Always keen to probe the globe for sunnier climes during the stranglehold of winter, this year’s plan is to check out the enigma that is Nicaragua. Merely mentioning its name will have most likely responding in one of two ways: “Is it safe?” or “Why, what’s there?” As an avid experience collector I’m on my way to find out!
Nicaragua happens to be the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, shunned by most tourists because of its bloody past and unstable political climate. However, teetering between the grime of third world poverty and glimmers of hope it is slowly trying to transform itself into a destination for travelers looking to experience something off the beaten track where their dollars can stretch appreciably.
My buddy Greg is joining me on this adventure, and traveling overland from Costa Rica in a shared van, we arrive at the sketchy border post of Penas Blancas; or ‘La Frontera’ to locals. We’ve been warned that chaos reigns supreme at this shoddy outpost with it being the single largest overland drug transit point in the Americas. An international game of cat and mouse takes place here with tens of billions of dollars of Colombian cocaine bound for Canada, Mexico, and the US.
Five miles shy of the border is the start of a gargantuan cavalcade of NICA buses, 18 wheelers, and cattle trucks all at standstill and awaiting inspection before being allowed to cross. We hold our breath as our van driver veers across the road into oncoming traffic to bypass the miles of unmoving trucks.
There is no bank at the shambolic border without order to purchase local currency, but our attention is drawn to the clamor of sandaled money changers behind a barbwire fence. Bellowing like carnival barkers they wave fistfuls of cash through ragged holes cut in the fence, and we skeptically perform the intellectual surgery of cutting through the math before changing dollars for Cordobas.
Working our way through the tangle of border checkpoints at the speed of a mollusk it becomes evident a green thumb is mandatory. Not the digging in the garden kind, but a digit busy digging out American greenbacks to satisfy various border personnel and entrepreneurial ‘fixers’. Dysfunction junction has turned into hours of angst while we sluggishly muddle through the madness and mess of mismanaged mayhem.
The border is awash in shysters that could shame a weasel, and during the arduous ordeal we ransack our wallets several times to surrender ‘fees’ to contemptuous officials about as friendly as a nest of copperheads. Biting our tongues, we ass-kiss our way through to a booth where some aloof uniform smashes down an entry stamp in our passports as one might splat a poisonous spider. Hey Nicaragua – nice to meet you too!
Sparring over the price of a taxi we cautiously try to avoid illegal ‘pirate taxis’. The drivers may not wear an eye-patch, but the name comes from the marauding pirate-like operators looking to enhance their bounty by using meter-less vehicles to cash-rape and pillage passengers!
Seeing me scoff at a few offers, a ‘fixer’ approaches offering help, and when I unfurl a dollar he leads us to what he claims is an official taxi. Pleased to see the last of the befuddling border we make our way to the port of San Jorge on Lake Nicaragua; one of the largest lakes in the world and the lifeblood of the country.
Having just missed the main ferry we are told that a weathered cargo-carrier with the ability to carry limited foot passengers will be leaving shortly. Though we’re concerned about the wind-whipped waves wearing whitecaps, we demonstrate that age doesn’t always equal wisdom and ignore our misgivings.
Before boarding the ‘lancha’ we must write our names, nationality, and age on a clipboard; presumably so next of kin can be notified in the event the tragic transport finds its way to the bottom. Paying the staggering fare of $1.35 we throw ourselves on the mercy of the lumpy lake.
As the water between the battered boat and dock widens the rust-riddled relic tests the limits of its buoyancy. Impossibly overloaded with everything from bananas to bedding, and celery to cement, it’s so molasses-like slow it almost feels like going for a ride in an anchored boat. Along with other biped cargo, Greg and I are squashed into the belly of the boat amid a fog of noxious diesel fumes. Anxious about the vessel capsizing during the stomach-churning crossing we chew our fingernails down to the cuticles.
Mid-lake, the trip is turning into a Nicaraguan nightmare as the boat seems to be bouncing on a trampoline. Angry winds imperil both boat and passengers with waves on the warpath breaking through open windows. Where art thou Gravol? With our feet immersed in water starting to fill the boat we nervously watch a muscular barefooted dude feverishly work a large hand pump to eject the incoming lake water!
Squashed together like refugees in an overcrowded lifeboat and getting wetter by the minute, we’re not exactly joining hands for a rousing rendition of Kumbaya; especially knowing the huge lake is home to some rather large bull sharks not shy about snacking on humans!
