sábado, 21 de abril de 2012

Krishna Consciousness

It felt like I´d entered back into reality from a long, colorful dream. Lima is a city like all big cities. I could have been anywhere. I had to keep on reminding myself that I’m in Peru now.
Peruvian Spanish is crisp, clear, with a throaty rasp on the h. It felt like my Spanish speaking and comprehension had made laps and bounds in a second. This is the Spanish I learned in school, not the slurred, lazy Nicaraguan colloquialism, the Nicañol.
The center of Lima, where the money is, at once reminds me of Los Angeles and the images I have of European cities. Of Los Angeles for the diffused haze of the sky, the traffic choked highways, the rows of top heavy palms and distant hills. Of Europe for the colonial architecture around the square: Statues set in fountains, tall, old buildings with dainty Spanish wrought iron balconies. But all painted with Latin America´s hues: Deep oranges and yellows, faded pastels. Not the garishly bright colors of Central America and the Caribbean, but a like the distinguished and subtle parent.
There is a certain urgency in the air here that Leon didn´t have: People walk with haste, move quickly. A typical vendor in Leon: She moves as if through molasses, her frayed and filthy front apron stained with the juice of the quesillos in her hands. She is in no hurry, she takes one step at a time, she retires on a curb to rely on the piercing nasal quality of her saleswoman shriek: QUESSSIIIIILLLOOOOOOSSSSS! QUESSSSSIIIIIIILOOOOOOOSS! A sound which can penetrate the densest of walls. The vendors I´ve seen so far in Lima walk with a quick clip. They´re on a mission.
We drove out of the town center, North. Small, dusty mountains in grays and tans. Light cracks and fissures splitting open their parched flesh. A sea of slums, of houses- stacked concrete boxes in dusty pastels, clinging to the hills. They are dirty rectangular Easter eggs. They summit the small peaks and creep up the taller ridges. They are the outskirts of a city numbering over 10 million, the edges of a growing amoeba cupped by the retaining walls of the mountains and the drop off into the sea.
 Peru has the wide open spaces that Nicaragua lacked. It expands and expands. It´s as if a country´s geology stretches and shrinks depending on the space within its borders; tiny Nicaragua seemed so cramped. I can tell that I´m in a bigger country now.
 I was in a taxi, on the way from the hotel I´d stayed at in Lima to Eco Truly Lodge., I was burnt out from working as a hiking guide and needed a break before diving into my next project, Pisco Sin Fronteras. I could tell it would be equally hard core. Jelmer, coming to my rescue yet again, had mentioned the Eco lodge when I inquired about a good spot in Peru to relax.”There´s this Hare Krishna place,” he mused. “Don´t remember the name. Good food. Nice people. It´s perfect for rejuvenating, they take really good care of you.” Sounds good.
 With a bit more research I found about the yoga, the beach, the art center. Perfect.  A plan was hatched. I would spend five days at Eco Truly before heading South to Pisco, five days of reflection and introspection.

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I had been sleeping for hours. When I awoke, Lima was long gone. Everything was sand and dunes, desert. It was incredible, like the Mojave but more intense. We pulled into the town of Chacra y Mar, if you can call it a town. It is a desolate desert highway, wind whipped and scoured by sand, along which stood the most sad, barren produce stands I´ve ever seen. Crumbling houses and scattered concrete block houses that looked like a pile of rubble until you saw a little girl standing in the doorway, her home. There´s an Eco Lodge here?!
 There is. Eco Truly Lodge is an oasis of green that appears out of the endless tan, nestled up next to the Pacific Ocean. It´s an ecological, artistic community founded on Vaishnava principles, combination “hare Krishna” ashram, farm, bakery and restaurant, offering yoga, meditation, and access to the art studio. Dome shaped mud structures called Trulys make Eco Truly distinct and easy to spot. The idea of the mud is that by living within something that is crafted of the earth around you, you are in touch with the energy of the surrounding nature. Their rounded shape allows that energy to circulate in a swirling motion, rather than get trapped in the corners. IN meditation, this apparently allows an elevated state to come more quickly. Beehive-like, they´re decorated with beaded spires and colorful mandalas, images of hindu demi gods and holy animals.
















The Truly I´m staying at now is the volunteer lodging, and I´m sharing it with three other girls, all leaving at around the same time as me, in about 5 days. I didn´t plan on volunteering until I was told that by offering just a couple hours of service a day, the price to stay is less than half. We´re also more integrated with the long term devotees (Community members who live at Eco Truly for an extended period of time and are fierce worshipers of Krishna. Each devotee is given a new name: Darma, Brama, Druva, etc. They are the sweetest, most adorable men and women. And very helpful in my quest to understand the meaning of the phrase “hare Krishna”.
 First of all, don´t call them “hare krishnas”. The term hare Krishna roughly translates to “hail Krishna”, so to call the devotees “hare krishnas” would be as if to call a Christian a “Praise the Lord” or a “Hallelujah”. Also, don´t call them Hindu. The word Hindu was originally a mispronunciation of a Sanskrit word, some 4,000 years ago. According to the history books, Persians couldn´t pronounce the “S” in the name of the Sindhu River, and this called it the “Hindu”. Those living along the banks were labeled “Hindus”, regardless of religious affiliation.
 There are many strands of what Westerners call Hinduism. Vaishnavism, the religion practiced by devotees in Eco Truly, is the most popular form of Hinduism and is practiced by most “Hindus” in India. Vaishnavas worship Krishna as their one and only god, in contrast to other strands of Hinduism which worship only demi gods (Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, etc.) The demi gods are worshiped in Vaishnavism too- Almost similar to the Catholic Saints. Vaishnavas seemed much more open and tolerant to other religions than Catholics. They preach that you can call God by any name, and that the way you envision God is exactly how He or She Is; each person has their own personal Krishna.
Here, the air is singed with the scents of desert, ocean, and incense. On one side, the near vertical dun brown wall of a sand dune rises into the hazy sky, cut halfway through by a scary looking Cliffside highway. After dark, the lights of delicately balanced semis shoot past like low flying planes, perched high up on the black wall that merges with the night.

On the other side the ocean roars up the desert coast. Last night, a spectacular sunset spangled the sand- the brightest yellows I have seen in the sky. The entire heavens were painted and molded in textures that swept as far back as the dunes, and the scape was reflected in the ocean and the wet sand. Where I stood at the tide line, I was encompassed in a globe of color. I was floating in a kaleidoscope, blending and tumbling and shooting ribbons of light in every direction.











