasted rare cheap options; the beach is generally expensive. Moments after ordering our food, the power went out. We groaned,  knowing very well that although the kitchen was mostly gas fueled, our dinner would not likely take hours to make now. the staff seemed to have but one flashlight, and they directed it toward the tables instead of the kitchen. It seemed to be inadequate preparation for the frequent brown outs we have here.

 Jelmer and Julia went back to the hostel on the premise of getting headlamps and cards, and returned with two beers for Jelmer (he had already gone through two in the time we waited) and no lights. Eventually a huge Nica staggered drunkenly into the comedor. Vested in a football jersey, he probably weighed at least 300 pounds and looked as if he could crack my skull with two fingers. A liter tona swung in his right fist, and his pockets bulged with what looked like a couple knives. He made his way around the room, stumbling up to each table to explain how he was going to start a fight and going through each move in exaggerated detail. “And then I take is head like this and wham! With the elbow” etc. (although of course in Spanish). He started to worry us when he took up a position in the darkened corner and began shadow boxing and miming taking shots at our table with an invisible hand gun. There was a tense moment when he drew the knife like object from his back pocket with a dramatic sweep; we realized it was a harmonica. He went on the play some truly terrible tunes, a no less bothersome activity. Shortly before our food finally arrived, we saw that he indeed had a knife. He was escorted out after drawing it and flicking it around the room.

We had ordered comida corriente (rice, beans, tortilla) for 40 cords, or just under 2 dollars. When our food appeared it was surprisingly fancy and delectable, but I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t until we paid the bill that we were informed that they had run out of comida corriente and in its place had served us fish fillet, a dish which cost over triple the price. There was a heated exchange over the lack of transparency but in the end we handed over the money, conceding to the simple fact that we’re in Nicaragua and almost nothing turns out how you expect it to.

Tom rescued me from QT clutches on the afternoon of the 7th, and finally I was officially on vacation. Showing him up to my “home sweet home” in the loft made me first really notice the filth I have been living in. My quarters aren’t cluttered; just plain dirty. As is typical in Nicaragua, our house is open to the sky in a couple spots, and they happen to be situated right next to the loft. The wind blows dust, leaves and dirt onto my floor, bed, and clothes constantly. My toiletries accumulate a layer of dust from one day to the next. Shoes are a necessity for crossing my floor. Truth be told, I’m getting a little fed up of it. Sitting on my tiny bed as Tom unpacked, I vowed to cave in to luxury and move in to one of the rooms scheduled to free up upon my return from vacation.

In my disgust I decided a hostel was necessary. The only place with vacancies was Guadabarranco, a small hostel lacking atmosphere and with spartan rooms. Tom and I spent the evening perusing the streets of Leon. As I stood trying in vain to re-decipher Leon’s famous mural of the history of Nicaragua, a street kid I know popped up and started explaining the stories in more detail than I frankly had patience for. It turned out he wanted money for shoes for his chemistry class. There had been problems with kids burning their feet with chemicals, so shoes were made mandatory. We spent an hour or so scouring the town for any shoe stores still open, but it was too late in the day. Our mission  looked beak; I asked the kid how much shoes cost. He told me 250, which is over 10 dollars. I figured he could find shoes for cheaper and I didn’t feel  comfortable handing over all that money. I gave him 100 cords and left it at that.

Tom had mentioned the ocean enough times over the last few weeks that the beach was obviously a must. We spent the next day at Quetzal Playa and at lunch with Lynn on the sand. I swam out farther than ever and floated in the rolling blue thinking, staring out at the horizon. On my way back I felt a sharp sting on my back- Jellyfish?! I swam with all my might to shore as it continued to burn but then faded after 10 minutes or so. I was overjoyed to hear Cindy’s diagnosis: a baby jellyfish sting! It was a win win situation: I could say I had been stung by a jellyfish, but it didn’t hurt enough to actually pee on it. (The advised cure).

The day slipped through our fingers like the sand. Lynn left in the afternoon and with the precision of only a German talked us through how to catch the bus on time: The sun sinks below the horizon at exactly 6:00; the colors are at their peak of vibrancy at around 6:15; and at 6:30 the best is behind you and it’s time to wait on the curb for the 6:45 bus.

The night was young yet: It was Thursday night, synonymous for salsa night at La Olla Quemada. We tried and tried to make like a Latino; we failed in style but succeeded in having a great time. It was our last night in Leon and I was psyched for the next day’s planned escape. 

lunes, 5 de marzo de 2012

A Series of Misadventures on Telica

Windy season is supposed to end in December- at least that’s what the Nicas tell me. So either they’re lying, or the world has turned upside down. it’s getting windier and windier every day. I have never had a windier experience on Telica than during the last couple days. I have confirmation from the volcano boarding trip that it was just as windy elsewhere. Apparently our boarders were forced to hunker down in little balls, protecting themselves with their boards on the ridge to avoid being swept over the edge.