Bobbing about like a bathtub duck the water-logged coffin slowly inches its way across 17 km of notoriously choppy waters. Testing outermost limits of safety, this very scary ferry has all the appeal of a snake in a sleeping bag, and my suggestion for its name would be the ‘Luna Sea’! We try laughing off the potential peril, but frankly the two of us landlubbers just want back on dry land with a wet beer. Pronto! About a calendar month later, or so it feels, the awesome Ometepe begins to define itself.
What the heck is an Ometepe you may ask? Why this mystical barbell shaped wonder is the world’s largest island within a fresh water lake. It looks out of the Jurassic Era with a massive pair of mile-high volcanoes rising majestically, mysteriously, and somewhat menacingly out of the enormous lake.
Maderas Volcano is jacketed in verdant jungle while the active Conception Volcano has its conical peak enshrouded by a halo of vapor burping out from its crater. Over the years lava flows and volcanic activity have grafted the two volcanos together and they now thrust up out of the lake like a playmate’s breasts. Ometepe Island was also the site location for TV’s 2011 “Survivor: Redemption Island”.
Our nautical distress ends in the port of Moyogalpa, where overanxious passengers are granted parole from the confines of our floating gulag. The name translates to “Place of Mosquitos”, which comes as no surprise given the puny agents of evil are not exactly on the country’s endangered list!
Still feeling the lake in the sway of our legs we find lodging in town then dump our bags and fold ourselves into a Nica tuk-tuk. Juddering along the coast we swerve around a chickens, oxen, and tufty-eared capuchin monkeys. Reaching Punta Jesus Maria our ears immediately pick up on a droning sound like that of distant chainsaws as a community of mosquitos seems to have the deed and title to every square inch of beach!
Formed by volcanic sediment, Punta Jesus Maria is an amazing black sand spit extending half a kilometer out into Lake Nicaragua. Its name comes from the fact that standing atop it one appears to be walking on water. But to me, with the water lapping up around our feet, it feels more like standing atop the back of a giant whale. At ‘Golden Hour’, that perfect hour when sun slides over the horizon, we quickly put the camera through its paces as clouds of plasma-gulpers out in full force have us itching to depart!
Moving from town and close to the base of the extinct Maderas Volcano, our next lodging is a very secluded 12 acre country farm called Finca de Sol. The somewhat remote and self-sustainable ‘farm of the sun’ offers three rustic thatch-roofed cabins allowing Greg and I to each have our own.
My bathroom’s pitiable plumbing has water dribbling out of the faucet like a diuretic hamster, flowing from the sink through a pipe piercing the wall, and out onto a shower floor where a jamboree of bugs are enjoying a meet and greet on the scuzzy damp tiles! The non-flushing composting toilet requires shoveling rice husks out of a large pail to conceal the evidence, and in more than one way it can be a potential pain in the ass.
One night reaching for the husk-scooper I encounter an enormous biting centipede, as well as a bumbling beetle only slightly smaller than its Volkswagen namesake! Yes, these shitters with critters would give any entomologist a wet dream, especially at night when the even more bizarre bug thugs come out to play!
With no air-con the ‘jungalows’ are muggy, and the only lighting is a single jaundiced light bulb with the lumens of a lentil. However, on the plus side of the ledger our abode is located in a valley between the two stunning volcanos. Even with the un-dapper crapper I find the place acceptable, providing of course the simmering volcano behaves itself! Besides, this is such an easy going place that even a chicken can cross the road without having its motives questioned.
For breakfasts we walk up to the main house and sit at an outside table buzzing with both human conversation and the pollen-swollen bees bumbling about in the flowering vines. Meanwhile, low-flying squadrons of parrots regularly whoosh past in a wave of wings squawking out morning regards.
With today’s target the Maderas Volcano, we heed good advice and hire a guide to show us the lay of the land. A few deaths have already occurred on the volcano and we don’t fancy padding the statistics.
Clambering up corkscrew paths from a thicket of plantains into cloud forest we pass by fungus farming leaf-cutter ants laboriously lugging their leafy loads, and another ant that locals call the ‘King of Sting’; a species big enough to leave footprints and definitely more uncle than ant!
Also encountered are a roaming battalion of thousands of cleaner ants blanketing the forest floor and laying waste to anything in their path. We’re entranced not only by their vast numbers, but also by wily birds hopping through the bushes just above them, hoping to scarf down morsels of prey flushed out by the advancing legion of legs. I get the dumb idea to stop at a termite mound for a little protein fix, but not surprisingly find munching the munchers is a lot like licking lumber!