This is a desert retreat, an escape. Over dinner, a devotee was telling me that everyone comes here for a reason; is looking for something. Tourists don´t just stumble upon Eco Truly while strolling through the town of Chacra y Mar. From the conversations I´ve had it seems like the Peruvian devotees are here to shed from their lives toxins and find purity: Quit drinking and smoking, use nonviolence, completely reinvent themselves and redefine their lives to be personally meaningful.
The farm here is cultivated using permaculture, and the people here seem to apply the principles of permaculture to their own lives and interactions with others. The pillars of the community are living in harmony with nature, others, and themselves. To be open minded and practice tolerance, compassions, and patience. The green fields that surround the lodge and produce organic vegetables are a wonder; they were built on what was once sandy, unworkable land. They bloomed form the hard work of residents and volunteers, unique “organic awareness cultivation”, and love and blessings from Krishna, I´m sure.  Eco Truly´s agricultural solutions have become a model for impoverished Peruvian desert villages throughout the country.
But if you want to stay at Eco Truly, there are rules. When you enter the front gate, you can leave your drugs and your guns behind. Easy enough. Now you can leave your meat behind. Your milk. Your eggs. Your honey. The community here is vegan, and it isn’t permitted to consume anything that alters the consciousness; this includes rum, beer, pot, and…. Coffee. That´s right, no coffee. I had been nodding, smiling, understanding… but I draw the line there. I understand the idea that caffeine picks you up and draws you into a slightly artificial state, but how can it sever any sort of connection with God?! To me, there is nothing more spiritual than a big steaming mug of hot coffee in the early morning, cupped in your hands, aroma mingling with the dewy morning air and gracing the new light of day. That´s God. And may coffee shops be my temple.
I made a little secret rebellion. I was naughty. There is a little stand outside the eco park where the sweetest Peruvian woman sells nick knacks including packets of instant coffee. I bought two. I felt like I was doing a drug deal. Putting on my best casual face, I tried to walk through the door normally, glancing over my shoulder and wondering if anyone could recognize the bulge in my pants pocket. Can the devotees smell the fumes? Can they sense the bad energy that caffeine emanates?
I hid the packets in my room and then walked innocently into the cavernous, fully equipped Krishna kitchen- Cooking is one of the most important activities in Vaishnavism. I asked a devotee for boiling water. He put the stove on while I drifted around the room, breathing in aromas of Indian spices and silently giving my blessings at the many small altars along the walls, building up a little Karma before I committed my sinful deed.
The coffee tasted excellent. It was just instant powder, so I think the good flavor was simply caused by the sweetness of sipping something you shouldn´t be sipping- the forbidden fruit effect, like a Budweiser to a high school freshman.
My plan at Eco Truly was to do nothing- as explained, five days of reflection and introspection. Well, the devotees at Eco Truly are very good at providing that sort of environment. Not only do they excel at the art of being in touch with oneself, but they preach it with intense passion and enthusiastically grasp visitors by the hand, determined to engage them in as many spiritual and happiness-bringing activities as they can convince you to participate in a day. Proactive relaxation?
If you were to take on a full schedule of events, your day would go something like this.
Wake up at 4, temple at 4:30. Reason for this: The early, early hours of the morning are the holiest of the day. They´re ruled by the demigod Brahma, the creator. They are the delicate hours when everything is new as if freshly created, of virgin light.
At six, a rigorous yoga session. Around the time yoga ends, around 7, the sun is finally dressed and ready and has just begun to show herself above her curtain; the immense sand wall that towers behind Eco Truly to the East. According to Maharaj (Maharaj is not a name but a title given to a high-status devotee. This Maharaj is affectionately called Little Buddha or Yogi the Bear), that point in the sun´s journey is perfect for cleansing the eyes in a practice known as sun gazing. Us yoga students are instructed to stare at the sun, eyes wide, for at least thirty seconds. Maharaj times it on his wristwatch. And don´t worry if you´re crying your eyes out and can’t hold them open, Maharaj will hold them open for you.
When you´re done, if you´re lucky and haven´t been permanently blinded, you´ll see a brightly quivering spot in your vision. This sacred splotch means love when green and happiness when blue. Mine was purple. When I asked, Maharaj told me purple means you will have a beautiful moment at Eco Truly.
Vision freshly impaired, we migrate to the beach. At this time of the morning, the sky and sea are washed tones of gray sifting from white to the shadowed underbelly of the crashing waves. Barefoot at the water’s edge, we cup the cold saltwater in our hands and release it back into the sea while Maharaj chants a mantra blessing our parents. “Para tu Madre y Padre”.
Then we run. Holding hands.  A long line of crazy Hindu hippies, skipping through the shallow surf and giggling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Passing by fishermen who shake their heads as they cast their morning nets. They´re used to it al by now, I´m sure. We sprint until we can´t breathe, and then sprint again. At the end there will be a group hug, and sometimes, a massage chain.
I can tell you that by the time breakfast is served, you will be hungry. Breakfast is heaven at Eco Truly- a modge podge of ride fruit, mango, papaya, cantaloupe, banana, apples; homemade granola and yogurt; fresh fruit juice. Of course no coffee, don´t get me started again. 
For volunteers, the hours from 9 to 1 are devoted to conscious servitude, AKA sweeping the bathrooms. Luckily for me, Rama (the volunteer coordinator) seemed to forget about us my first two days, one of which I spent my volunteer hours visiting the “sea caves”. These are stalactite encrusted caverns gaping into the roaring sea a short hike away from the Krishna bubble. The other volunteers and I climbed up and over scorching sand dunes, past fishermen who dropped their lines hundreds of feet up on sandy cliffs, on top of the blue world, and then along the ocean as the cliffs closed in on our left and then split open in a maze deep, of interconnected maws.
Out at sea, pelicans rode the swells, as big as boats, riding on some of the biggest waves I´ve ever seen. The sea, spotted with foam, rose like the quivering flank of an appaloosa. Up, up, and she cups, spitting froth, a charging stallion. Galloping forward, down into a barrel, closing left, and finally milky foam. I watched and watched, screaming in delight every time a wave crashed. Where else but the ocean can you find this level of power and beauty? Where else?
The tide was coming in so we ran screaming through the cave passages to reach the inner cavern. The waves pulsed through and threatened to steal us and suck us down dark passageways. It was incredible. When we finally got to the back, the Lion like Hindu god of protection bore down on us from the back wall. Someone had painted his towering portrait, thirty feet tall, complete with the lion body, flowers decorating his neck, and imposing staff. It´s a powerful piece of art and has a certain energy. Or maybe the energy you´re feeling is just the tremors of the ripping tide crashing closer and closer behind you as you stare… We only stayed for a couple minutes and then ran out again screaming like chickens as the saltwater swirled around our waists.
Other days, I was not so lucky. On Thursday, the chore of the day was to collect and arrange flower bouquets for the temple. Easy enough, right? Rama instructed that we could rip out flowers form anywhere and anything, because it would all g back to Krishna anyway. We were to start out bouquets with a banana leaf, to be a sort of background and keep the more delicate blooms together. I walked into the little banana field and inspected the plants. They were young with lush, succulent green leaves, thriving. I started pulling at a particularly nice leaf, and it felt like I was killing an animal. I was ripping at the strong juicy threads at the base of the stems, and they were refusing to break- I was sawing at the veins and tendons of a living thing and it was bleeding green into my hands! I don´t understand why Vaishnava devotees are so concerned about killing animals, even the smallest bug, but will enthusiastically send me out to kill banana plants. It felt very weird.
I struggled through and we filled all eight or so vases in the temple, then headed in for lunch. Typically, Rama will show videos after lunch for the interested. I watched two in total: one about reincarnation; how knowing that your energy will be recycled into a new entity after you die helps you pass away in peace, and one about vegetarianism. I have nothing against vegetarianism; in fact, I rarely eat meat, and have only lived in vegetarian households. What got to me was the peachiness of the video  and the lengths the narrator (their spiritual master) went to to condemn meat eaters.
 At one point, a quote flashed across the screen, something like this: “When all the humans cease to consume flesh, humans will cease to abort their sons”. Essentially, if we stop killing by not eating meat, we will not want to kill by having abortions. I asked Rama how they know this, and his answer was “My spiritual Master knows. He can see the future”. Vaishnavas are such a funny mix of artsy-liberal and radically-religious Pro-Life.
Sometimes there´s yoga in the afternoon too, depending on the volunteer schedule. I’ve been learning that there´s a lot more to yoga than stretching and building muscle strength; the very word yoga means “unity”, or in this context, “unity with God”. There are many, many different types of yoga. Bakti Yoga literally means just serving God, and can be anything from chanting a mantra to reading the Guru Gita (Holy book) to sweeping the floor.
After dinner comes the last step of the day, evening temple. The temple is made up of a circle of Trulys with a large open space in the center. The biggest truly is home to an altar populated by 50 or so deity dolls. Every night, a devotee dresses the dolls in their PJ´s, puts them to bed, and draws the curtains. I asked why. They´re embarrassed to be seen in their lingerie, of course. There is a kitchen directly next to the temple, where a tiny, ancient Peruvian woman works full time. She spends her days cranking out 3 elaborate and exquisitely spiced meals a day, which she arranges on platters and leaves as offerings for the Gods. Three times a day, we are offered their “leftovers”, which are often more delectable than the cuisine for us lowly earthbound creatures. It´s like communion, and the offerings are supposed to cleanse you.