We had a small and chill group on Telica, which helped. and during the first five hours of walking, I was grateful for a rare breeze which managed to reach us in the dense foliage of the valley. The brute strength of the wind first hit me, literally, once we reached the ridge on which we group up after the climb through the boulder field and before visiting the crater. The ridge is a picturesque vista, and I’m usually content relaxing there while waiting for the group, but yesterday I was hiding behind what small rocks I could find like an oversized crab. We took an abnormally long time at the crater but then still arrived at the campsite with enough time to lay out our leftover snacks for appetizers and lounge in a circle as shadows became long and evening light brushed the leaves with a jeweled glow.

We were nine- the dynamic trio of Julia, Lynn and I as guides, a German, a Dutch guy , an Australian and three French. One of our French clients was a character- he hiked with a humongous tube shaped canvas sack slung over his back in lee of a backpack, with a small daypack on his front. On his feet: flip-flops. We warned him multiple times that the trail would be steep and rocky, but he insisted. He only complained once: we were approaching the steep, mildly treacherous boulder field and Julia forced him to put on regular shoes. Ten minutes later as I turned to check on the group, his face was contorted into a pained scowl. “You ok?” “No.” It was the shoes. He tore off the sneakers, slapped the flip-flops back on, and was once again a happy hiker.

At our first drink break, he took a swig from a bottle of rum.  At our first snack break, he rolled a fat joint. From now on when someone thinks they can’t make it up the steepest parts of Telica, we can chastise them by telling the story of the crazy Frenchman who climbed it cross faded wearing flip-flops and two backpacks.

Sitting craterside in the dark after dinner, I spent more time than usual gazing into Telica’s evil maw. I listened to the steady ocean like rush of the volcano punctuated by sharp hisses and the occasional monstrous roar. It dawned on me slowly that the slimy hisses snaking from Telica’s depths sound just like the Basilisk of the Chamber of Secrets, indecipherable but undoubtedly evil death wishes in parseltongue. Mind consumed by serpentine images, I saw the lumpy lava pool as a coiled snake, searing and pulsating with a million ruby eyes. She lies as if asleep but is clearly awake and ready to strike at any false move.

That night our group was joined by a couple who had contemplated signing up for Telica, but in the end decided to trek solo. They are a global pair out of Germany and Argentina; they met in Mexico with mutual motives of escaping the wintry confines of their countries. We bonded over perpetual gray skies and the ensuing melancholy. Fede, the Argentinean, told that he’d gone to Mexico to surf because he believes 100% that the more sun a place gets, the happier its residents are.

When we arrived back at camp, Julia, Lynn and I approached our shared tent to grab s’mores supplies and saw instantly that something was very wrong. Our tent had twisted into a deformed heap. Like on my Telica trek weeks ago, a pole had snapped and jabbed through our rain fly. It was only 8:00, and we hadn’t even had a chance to sleep in it. Unlike my clients who had snuck into my tent before, we didn’t have the option of an unoccupied tent; we were already sharing it three way. We also couldn’t exactly sleep outside; Julia was lending her sleeping bag to a client who had forgotten his so we had only two bags for the three of us. So we fixed the tent. With duct tape, of course. A couple wraps around the broken pole and a quick patch of the rain fly’s hole, and we retired to the fire and dessert, happy with our handiwork.

Four languages flitted back and forth around the fire that night. English, Spanish, German and French. I was pleased to understand most of it, and even got the treat of hearing various dialects from each tongue: Australian English; Spanish from Spain, Argentina and Nicaragua; and Northern and Southern German. The guides slipped off to bed at the golden hour of 9:00, satisfied with an overall fun and successful day.

I was dreaming about vacation: I was in the middle of explaining a six day trek to Ometepe I was going to do with Tom. Then, a sharp crack. the disturbance only scratched the surface of my dream; I ignored it. Now Julia’s groggy voice: “the tent broke.” Still, it couldn’t be true... I didn’t wake up until I heard Fede’s distinctive Argentine accent from outside the tent. “Your tent is broken.”

“Who is that?” Julia was already unzipping the collapsed door. “Oh, Fede.” A couple seconds later I was wide awake and freezing in the howling wind. The same pole had completely snapped this time and ruptured our hastily repaired spot in the rain fly. It was midnight; four hours after we had first fixed the tent. Most of our clients and a handful from other tours were still around the fire and graciously came to help us as we wound duct tape around the same spot, twice as thick this time.