Our guide tells us a bizarre fact about the island’s lethal coral snake. According to him their only predator is the bony-plated armadillo which has the capability of leaping into the air and mortally wounding the snake with its sharp armor on landing! He swears he’s seen this happen, but both Greg and I are convinced his fanciful tale is likely a product of being sozzled on hallucinogenic jungle juice!
Catching our breath at the top of the volcano and admiring the vistas we then descend past frolicsome monkeys and a seven foot Oriole Snake. Dressed in a striking yellow and black striped suit, the snazzy slender serpent sees me approaching for a photo, and races away with amazing speed to slither up into the tree branches clearly at ease in its leafy lair.
Lunching after our hour hike, we are joined by a pair of yellow-naped parrots that hop about the tabletop in search of errant crumbs. Bidding bye-bye to the birdies Greg heads back to his cabin, but having not yet satisfied my lust for dust I rent a bike to further explore on my own.
At a rustic shack I see a puppy and piglet intently watching little ragamuffins kicking a soccer ball about. The kids seem skittish at first but when I dismount and join in they get all giggly, and even a toothless as a toddler grandma looks out the hut’s window sharing her gummy smile.
After a couple of encounters with perturbed brahma bulls unwilling to share the dirt paths, I introduce my bike tires to the lake shore. Grunting through the sand I pass a pair of pigs participating in a little grunt-fest of their own, rooting through garbage washed ashore by the waves.
Back at the bungalows with a sky fading to black we are once again providing nourishment for the invading mosquitos, and while rum might not be the answer, we think it’s worth a shot! Not shy on the pour, Greg and I top up our glasses, and with a couple of gargantuan gulps, leave behind only a congregation of landlocked cubes of ice!
Responsible for some of the world’s best rum, Nicaragua has a proverb: “Hay tres desportes en Nicaragua: Beisbal, Mujeres, y Ron”. Translation; “There are three sports in Nicaragua: Baseball, Women and Rum”. Oh well, two out of three ain’t bad – never was much of a baseball fan!
In need of nourishment, our plan for tonight is a one hour hike through the boondocks to Cafe Campestre in the lonely village of Balgue. The only exception to the gravel road’s palpable blackness is occasional clusters of fireflies pulsing like demented little Christmas lights.
Ordering dinner at our destination in my dreadfully mangled Spanish, I pray it hasn’t been interpreted as I covet a plate of fried cockroach! Washing down dinner with dangerously large bottles of Victoria Beer, we then adventurously head home in the inkiness of night, and safely back at the farm’s gate, exchange fist-bumps in celebration of our nocturnal Ninja navigation.
My Spidey-sense starts to tingle as I enter my cabin. Turning on the lamentable light I notice a hideous spider with the acreage of a Frisbee is clinging to the mosquito netting above my pillow. Unsure of the eight-legged lurker’s intentions I’m taking no chances of it ending up in my underwear. Cobra-like, I shoot out my arm using the heel of my hand to splat my vanquished foe into an unsavory smear with no chance of a resurrection. Nicaragua definitely seems to be a country offering the most crawlers for your dollars!
For something different today we head to the swamp-like estuary of Rio Istrian meandering inland and launch the kayaks beside gossiping gals waist deep in the lake, scrubbing laundry on smooth rocks imbedded into mounds of cement. These are homemade ‘Nicaragua washing machines’, as people here live on dimes a day, and few are able to afford electricity let alone a real washing machine.
The paradisiacal island of Ometepe (two mountains) boasts to be the ‘Oasis of Peace’, and except for trauma in getting here we would have to concur. It does, however, seem quite ironic that such a peaceful place lies in the shadow of an active volcano.
Re-crossing the lake back to the mainland we opt to wait for the large ferry in hopes of saving ourselves a shipload of grief, but strong winds have the boat to swaying drunkenly on docking, and put us behind schedule. Rushing about on land I confirm the fact I cannot fly. Introducing myself to ‘Mr. Gravity’ in an epic stumble, I donate a strip of epidermis to the ground. Damn, now it’s not the boat that’s leaking, it’s me!
Greg giggles and guffaws over my clumsiness, but I futilely try convincing him that the ground looked a little glum and I just wanted to give it a hug! Upcountry in Granada, charming little houses are clothed in cheerful shades of paint and horse carts clomp along slender streets with the turmeric colored Granada Cathedral dominating the background.