 I went to Temple three times- the first two had two parts, first singing (chanting hare Krishna, hare Krishna etc. to a melody) and the reading and lecture out of the Guru Gita. The third time I went, it was a Saturday, so we had a party. The party was an hour or so of dancing and singing: This meant jumping up and down like Mexican jumping beans, clapping and shouting “kare krisna” (you guessed it) over and over while the devotees banged on drums and clanged bells and castanets.
On my last day, the volunteer program of the day was sweeping the entire housing quarters, cleaning the bathrooms, and such things. I was having a bit of trouble with this working-for-Krishna thing (although the chores that day did have their real life benefits). I had started a painting the day before and wouldn´t have had any time to finish it otherwise, so I asked to paint it as an offering to Krishna for my volunteer hours. It worked! It was perfect. I painted a goddess, sort of an earth-sea diosa encircled in a moon and sun, and left it behind as a “footprint” of my stay, as my new friend Dharma said.






By the time I left, after only five days, I had grown close with several of the devotees, and my Spanish had improved by a lot. Everyone in the Eco Truly community is so open and ready to share themselves with you and get to know you as real people that bonds develop fast. It was an interesting experience, and now that I had expected. But despite the constant activity, my week there was what I needed- I came out rejuvenated and exited to move on to Pisco and start something new.
I had had many conversations with Darhma over cups of acrylic paint. I told him how I wanted to explore the world and try to make a difference, try to change things, try to help. He told me he used to be like that, but not anymore. He told me he´s realized that the only thing you can really change is yourself. How you live and interact and treat others is the only thing you can really control in life.
That´s why he´s landed in this spiritual community. The mindset in Eco Truly is very much “things are as they are; they are perfect as they are; don´t try to change things”. At this point in my life, I can´t think that way. I´m going to Pisco to try to make as much of a different as I can through construction and community development. So yeah, I was excited to get back into the world. Goodbye, happy little bubble, hello Earthquake destruction zone!!

sábado, 14 de abril de 2012

Transitions

I love airports.

I love the way you arrive at dawn, the sky growing rosy with the anticipation of a new day, your cheeks ruddy to match the clouds, your eyes beaming like the freshly rising sun.

You´re at the brink, you’re a poised arrow, every molecule in your body quivering with the ecstasy of freedom and imminent release. You´re ready, so ready you can feel it burning in your chest like a firecracker.

Airports are the junction between gritty traveling and clean, posh sophistication. You sit with your loaded backpack, mind gearing for the impending arrival, the grit, the unfamiliarity, the challenges, the stimulation and chaos. Around you, facades of stylish perfume shops glitter; slick white walks rise lofty, adorned with crisp advertisements. Flight attendance clip past with starched white suits, vogue, hair slicked back, compact.

This is exciting. Your little luggage bag, your belongings- only what you need and exactly what you need, right here, on your body. You can go anywhere. You ARE going anywhere.

You sit next to the glass, a floor to ceiling window wide to the horizon. Gazing at your immediate destination, the sky. The silver bird you´ll ride rolls below on the tarmac, strutting, shiny, powerful and mysterious.

Smooth jazz floats on the air. You expand into the comfort and convenience and sterile cool; you are forced to relax. Suddenly everything falls nicely into perspective. You are here, in this moment, at the airport, in this empty space between Have Been and Will Go. There is nothing. There is you, your bag, and the infinity of the sky. This beautiful balance point of time, this calm, white bubble of

Today my affixation with airports will be put to the test. Eight hours in Comolapa International Airport in San Salvador, El Salvador. Two of which I spent sleeping-´in the grimy corner of Puerto de Salida 14, many flights prior to being my takeoff point for Lima, Peru. I passed out on the cold, hard, unforgiving linoleum floor, head resting on my trusty yellow Northface backpack, neck tweaked in an unnatural angle. Curled up in fetal position amidst droves of international travelers queuing, streaming and mobbing to desks, through official glass doors, voyaging into their metal beasts.  Making for home or beyond after their pleasantly reasonable layovers. Me, I´m gonna hang out here for a while.

I popped out of a dream choked sleep bright eyed and alive, and now have finally squandered out a nice spot to camp out, over looking Gate 14 (although I don´t really need to be paying attention for at least four more hours).

Ahh, the calm, the solitude, the cleanliness. The wide open spaces and white walls, the slick, shiny floor, vast walls of glass spilling light into a mirror on the empty floor, quivering reflection leaking to the edge of my chique café table.

I sit, I read, and then I write. Every half an hour or so I take the five minute walk to the baño. And in a steady stream of preciously crisp green bills, I buy needlessly expensive food. First, I had to get an espresso drink. For the last three and a half months, my caffeine consumption has been limited to the drudgery of Presto instant coffee power, powder creamer, and heaps of sugar to smother the bitterness. A couple times, I was treated to luxury: Jelmer had bought a bag of real coffee- the kind that is straight ground bean and necessitates preparation of various forms. In his case, boiling water and grounds together in a small pan, and then sifting the coarser grounds out through a tea strainer. Cowboy coffee. It was heaven.