With the tent shabby but once again intact, I crawled under my half of the sleeping back while Julia and Lynn ran off to stop a newly arrived group from stealing our firewood we had hid for the morning fire. I lay there calculating: Our tent had taken four hours to break. If it could last five hours this time, we would make it to wake up call. No cigar. A sleepless four hours later, our tent broke for a third time at exactly four o’clock in the morning. That time we ignored it.

As has become the standard, I was mildly grateful when the alarm went off at five. I struggled blearily to escape our mess of a tent to Lynn’s laugher; I looked like a disheveled child crawling out of a bright orange garbage bag. Julia started the fire while Lynn and I put on shoes to lead the clients to the sunrise ridge. I had opened my contact case and was giggling about the state of our tent with my right contact lens precariously balanced on my index finger. Whoosh- Contact gone with the wind. I searched blindly through dewy grass to no avail.  But I lucked out- Julia had brought an extra pair of glasses, and her prescription is just about the average of my right and left eye! I  jammed them onto my nose and rushed off to race the lightening sky, a train of half asleep hikers following wearily.

The ridge was insanely windy. I spent the hour or so it took for the sun to rise above the cloudy horizon crouched behind the concrete measurement station, nose running. I think there was more ash than instant coffee powder in my coffee. We were in the middle of arguing over who had gotten the least sleep when Fede and Mandy appeared and announced that they had slept without a tent and had actually gotten a quality nights rest. Hmm.

The next disaster occurred when Julia and I couldn’t remember the way after the mango tree. Lynn was forced to distract the group with cheery small talk while we rain up and down the path trying to pick out the red trail marker. Finally on our way again, the trip went smoothly  until we got lost again in the last hour- this time we lead the whole group down to wholly different paths for minutes at a time before choosing one, then discovered that it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. At least NOW I can say that I have day 2 of Telica on lock.

We did know that we had made it to the right bus stop when every other tour group from the campsite was already congregated there. With one critical difference: while we were filthy from the dastardly combination of sweat, dust, and a healthy breeze, they were all spotless. How?! They had visited the hot springs right at the end of the trek; we had no idea that these hot springs existed. Apparently there are big pools of warm water perfectly safe to swim in, and a Nica guide kindly explained to me how to get there for next time.

Despite our series of misadventures, us guides were in unusually good spirits and spent the bus ride laughing and being excited about the bus driver’s choice of music (danceable Caribbean style Palo de Mayo) rather than what we hear every other time we ride the bus (shamelessly sappy love songs).

My positive response to the Telica trek probably resulted from  it’s contrast to the Telica trek I had lead just a few days prior. It was a completely different situation: Aymie and I were the only guides for a group of seventeen. We were stressed out the whole time and with the amount of work, pressure and responsibility required for such a big group, there isn’t really room for fun. It didn’t help that I got sick on the trek, and returned feeling terrible, head swimming with seething negative thoughts. Telica had been giving me bad vibes the entire time, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how unnatural it feels to be there. Telica’s eye follows you along the whole desolate landscape of dust and howling wind. It was the dinner pasta that made me sick. I slept without a tent as an experiment but my report the following morning was overruled by the stabbing stomach pains I had suffered throughout the night. I had diarrhea the next several days, and when I got home I slept for thirty hours straight.

I think my immune system has been a little compromised lately. It’s probably a combination of lack of sleep, stress, and the plain fact that I’m in a foreign country. At least I don’t have to endure the hacking cough I had during the cold Wisconsin winter.

sábado, 3 de marzo de 2012

Machismo

In the last couple weeks, I’ve become a bit disenchanted by the culture in Leon. I’ve had amazing, positive experiences Nicaraguan naturaleza, but have had predominantly negative interactions with Nicaraguan people lately.  Living in the city is very different from living in little Apompoa. I am constantly surrounded by aggressive begging and desperately destitute men and women, wasting away in doorways and on street corners.  I see little kids delirious from drugs, incapacitated in the squalor of the slums. But while the overwhelming poverty is depressing, it’s not the cause of my disenchantment. Mostly, I’m frustrated with the guys here.

Everywhere I go, I am harassed in the streets by teenage boys: “Hey Mami! I love you! I want to kiss your body all over!” etc. And of course the whistling. The way female tourists are treated here bothers me for a lot of reasons, and I still can’t quite figure out what goes on in Nica boys’ minds. Can it really be that they just want sex? I think it may be more of a male bonding experience. Whatever the case, it needs to stop; not only are their actions grossly disrespectful, but they create a divide between Nicaraguans and tourists. I feel like I can’t interact with teenage Nicaraguan boys because they treat me like a zoo animal. If their goal is to be with a foreign girl, they are doing a pretty bad job of getting one.