By contrast, graffiti-blasted Managua seems a thuggish city wearing its grim repute admirably. Due to rising levels of violence most windows and doors are fortified with burglar bars, and armed guards stationed outside businesses are common. With the lamentable livability further evidenced by men with assault rifles patrolling the streets from the back of pickup trucks I doubt many would argue Managua is the lump of dog-shit on the carpet of Nicaragua.
In Nicaragua’s second largest and reportedly hottest city of Leon our arrival happens to coincides with the Immaculate Conception holiday, and Central Square is awash in revelry with a surplus of munchkins dressed in oversized costumes gyrating about to music.
Greg is off to tour a rum factory today, but possessing a bit of a rum fetish, I’m concerned about taking up residence should I join decide to him. Instead, I opt to spend the afternoon wandering the town to see what other mischief I can musterup.
At Leon Cathedral, the most prominent of the 18 churches in town, I withdraw my camera and shoot the stone lions outside; then squeeze up a measly stone staircase to walk barefoot on the white domed roof for a view of the huge bronze church bells, surrounding volcanos, and festive town below.
At long last the day of reckoning has arrived and it’s time for the harebrained reason we’ve come to Leon. In denial of being deep into my sixties, today’s mission is to face my fierce by tackling the latest and most outlandish adventure sport to erupt in Nicaragua; volcano boarding!
To accomplish this we travel to the ominous Cerro Negro Volcano; yes, those unpredictable things with molten lava inside! This one just happens to be the youngest and most active volcano in all of Nicaragua. Let’s face it, extinct volcanoes can be interesting, but active ones – now those are seriously exciting!
This dare-devilish ‘sport’ is prone to some rather nasty accidents, and the ever sensible Greg wants no part of the absurdity other than as a spectator. But for me, many of my most memorable adventures have all contained the same ingredients; a splash of anxiety, a dollop of uncertainty, and a squirt of adrenaline.
Climbing into a van we join six other world travelers also up for the foolhardy thrill of sliding down an active volcano. Sitting on hard inflexible seats we are tossed about like lottery ping pong balls during the twenty mile drive to the daunting mountain.
Because of recent seismic activity the Nicaraguan army has decreed a maximum stay of 1 ½ hours on the mountain, and arriving at the base we’re required to sign in with our names, age, and nationality before being allowed to proceed. No doubt authorities want the ability to contact next of kin in case she pops her top, and we can’t help but notice this country’s recurring theme of writing down our names in little books.
Hoping the mountain Gods will be kind, I grab my board and kit bag and scramble up the post-apocalyptic looking black scree. Reaching the summit with my deodorant not living up to its promise, I desperately hang on to my large board with a hat-snatching wind attacking it as if it were a sail.
Gases smelling like a skunk’s butt crack steam up out of sinister ground too hot to touch, reminding me of the fearsome undercurrent of molten madness simmering beneath our feet. Now I’m no volcanologist, but I reckon the sooner I put an end to this steamy affair the better! So with safety first and sexy second, I don the provided bile-green and lemon-yellow jumpsuit along with a pathetic set of eye goggles giving me the appearance of a ginormous parakeet!
The instructor offers a brief ‘crash course’ on negotiating one of the world’s most unpredictable landmasses. Glossing over the downsides, his spiel is basically to hang on for dear life and try not to touch the brakes in the unstable scree. This is actually quite easy since there are no brakes, unless of course you want to try digging in your feet and risk snapping them off at the ankles!
He also advises keeping the goggles on to protect our eyes from the bombardment of volcanic rubble and ash, and not to open our mouths for the same reason. Apparently he has no inkling just how difficult it is to scream with your mouth closed! Elated to be just a spectator, Greg stands by simply shaking his head.
In a definite detour off the road to maturity, my mode of transportation for this mission is a makeshift sled consisting of a rope grip attached to a four foot piece of plywood with a slab of Formica nailed beneath it to increase speed for the dumb-ass sitting atop it.
Our guide informs us the speed record for this madness is 85 km per hour. Now it’s one thing to climb up a volcano, but something quite different to hurtle down one at automobile speeds atop a collection of construction scraps!
My sense of achievement from reaching the summit is quickly displaced by anxiety with gusts up to panic! Pondering the fragility of flesh and quality of care in a Nicaraguan emergency room, the demons of doubt creep in as I peer down the perilously steep slope and spot the tininess of the van far below looking about the size of a fruit fly’s scrotum. It’s no longer butterflies in my stomach, it’s Pterodactyls!