Here, when I saw the word ¨mocha¨ on the menu, my stomach made a little flip of excitement. My fancy espresso drink was even adorned with the delicate caricature of a bunny rabbit. I worked as a barista for 4 months, and foam art is NOT easy.

The next stop was equally exciting: Subway! Five dollar footlongs! I was a little dismayed when the only cheese was ¨queso Americano¨, but the real disappointment came when the cashier rang me up for 10 dollars. Double the amount of back home. I hadn´t even bothered to check the price, but it was too late, the sandwich had been made.

I´m buying fancy drinks, fancy sandwiches, gum, even a chocolate muffin. I´m acting like it´s my mission to spend as much cash on food and caffeine as is humanly possible to consume in 8 hours. It´s not, by the way.

I think I deserve it, though. I´m tired. My relaxing week had screeched to a sudden, violent halt. I was basking in leisure; spending my days sketching and going on runs and sleeping in till 12. My sheer torpidity had blossomed to such a grotesque level that I could barely bring myself to lift a finger to wash my dishes, and unabashedly assumed that any and all of my hikes would be canceled until my departure. Two had already fallen short of the minimum clientele, and I only had one more- Volcano boarding, my least favorite trip, on my last day, literally my last day at Quetzaltrekkers.

It was so inconveniently and annoyingly placed on my schedule, that there was just no way it would actually happen. Right? There was no one signed up and it was 5: 45. The office closes at six. I was on office shift, sketching a mountains scene, contemplating all the time I would have the next day for packing and last minute errands around Leon. Since we figured my trip wouldn´t go, Raf and I had planned a joint despedida that night- Friday night. On Saturday, half of us would be gone on hikes. So we had all this stuff planned out. Raf had gone to the supermarket and bought drinks, party snacks, and butt loads of fruit for… Fruit Ninja!

Fruit Ninja means standing in the courtyard wielding a sharpened machete like a baseball bat, or alternatively up above your head like you´re about to Whack-A-Mole, while ripe, juicy watermelons are tossed at your head. The idea is to slice the projectile cleanly in two, but it´s harder then it looks, depending on the size of the fruit in question. Mandarin oranges, for example, are a challenge. I got a papaya, a big one, and I cleaved it in such a clean swipe that I decided it was the perfect opportunity to quit while I was on top and let people live with the false impression that I possess any bit of hand eye coordination. And leave the mini grapefruits to the baseball players.

I took on the role of photographer, and spent the next rounds trying to capture the action while orange pulp and watermelon juice showered us in sticky sprays and splattered on my camera lens. The worst was when Andrew decided to use a two-by-four instead of a machete and demolish a watermelon on pure force of impact. The entire melon exploded into billions of tiny shards and drenched us- and the entire room- in a sticky sludge.









But let me backtrack. It was the last 10 minutes of my office shift, and Fruit Ninja was then only a vision. At 5: 52, four silhouettes of backpackers passed through the darkening doorway. You need at least four to make a profit on Volcano Boarding. They all wanted to go volcano boarding. I was so shocked I didn´t know what to say. I must have asked them five times if they were serious but they really couldn´t be more serious. They were single minded on volcano boarding. When they left I stupidly banged my head on the wooden gate in frustration and made a sizeable mark (yup, still there).

I was frustrated and upset, too much so. In my melodramatic mindset this meant no despedida, not time to pack on my last day, no time to say goodbye to my Leon buddies; it meant I couldn´t take the bus on Sunday morning because I´d have to do all my last minute preparation that day. (I had to be at the airport on Sunday night). Of course I should never have expected not to work on my last day. This trip had been on my schedule for two weeks, and by my unwillingness to take the trip I was effectively refusing homeless kids roughly fifty dollars.

I had a little cry and then empowered myself. I took out money to go to the supermarket. Just as I was walking out the door, Andrew informed me that the supermarket was closed. Of course it was closed, it was Good Friday.

First I panicked, then I was relieved. They have to cancel the trip, right? We can´t take clients volcano boarding without food. Wrong. Andrew and Rebecca were dead set on making this happen. I slumped on the couch, drained, as the group discussed and argued solutions for the food crisis: The El Hoyo trip was in deeper trouble then I was; they needed about 5 times as many groceries.

A conclusion. We would delay the trips by 2 hours, to depart at 10. We would wake up at 7:30 to make it to the supermarket at 8, and do all the food prep in the morning. Ok. So I had to contact my clients. Couldn’t reach them. Literally could not find the phone number for Hotel Ivana, wherever the hell that is.

As I scrambled around flipping through phone books, directories, even the Lonely Planet, the doorbell rang. Three kids stood on the sidewalk, looking up at me forlornly with pleading puppy dog eyes. They wanted to go volcano boarding. It was 7:30. Were they serious?! The consensus- which I was not a part of- was to let them come. I hadn´t done any food prep,  so why not? It only meant I had to make 3 more boards, prep three more gear bags, clean and fill six more water bottles, and want to punch anyone and everyone in the face.

Mike saved me by suggesting we get out of the house and get some street food (he was concerned about my plan to have only Clif Bars for dinner). It was a relief. We walked to the central plaza and ate greasy, ketchup smothered pizza baked on sugary bread under the Semana Santa Festival lights. A Peruvian band played traditional and upbeat Andean songs. Glowing carousals swirled in a million colors, kids whooping on its dainty horses. Food stalls everywhere. It was a real carnival. Everyone was here, congregated to celebrate Good Friday to the fullest.

In a rush of emotion I felt disgusted with my selfishness that evening, my resistance to a little bit of work after nearly a week of not much to do but my own projects, things I really shouldn´t have been concentrating on because they subtly gnawed into my dedication to the volunteer work I had come for. Two completely unexpected, horrifying thoughts I´d had in the last couple weeks arose sharply in my mind: One, when I, for the first time, had counted the hours I´d worked in a day and wondered how much I could have been paid. And two, when I had come back from a hike, and the majority of my clients had somehow finagled discounts; the profit had come out low, 30% or something. I had shrugged and announced carelessly to Raf that I didn´t care. He replied with ¨You´re saying you don´t care about the kids.¨

But I do! What´s wrong with me? I decided to take this last trip with every remaining ounce of energy and vigor my fatigued body possessed. I would do everything. Would party hard at the despedida, go volcano boarding, and host my own despedida the next night, finish all my personal projects, and get out of Leon just in time for my flight.

Why are the ends of things always hectic, chaotic, and looming with the need to stuff every last moment with meaning, with every last thing you ever wanted and forgot to do and more? Why can´t I ever have a calm and relaxed farewell?

Miraculously, I flipped my mood 360 degrees and had a great night. And yes, played fruit Ninja. More surprising, my good mood lasted me through the next morning, through volcano boarding, and even through scraping all the boards in the evening. By the time I´d finished everything and had taken a shower, it was around six and I crashed. I had gotten something like four hours of sleep the night before. Thank the Lord, Lynn had come back from vacation that day, and true to her caring and do-good character, she whipped me up a ferociously caffeinated cappuccino to rival the best barista.