Las Tias, one of the street kid projects Quetzaltrekkers supports, offers extracurricular classes designed and taught by Las Tias volunteers. One of the volunteers is a Belgian girl who has done two treks with me. She is teaching a class on the behavior of Nicaraguan boys towards girls, tourists and locals alike, and the goal is to lure young boys out of the habit. Their obscene remarks and catcalls have become so engrained into the culture that the only way to cut it short is to start young and explain that the behavior of their older brothers and fathers is not ok. I was so happy to hear that this girl was taking on that issue; it’s the first I’ve heard of action being taken. That aspect of Latin American culture is a huge turn off. There are so many amazing aspects of Latin culture; it’s a shame that the rudeness of the male population is the most prominent cultural image I have been getting here in Leon.

I remember the moment when I first knew I absolutely had to visit Latin America- after watching the movie “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights.” I was with Alia and we were in the basement of our Seattle house. We were probably 14 or 15. We were already interested in Latin America, but seeing that blonde girl in Cuba finding that amazing cute Cuban dude, becoming a part of the culture, and learning how to dance like a Cuban... that was inspiring. I remember lying on my back and daydreaming for an hour or so- I HAD to go to Cuba. Of course, Cuba isn’t the easiest place to get right now. So I signed up for Amigos de las Americas, crossing my fingers that I’d  be placed in the Dominican Republic. They ended up sending me to Nicaragua. There I truly fell in love with Latin America, for wholly different  and much more realistic (and mature) reasons.

After discussing Cuba and the D.R. with other travelers, I now know that the scenes from Havana Nights are less of a reality today. The sweetly romantic story may have been closer to the truth in the late 50’s when the movie took place, but today I would be treated differently as a white girl. I have been told by several people that Cuba and the D.R. are THE two most sexually aggressive countries they have visited. I have heard stories of extreme harassment, sex tourism, and even Cuban men breaking into bathroom stalls where American girls were peeing. I still want very much to visit Cuba and the D.R.; I just know more now than what Hollywood has to say.

The closest experience I’ve had to a scene from Havana Nights happened the other night when a group of volunteers went to “La Olla Quemada” for Salsa Night, which occurs every Thursday. It happened to be a particularly special night because they were celebrating the birthday of an elite member of the “salsa club”, a group of professional salsa dancers. I had such an incredible time- it started out slow but as the night blossomed I fell into my groove, found a patient, nice Nica who could dance really well, and let the music take me into its spicy spell for hours and hours. This was no night club; this was real culture. THIS is what I love about Latin America: Their spice for life, joy, and indulgence in the moment pours out when they dance. It’s incredible; I’m so jealous. Every Nica guy at Olla Quemada could dance. Watching the members of the salsa club, my heart was torn out, I was captivated- as Andrew put it, it was “something more than just dancing- you can’t just call that dancing, it doesn’t do it justice.” Dance is their chosen form of expression; I find it to be catalyst for the soul of Latin American culture. Way to go Nicaragua! On a personal level, salsa is so much fun after a little practice. You stop thinking and just spin and turn and shimmy and swing your hips and shake your head; you feel the music sweep you. I wish I was really good. And it only helps that salsa music is the best.

What a breath of fresh air from the other nightclubs in Leon. Three Quetzaltrekkers volunteers recently returned from a two week long vacation to the Rio San Juan and the Corn Islands, which are on the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua. Chatting with Julia, she expressed how she had also been disenchanted with Leon, and traveling to other parts of Nicaragua made her realize again how wonderful Nicaraguans are and how great the culture is. She spoke most highly of the smallest towns they passed through; especially El Castillo, a tiny riverside village. The Rio San Juan forms the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica, but belongs to Nicaragua and is a major source of Nicaraguan pride. I’m looking forward to refreshing myself on Nicaragua. Only four days until Tom comes and I go on vacation! I’m really looking forward to it J

Of course, I’ve discussed the negative sides of Leon heavily here, and in reality the city is a beautiful and thriving cultural center. Maybe I also need to see other sides of Leon before I run away. Here are some nice shots of my current home: 


"La Catedral" on the main square.


La Catedral at sunset.



La Iglesia de la Reccolecion. Only a couple blocks from Quetzaltrekkers. 



La Iglesia de la Reccolecion again. Kids play soccer on the front patio. 


 Sunset standing right outside the door of Quetzaltrekkers. The silhouetted church you see is La Reccolecion.