With an injection of adrenaline hijacking my nerves all the classic symptoms of impending menace are present. Arm hairs standing up – present. Butt cheeks clenched – check. Elevated heart rate – you betcha! Nervous as a sword swallower with the hiccups, and hoping the volcano isn’t in the mood to regurgitate its molten innards; I channel my inner Evil Knievel and cut the umbilical cord to sanity by launching over the edge. Ahh yes, testosterone, that male hormone responsible for the stupidest shit in otherwise normal men!
With my anus puckered to the size of a raisin, this human ‘meat-eorite’ plummets 2,830 feet down the volcano with my hands squeezing the rope as if trying to strangle a snake! The last time I felt this vulnerable was climbing out of a perfectly healthy plane thousands of feet above the earth in Hawaii and hurtling towards the ground with a parachute strapped to my back.
Knowing my wonky ankle can’t withstand any serious force I hang on with a grip born of panic. Any notion of a graceful descent quickly evaporates with my body now engaged in a virtuoso display of limbs flailing about like an overzealous symphony conductor!
Amid the fierce pummeling of my backside and bombardment of lava rock shrapnel, my uncensored gusts of expletives are drowned out by the deafening noise of the sled bulleting over the rocks. My main concern right now is my skin, or rather the lack thereof. Though it may be the body’s largest organ, I’m still rather squeamish about this ending in a shred-fest and painting the harsh mountainside with my epidermal layer!
Spasmodically jerking about like a laboratory frog I suddenly have a Eureka moment when realizing that man is not meant to engage in such bizarre modes of transportation. Yes, I know, many stand in awe of my insights and instinctive grasp of a situation.
Miraculously, I somehow make it all the way to the bottom of the mountain still atop a board now smoldering hot from heat generated by its speed over the sun-seared scree. I am ‘phewing’ with relief to have avoided orphaning any limbs and knowing I won’t be requiring 24 x 7 hospital care or a disability parking badge!
Invading every nook, cranny, and orifice, the mountain’s ash insinuates I’ve spent the day coal mining. Removing the goggles from my face, a mirror shows me a photographic negative of the Lone Ranger! Time to climb up, 45 minutes – time to get down, 45 seconds! Well now, of the 35,000,000 minutes I’ve spent on the planet this certainly ranks as one of the more memorable!
Driving back from our mountain conquest with the van windows down we are ambushed on the edge town. One of our guys takes a hit in the neck and I am shot in the shoulder. Fortunately for us this is not the start of another brutal Sandinista uprising, as the ‘sniper’ is just a mischievous ten-year old delivering a baptism by a skookum water-rifle. The ‘drive-by watering’ has everybody dressed in smiles and is a fun ending to our exciting adventure. So, did I enjoy my exhilarating day? You bet your ‘ash’ I did!
With our time in the country almost spent, there is one thing I almost forgot mention. You may find this shocking but I am going to be traveling back to Canada with a stunning 18 year old beauty named Flor. We met here in Nicaragua, and my intuition tells me she and I will be a perfectly compatible couple.
Though her early years were somewhat rough as she rum-aged on the outskirts of town, she managed to turn a corner and has become far more refined over the years. I find myself thoroughly smitten by her lovely honey-amber color, wonderful legs, and delectable silky smoothness.
Yes, this full-bodied golden Goddess has indeed matured into one very tasteful and sexy package. How she made the transition I’m not exactly sure, but I am definitely eager to get to the bottom of it. Quite frankly I don’t know how long our relationship will last, but I’m certainly looking forward to many a lip-lock with the enticing Ms. De Cana, and savoring her warmth on those chilly Canadian winter nights waiting at home.
In a remarkable twist of fate my buddy Greg became hopelessly infatuated with her identical twin sister and the two of them eloped back to Canada last week. Ahhh yes, age is totally irrelevant, unless of course you happen to be a bottle of rum! Oh, and just for the record, you do of realize of course that Flor De Cana is Nicaragua’s finest rum, right?
Alas, with my Nicaragua time done it’s time to get on the saddle and skedaddle. While Nicaragua may be a little rough-and-tumble around the edges, I‘ve found the tropical climate and geographical wonders of its lakes, volcanoes, and rainforests to be awesomely brilliant. Not yet spoiled by mass tourism, there is certainly a lot to love about a country trying to embrace the transition from revolution to evolution through an injection of backpacking tourism.
I’ve always believed that travel breathes life into life, making it one of the few things you can buy that actually makes you richer, and this intriguing country is certainly no exception. So thank you Nicaragua for your enriching friendship; I have absolutely adored our time together.
Mark Colegrave December 2014