Awake again, I started to plan my half of me and Raf´s two-part despedida. My grand idea: Fruit Fondue. It´s been done before, but I don´t think it´s possible to have too much fruit and chocolate.

My last night went something like this.  A romantic dinner at Mediterreano, Leon´s most elegant and ambient restaurant. With Lynn and Patty, the new beach manager, all fancied up in Lynn´s dress. Then the party. Because of the absence of those on El Hoyo (Aymie, Jelmer, Mike), and those on vacation (Annika, Janet), it was a different group from the previous despedida (hence having two). Lynn was back, Aislyn and Nate came, and brought Aislyn´s brother and his girlfriend. Her bro, Eddie, was possibly the funniest person to pass through Quetzaltrekkers doors during my time there, and really made the night.








I ate fondue in a continuous stab-dip-devour motion until my ribs threatened to break, then the caffeine finally wore off and I passed out. And then up early and sketching. Not stretching, sketching.  I had to finish a book project I´d been working on- I´ve been commissioned as the sketch artist for a compilation of short stories. That´s about all I an disclose her, but I will say that the last story I was to sketch had a certain spiritual aspect to it that made the author of the book and I eager to finish symbolically n Easter Sunday. I sketched from nine to four and got it done. I had to push back the time of my taxi twice (I decided not to risk bussing so late on Easter), and finally was ready at 8 to meet the cab outside Via Via.

Packing would have been a disaster had Raf not convinced me and then supported me morally in chucking out at least half of my things, for which I´m very grateful. After shoving down a last spoonful of the quiche Patty graciously crafted for her very first and my very last Family Dinner, I stood with my 18 kilo pack creaking on my back, the sounds of a worn leather saddle. This pack that now feels so much more familiar than ever before, a trusty old friend. Splattered and stained with the blood of seven volcanoes.

It felt light after so many uphill climbs lugging upward of 23 kilos. My Quetzaltrekkers family encircled me in a group hug to say goodbye. Everyone was there- it was Family Dinner Night, so of course they were; I couldn´t have planned my departure on a better night. Patty, the sweetheart, even slipped me an aluminum wrapped slice of her chocolate cake into my hand, because I was going to miss dessert.

I was full of love and suddenly couldn´t stand to leave them. This was the family I´d known for the last 3 and a half months, the place I´d come to call home. The city that had grown familiar, the restaurants and shops and personalities and funk, even the chaos.

I walked out the door feeling as if I´d forgotten something. I had certainly left a lot behind. How strange that you can´t jus hop over and visit a place like this? Quetzaltrekkers was an intense and beautiful spell, one I´ll always remember. Maybe I´ll visit some day. But I know very well that it won´t be the same. Every volunteer I´ve come to know and love will be gone in two months or much less; in another couple months even Andrew and Rebecca will have moved on. If I return, there won´t be a single familiar face. That´s the nature of this place. Shifting, shifting. It´s a wonder they can maintain any continuity.


Me, Jules and Raf´s goodbye pictures.


 Instead of putting up my country´s flag, which is customary, I figured the Seattle skyline would be more personally appropriate :)

I spent the taxi ride in silence, zooming along a blackened highway glistening with the artificial stars of passing cityscapes, open windows letting wind rush in and smooth my hot skin and perspiring brow. A nearly full moon rose slowly, big, luminous and orange as 80´s music pulsed full volume. The driver asked me if I liked the music, I told him I liked the moon. Aside from our few shared word I savored the gooey chunk of chocolate cake, felt the breeze, the music, the night, and lived in my head, thoughts and emotions bumping and blurring into each other with vivid intensity.

I didn´t try to make friends in the airport or on the plane this time. I think after 3 and a half months of engaging tourist and small talk every day, working as, essentially, an entertainer and a crowd pleaser, people organizer and sweet talking saleswoman, I’m a little burnt out. Travelers. At one time they were, in my mind, like earthbound gods, globe roamers of infinite wisdom and knowledge, teeming with life experience and bursting with adventure. I mean, travelers still amaze and inspire me. But they are no longer a rare and shining gem in my life. I´m kinda used to travelers now. Hey, I´m working on becoming one myself. 

viernes, 13 de abril de 2012

Mana from the Sky

BOOM. A volcano erupting? That was the first thought that went through my head as I lay in bed, reading. It was probably around midnight. The deep rumble from overhead shook my bed and rattled the pages of my light paperback. I´m Reading ¨Kook¨- it´s a surfing novel-  part adventure story, part just plain informative about the sport, history, and culture of surfing. When I first picked it up I was drawn in by the cover: Bright yellow and orange stylized sunbeams, silhouette of a sexy surfer dude dead center. Did not expect the author of this seemingly light summer read to be a genius craftsman of words. I was pleasantly surprised- Peter Heller is a well respected journalist of the adventure travel sort, and has written for National Geographic AND Outside Magazine (¡!).  Reading a book about surfing, I can mentally delve into the seductive realms of the surfing world, catch rad waves and sweeping barrels in my head, and imagine myself with a brightly toned surfboard under my arm, so in the scene, striding confidently across sea swept sands into the rolling ocean.

Of course, this is pure fantasy. My Big Project- to learn to surf while in Nicaragua- has failed miserably. With only a couple days left in Niclandia, my time is spent. I haven´t had the time nor the money to partake in regular 20 dollar surf lessons; after one of those it was clear that surfing isn´t a sport that you can pick up after a couple times. It´s hard core. Requires dedication. When you surf, you surrender yourself to the capricious beast of the sea- The ocean becomes the master. The conductor of waves like music, waves that can move your body softly like a sweet melody, or thrash you, catapult you, smother you at the ocean´s slightest fancy. Vast, powerful, Godlike she reigns.

Surfing is not like rock climbing, my other Project for the year, one that has actually been working out so far. Climbing was instant ecstasy for me; it´s a sport which can be enjoyed regardless of skill level or experience. If I want to really learn how to surf, I´ll need several months on the beach, just surfing. To learn how to really read the ocean. Sadly, that probably won´t happen this year.

So I was lying there reading, and I heard another rolling roar, followed by another. Maybe it´s not a volcano. If it´s something serious someone will come get me, right? Then all of a sudden, a steady stream of white noise. My fan must have gone wild! Or is someone frying something on the stove? Then a knock on my door.  ¨Emma!¨ It was Raf. ¨It´s raining!¨

No friggin way. I leapt out of bed in just my tanktop and underwear, and stepped outside to face the open courtyard which the bedrooms encircle. Raf wasn´t lying- it was POURING! Great torrents of water, bursting from the stormy sky and turning our courtyard into a lake. Waterfalls gushed from the inlets of the corrugated tin roof. Puddles seeped onto the walkway and threatened to creep into my room.

I was ecstatic! We were ecstatic! The whole family present at the time- Mom (Rebecca), dad (Andrew), me, Raf, Jules and Mike- gathered to witness this unbelievable phenomenon. It hadn´t rained a drop in Leon for the entire three months of my stay. Even stranger- we´re in the utter depths of the dry season right now. The sky should be a desert, devoid of any hint of moisture; the air should be crackling with static. I mean, it just was. But now it was RAINING. Can you say unseasonal?

Raf, Jules and I leapt onto the stone washbasin to be as close to the heavens as possible, and screamed and screamed. We turned our faces to the clouds which tumbled and boiled across the sky, first black and then white as blurred lighting cracked behind their nearly opaque fortress. We were drenched in seconds. It was as if we had been bewitched into a child like state of insanity- We yelled and whooped and ran about the house near nude, pure glee.




The next morning, it was as if it had never happened. I was sure it was a one time gift; maybe a wet goodbye kiss to Jules who left that day. But then that night, it happened again. I was at the payphone chatting with Alia when I heard the sound I now recognize as a thing called thunder. I walked home at 9 under awnings spilling with rainwater, ran across roads turned to rivers, and quickened my pace through the stormy suddenly unfamiliar streets to the safety of home.

We have no idea what´s going on. This really shouldn´t be happening. Theories range from this being a freak incident to this being the rainy season come two months early. I think it´s global warming. Whatever the case, I love it. Everything smells wonderful; wafts of rain soaked concrete remind me of Seattle. I can run under overcast skies and not come home feeling like I´ve been stranded waterless in the desert for a week. The rain is revitalizing- it´s the long awaited deep drink that we´ve been holding out for. It´s filling our parched skin and parched souls like breathing life into a bag of dehydrated camping food.

For Nicaraguans, this unexpected mana from the sky must be a disappointment. It´s Semana Santa- the holiest and most important week of the year here- from April 1 to April 8 (Easter Sunday). This means one of two things for Nicaraguans: Either you´re religious, in which case you stay in the city to participate in daily activities and nightly precessions, or you´re not religious, so you go to the beach. Semana Santa also means no school for the kids, so families really make a vacation of it. Beaches up and down the coast are packed with sunbathers, partiers and picnickers for 8 days straight- it´s the Spring Break scene gone wild. So I assume that the rain will not be a welcome addition to their festivities.

Semana Santa is chock full of holy days- Lazarus Saturday, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday (Holy Thursday), Good Friday, and Holy Saturday, Ester Sunday. I guess the Catholics decided everything would be easier if they could just concentrate all the holiness and celebration into a single week- get it all over with in one go. Leon is famous for its Semana Santa processions. Here, the devout create art on the streets to celebrate holy week- detailed depictions of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and Leon´s cathedrals, out of colored sawdust. At night the parades pass through the ¨carpets¨, as they call them- fleeting reminder of the transience of beauty- and scatter the sawdust. Unless the rain gets there first.  I´m not sure if the precessions will be happening if this continues.

Procession on Easter Sunday.

This has been a strange week in many ways. The rain, Semana Santa… everything is closed, so it´s like Sunday on crack for a week straight- it´s also my last week here, and perhaps strangest of all, I haven´t been hiking.

 Not that that was my choice. Quetzaltrekkers has been booming with business for months, and in the space of a day, we hit low season like running into a brick wall. All of a sudden, hikes stopped going. We´d get one or two clients signed up for Volcano Boarding, zero for El Hoyo. It´s been incredibly strange.

To be honest, I´m not complaining. I have thought about how nice it would be to have a week extra in Leon without working, to finish up last minute business and just plain relax and enjoy the city. Be here without being stressed out. So I got my wish in a way. It´s been really good for me, and I´ve been relaxed and getting enough sleep.  

A sudden halt in hiking does not mean our trivia and raffle events stopped happening though. Trivia nights are hosted by Quetzaltrekkers and occur every other Monday at Via Via restaurant. They´re quiz nights that have little to do with Quetzaltrekkers except to raise awareness of our existence and sneak in some tidbit of information between slides. The raffle is a rarer event- it´s strategically scheduled for the Friday before every full moon, to publicize the Full Moon Hike (an all night hike up Telica).

I am Events Manager, which means I coordinate the preparation and execution of Trivia and Raffle nights. Rebecca creates the actual trivia questions, while I make copies of answer sheets, set up sound equipment, count money, delegate responsibilities (putting up the projector and screen, grading, being in control of the nightly activity, and shouting out the questions in English and Spanish, in case the people can´t read what´s clearly written on the projector’s screen.)

Trivia nights are mostly a blast- they create a fun, chaotic atmosphere, a full house of Leon residents and tourists just stopping by, shouting, drinking, catching up and meeting people. It can get VERY competitive. I love that; I think it´s hilarious. The longer I´ve been in Leon, the more and more people I know or at least recognize coming back to trivia nights every other week. Lately, we´ve been combining trivia and raffle, so the raffle tickets are sold throughout the night and the winner is chosen at the end. Of course, all the proceeds go to the same pot as our hiking income does, to the street kids.

 A few days ago my very last trivia and raffle came and went. When ¨lasts¨ start to crop up more and more, it´s hard to keep ignoring that I´m leaving very soon… 

jueves, 12 de abril de 2012

Running and Climbing Should be FUN

How much you love your community depends on how wide the sidewalks are. Rebecca told me so. Apparently, there was a survey done to pinpoint what element of a city or town makes the residents most content to be there, and the variable with the tightest correlation with people´s happiness was: Wider sidewalks.

It makes sense. With a spacious sweeping sidewalk, one has the option to have a small or large personal bubble. You can cozy up next to whoever you´re taking a stroll with, or you can stay the hell away from everyone around.

Most importantly, there´s no bumping. Nothing is more aggravating than constantly slamming shoulders with your fellow pedestrians, or squeezing through a thick group of slowly ambling Nicaraguans… The very worst is when you´re walking along at a fast clip, just trying to get from Point A to Point B with the maximum efficiency, and- BAM. You hit a Wall of Nicaraguan. With the size of Leon´s sidewalks, this could be as little as one Nicaraguan. Your pace slows to an almost imperceptible crawl, at the most one tenth its former speed. You take a step. Then…. Another. You try to cut around them in the street but cars are zipping past. You surrender to the pace considered normal in Nicaragua and crawl along, silently cursing the backs of the torpidly trudging blockade infront of you, irrational anger building until you reach a corner and they go right. You go left- it´s the wrong direction, but the detour is worth the hassle… Until it all happens again.

Now imagine you´re on a run, and this happens every minute or so. There are no nice, green parks in Leon to run in. There are no trails weaving through fields or forests. There is no seaside footway nearby. There are buildings, people, motorized vehicles and other such moving contraptions that fill the roads, and chaos.

Additional hazards of running include: Falling in manholes; twisting your ankle on roots which rip apart the concrete of the sidewalks where sidewalk exist; smaller holes just big enough to sprain your other ankle; getting run over by a car, motocycle, bicycle, bus, camioneta, horse, or cow; heatstroke or death by dehydration; etc. All of which I have had the misfortune to experience in full or partial force.

Ah, Leon. In moments of frustration, the single most mood soothing thing to do is spend a couple hours at Pan y Paz, Leon´s French bakery. After months of experimentation and thought, I have landed upon Pan y Paz as the best place in Leon to relax. Smooth jazz sings in subtle corners, walls are in whites and subtle shades of lavander, archways surround a central garden open to the sky. The sun paints the dancing foliage and the walls calm orangey shades of sunset in the evening hours. Everything is clean, simple, and elegant. It´s my escape.





It seems to be the escape for many others as well- Pan y Paz is where Europeans come to mingle. Even when in a foreign country, one you´re visiting perhaps to escape your own home and culture, everyone is drawn to a familiar setting. Although I´m not French or European for that matter, I beleive spending a Little time there once in a while is critical for my sanity. I decided that after vacation, I would make a consious effort not to get too stressed out. Of course I can´t 100% control that. As was the case during my first trek from coming back…

It had been a month since I´d done El Hoyo last. At least. The last time I´d guided it I´d taken the wrong path twice. So I was nervous. It was just Lynn and I, which was great, because it meant a low stress environment and a fun companion. What concerned me was the lack of veteran guide back up just in case I got lost…. Oh yeah. I´m the veteran guide now.

At the Ranger Station, the group went volcano boarding and I scouted out the beginning of the trail, to make sure I could actually find it. Getting lost in the first five minutes of a trek would not be the best first impression. I did find it, but everything looked very, very different. In the last month, the weeks straddling March and April, dry season went from a gente argument to a full force delcaration of war. Since I had last seen the trailhead, half of the trees had gone, their leaves leached dry by the rattling death suck of Niacaraguan summer. What was once wooded shade was now cracked, exposed dirt.

To my great releif, we made it to the campsite in perfect timing and I didn´t miss a beat. It even took us the exact 1.5 hours I predicted to climb the first hill. Although Lynn and I forgot our tent´s ground cloth and both of our phones died, meaning we had to ask a client to wake us up at 5 (embarrassing), there were no hitches until we started on our way down after breakfast.

Again, everything looked different. Not just drier- everything was burnt. I knew there had been bush fires on Las Pilas because the Park Ranger had told me on the way up. It looked like El Hoyo had suffered an attack too- every other tree was burnt to a black, mangled crisp. The rest were dried to a crisp.

An hour or so in, we came across a roadblock. A towering pile of boulders, completely impassable. The path wasn´t right either- it was a wider hay covered strip that seemed as if someone had passed through with a monstrous mower. I scouted to the right, bushwhacking macheteless (I always figure a machete will do me more harm than good) through yellow grass and branches cracking and spiny with dehydration.

Found it. Ten minutes later, a ginormous tree lay in front of the path. I tried to squeeze through its horizontal trunk and branches... No way. We blazed our own trail to the right. We had had some bumps in the road, big ones actually, but I was still feeling good and confident; I knew I was on the right trail. Until… Oh wait. Maybe not. It wasn´t an epiphany or a sudden realization, but an uncomfortable, creeping sensation that we were not going the right way. The target for El Hoyo Day 2 is Lago de Asososca, to the left of Asososca and between the volcano and Lake Managua. Our trail was veering to the far right of Asososca´s towering figure. And no matter how much I tried to think positively, there was no sudden sharp left. We were heading into the unknown.

Finally, much, much farther than I should have allowed the group to stray, we hit a road. Definitely not normal. I stopped, turned, and gave Lynn that look that says ¨Help! I have absolutely no idea where we are! What should I do! Don´t tell the clients!¨ But they knew. We had a quick chat and I decided there was really only one option: Turn left. So we did. And thank the sweet Lord Jesus the road ran right smack into the fence of the farm we were supposed to find long ago.

I guess we really should have been walking inside the farm. But honestly, I didn´t remember a thing. So I led the group around the outside, hugging the barbed wire, following the ditch that ran along side it and was clearly not a trail.

But we had to find the trail! We had to find the trail to get to the snack spot to get to the way around Asososca… If I kept on walking along this fence I would end up in Lake Managua, lost, phoneless, and responsible for seven human beings. Quietly, secretly, I started to panic. I was almost hyperventilating. Using meditation techniques I had read about but never had the patience to try, I focused on my breath. It kind of worked.

And then, as if God reached down from the brutally blue sky and touched us, the path appeared from inside the farm, winding off to the right. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the snack spot. I almost groveled to the ground, but I was too disgusted by the state of our familiar stop. Once lush and leafy, the tree that always brought shade to our cracker consumption was now a pitiful mass of twigs. I grabbed ahold of the once succulent branch I usually hang on to stretch my back, but realized the pitifully brittle thing would break under any pressure. And there was absolutely no shade. My skin was burning to a crisp. There had been no shade all day.

It´s hard to encourage the clients when you´re about to pass out from heatstroke, but that´s being a volcano guide. The sky screamed at me from above and my skin screamed back. The lake below teased and teased. ¨Asososca. Asosoaka. Soak. Assoossoooaaakkkaaa…¨ Those were the only thoughts my brain could handle.

I have never appreciated a swim more. My body temperature returned to near normal, my seared skin was soothed, my muscles relaxed into a float. We had made it. After lunch, the goings were quick, the way back wasn´t burnt to a crisp and I actually knew which turns to take, and the bus showed up exactly on time to meet us. I was so, so relieved when the last client filed through the front door of Quetzaltrekkers at 4:00. The trip put into perspective what really matters: getting home safely. We were alive, happy, and I wasn´t sick. What I didn´t realize at the tame was that that would be my last trip, probably ever, to El Hoyo. 

martes, 10 de abril de 2012

Climbing Maderas

Up at 7, coffee at 8, and we hit the trail at 9. Since we were set on hiking guideless, Tom and I decided to go with the most secure option and take the trail above Finca Magdalena. At dinner the night before we had run into a troop of Brits fresh off the trail and caked in mud from their goofy Indiana Jones hats to the trips of their hiking boots. They had also down Maderas without a guide, and had (almost) successfully taken the Finca Magdalena route. Their mistake was starting at 11:00 and forgetting headlamps. Finding your way up to El Zopilote in the dark may be a challenge, but finding your way down an unfamiliar volcano through dense jungle sound terrifying, It took them nine hours, which we scoffed at. Our goal was six. Three up, three down.

I was happy to finally get to see Finca Magdalena- that’s where my mom and I were planning on staying when we were going to come to Ometepe. While Finca Magdalena has the same basic operations and ideals as El Zopilote, it’s visually different. Instead of being nestled within the trees, Finca Magdalena rests on a clean, open field decorated with dainty flower gardens. The main building- rooms, restaurant, balcony area- is a classic farmhouse, sun bleached planks and white paint peeling in rustic character. Café tables line the balcony railing, styled like a typical white farmyard fence, where tourists sipped coffees and gazed out across the gardens, Concepcion, and the lake beyond.

Finca Magdalena is an agricultural cooperative made up of 24 members and their families. They are involved in environmental conservation efforts, and lead guided tours up Maderas. The community was hurt by the 1990 elections, during which many of the strides made during the Sandinista era were reversed. Many cooperatives were forced to shut down because they were unable to pay back loans, but Finca Magdalena clung on and survived. The farm wasn’t originally a hostel and restaurant- that element of the business sprang up after hordes of tourists began to pass through on their way up to Maderas´ crater. Since 2000, tourism has been by far Finca Magdalena’s greatest source of income and has morphed the farm into a prosperous haven for its community members and their organic produce.

The trailhead to the crater is obvious and sits right behind the farmhouse. I was relieved to see how official and well kept the trail was. And dry! We had been warned multiple times of the intense mud on Maderas. We had seen evidence covering the bodies of the hikers last night. But it couldn’t be so! It hadn’t been raining- where did the mud come from?

The trail continued to be dry and compact until about an hour up, and I realized how the volcano is able to keep herself constantly moist: The entire upper half of Maderas is wrapped in the permanent embrace of a single, thick, watery cloud. As you hike, the air becomes thicker and wetter until it literally drips with precipitation. You’re being drawn into the clutches of the dense, swirling fog that squats on gentle Maderas like a soggy hat- It’s like you’ve stepped under the little black rain cloud that Winnie the Pooh goes through so much to avoid.

And that’s when the trail gets muddy. Really muddy. At first, I did my best to avoid the ooze by grasping on to the gnarled jungle root that reached out at me like deformed arms, pulling myself onto the steep sides of the trail, leaping over puddles, and balancing precariously on slippery rocks. Around hour two, my hope that my boots would stay reasonable dry shuddered, took one last rattling breath, and died. I sunk in. Up above the high tops of my high tops.

Squelch. Once you resign yourself to hiking through this kind of mud, it can be fun. Possibly my favorite part of the Maderas hike was how different the environment was from my dry hometown hills outside of Leon. Everywhere, gigantic, drooping trees hung with moss and on the moss glistened millions of tiny droplets of dew like sparkling diamonds. The closest thing I had to compare it to was the Olympic rainforest on Washington’s far west peninsula.

As we climbed higher, we hoped that the fog would burn off and that we’d get a view, but all we could see was a dense wall of white. We could have been anywhere. Progress was immeasurable. That was the weirdest part for me: On Cerro Negro, or Telica, the crater of the volcano is in perfect sight for hours. You lock you eyes on the pinnacle of your destination and climb. There are no trees to distract you, no small undulating hills or shroud of cloud, only steaming volcanic rock, the piercing sun, the shriekingly blue sky, you, and the angry crater ahead. In comparison, Maderas was like wandering through a hazy dream or climbing a very muddy stairway to heaven.

Maderas is its own cloud forest. At times, the path was so wet that it was a river. Literally, water streaming down rock towards us. We had to make some executive decisions along the way about which paths to chose, which I felt entitled to make because I was a volcano guide. Of course, my experience had zero effect on an unknown volcano. The way up is simple, though, there is really only one direction in which you need to go. I don’t think it’s necessary to elaborate. The way back down is the tricky part, if you want to come out the same way you came. The real life saver was Tom’s compass, which helped us re-find a couple of tricky spots on the way back down.

We summited and didn’t even notice. Then Tom pointed out that everywhere you looked, the land seemed to sloped downhill. Oh. Look at that. We exchange a summit high five, no need to snap any pictures, and began our descent into the crater. It was about a 20 minute downhill climb, or more appropriately, down hill slip. Still couldn’t see a thing but the mossy tree two feet away. And then all at once, a clear window appeared between the shoulders of trees and we caught a glimpse of a glowing green field and a lake. Excited, we scurried down the last bit of slope, and entered a phantasmal bowl of emerald magic.

 The lake took up most of the crater floor and the rest was strewn with a brilliant lawn that seemed to radiate light. On all sides, the searing green molded into thick jungle that coated the crater walls, and rose jaggedly into the fog. At spots where Maderas´ protective cloud drifted, the spiky crater lip jeered sharp and equally green. The walls were so steep, so sheer, that it was a wonder the dense jungle vegetation clung on. In places the fog visited us, swept down the cliff walls and snaked along the waters. It made dreamlike pools and airborne rivers and infiltrated my mind, putting me in a trance. It was the land of Oz. It was definitely worth the climb and worth the shin high mud that had finally broken through the waterproof layer of my boots.





Finca Magdalena
















Tom tested the waters but the ¨lake¨ turned out to be basically a huge mud pool. We feasted on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, lounging on the lawn and gazing about in awe. But we had a six hour goal, and we’re a competitive pair.

The way down was, honestly, not a whole lot of fun. I’m already not a fan of downhill climbs, but Maderas throws in added bonuses of slick rock, slippery mud pools, and roots that waited in hiding to attack your ankles and bring you down. I fell more than once. The way is also significantly steeper than the volcanoes I’m used to. Towards the end, my knees were shaking, my shins were splinting, and my toes were on fire from being crammed up in the front of my shoes. We reached Finca Magdalena after seven hours of hiking and I collapsed my filthy, energy sapped body, drenched head to toe in slime, onto a nice white seat tat the patio restaurant.

We walked into Balgue for celebratory mango smoothies, and then made our way down the road to El Zopilote just as the sun dropped behind Concepcion. It was our last night on the island; we had to be in Leon the next day for Tom to pack up and catch an early flight the following morning.

For our last breakfast we picked out a little, rustic comedor right on the beach. We sat beneath the palm thatched roof in the early morning, steaming white coffee mugs in our fingers while the white surf crashed and steamed in towards our toes.

It was a good thing we got an early start- it took us ten hours to get from where we had breakfast to the Quetzaltrekkers headquarters. Ometepe is NOT that far away from Leon. But it was a Sunday. Busses crawled. We waited hours for boats and microbuses. When we finally arrived at the soothingly familiar blue front door of the QT HQ after a long walk from the terminal, I reached into my bag and realized I had lost my house key along with my wallet… Oops. No matter, some one would let me in.

I rang the doorbell. Nothing. I rang it again. After ten minutes of this, I remembered, again, that today was Sunday. Sunday means Family Dinner Night, which usually means that every member of our volunteer family would be home eating together, but for the first time in my experience the crew had planned to eat at the beach hostel. Which meant there was not a soul at home. And no way to get in. Tom and I briefly contemplated another round of mock cat burglary, but I had no idea how we would access the roof system that leads into the open courtyard.

We were tired and frustrated and none of our options seemed like good ones. At long last we decided to take a taxi to the beach, retrieve a key, and hop back into the cab back to Leon. Not the cheapest option, but the least stressful. Tom left early the next morning and we both dove back into the working life with not much enthusiasm. My vacation over, I should have been relaxed and refreshed, and I may have been a bit, but we had packed ourselves to the brim with adventure. With three weeks left in Nicaragua, I knew there was more adventure to come.