Always keen to probe the globe for sunnier climes during the stranglehold of winter, my plan this year 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! Teetering between the grime of third world poverty and glimmers of hope, it’s 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 ahead of time about the chaos we can expect, with this shoddy outpost 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 we hit the start of a gargantuan queue of NICA buses, 18 wheelers, and cattle trucks all at standstill, awaiting inspection before being allowed to cross. We hold our breath as our van driver crosses the road into oncoming traffic to bypass the miles of unmoving trucks.
Reaching the shambolic border without order we find it awash in shysters that could shame a weasel. There is no bank to purchase local currency, but our attention is drawn to the clamor of sandaled money changers restrained behind a barbed wire fence. Bellowing like carnival barkers, they try coaxing us over by waving fistfuls of local cash through ragged holes cut in the fence. Skeptically we perform the intellectual surgery of cutting through the math before exchanging our dollars for local 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, just a digit busy digging out American greenbacks to satisfy various border personnel and entrepreneurial ‘fixers’. Dysfunction junction has turned into hours of angst as we sluggishly muddle through the madness and mess of mismanaged mayhem.
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 until finally reaching 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!
Now comes the delicate dance of ‘barguing’ for a taxi, cautiously trying to avoid any illegal ‘pirate taxis’. The drivers may not wear an eye-patch, but I suspect the name comes from the marauding pirate-like operators looking to enhance their bounty by using meter-less vehicles to cash-rape and pillage their 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 of a weathered cargo-carrier leaving soon that has the ability to carry limited foot passengers. Concerned about the wind-whipped water and ocean-like 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 of the lumpy lake. We pay the staggering fare of $1.35 and throw ourselves on the mercy of the lake.
As the water between the battered boat and dock widens the rusted 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 that it almost feels like going for a ride in an anchored boat. Along with other human cargo, Greg and I are squashed into the belly of the boat amid a fog of noxious diesel fumes. Anxious about the vessel possibly 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 waves on the warpath break through the open windows soaking passengers and causing some to revisit their breakfast. Where art thou Gravol? With our feet immersed in water starting to fill the boat, a muscular barefoot dude feverishly work a large hand pump to eject the vessel’s incoming 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 large bull sharks not shy about snacking on humans!
Bobbing about like a bathtub duck, the water-logged coffin inches its way across 17 km of notoriously choppy waters. The very scary little 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 knowing all good stories have a little disaster in there somewhere; 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 ask? Why, this mystical barbell shaped wonder is the world’s largest island within a fresh water lake. The island 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’s conical peak is 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 like Siamese twins, and the two now thrust up out of the lake like a playmate’s rack. Ometepe Island was also the site location for TV’s “Survivor: Redemption Island”.
Our nautical distress ends in the port of Moyogalpa, where queasy and sodden passengers are granted parole from the confines of the floating gulag. Moyogalpa 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 hop into a Nica tuk-tuk and judder up the coast, swerving around a conglomeration of chickens, skeletal dogs, oxen, and tufty-eared capuchin monkeys. Arriving at Punta Jesus Maria our ears immediately pick up on a droning that sounds like distant chainsaws; the source is a community of mosquitos that seems to have the deed and title to every square inch of beach!
Formed by volcanic sediment, Punta Jesus Maria is an amazing black sandy spit extending half a kilometer out into Lake Nicaragua. Its name comes from the fact that when 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 the plasma-gulpers have us itching to depart!
We swap our lodging in town for a secluded 12 acre country farm called Finca de Sol at the base of the now extinct Maderas Volcano. The self-sustainable ‘farm of the sun’ offers three rustic thatch-roofed cabins allowing Greg and I to each have our own.
My bathroom’s unpredictable plumbing is pathetic. Water dribbles out of the faucet like a diuretic hamster and flows from the sink through a pipe piercing the wall, and out onto a shower floor hosting a jamboree of bugs enjoying a meet and greet on the scuzzy damp tiles! The room also has a non-flushing composting toilet which requires shoveling rice husks out of a five gallon pail into it to conceal the evidence!
These piteous potties are potentially a real pain in the ass. One night going for the husk-scooper I encounter an enormous biting centipede, along with a bumbling beetle only slightly smaller than its Volkswagen namesake! Yes, these shitters with critters are enough to 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 from a single jaundiced light bulb with all 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 pollen-swollen bees foraging in nearby flowering vines. Several times during our meal low-flying squadrons of parrots whoosh past in a wave of wings squawking out morning regards.
Today’s target is Maderas Volcano, and heeding good advice, we’ve hired 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 the corkscrew paths from a thicket of plantains into cloud forest, we pass by fungus farming leaf-cutter ants laboriously lugging leafy loads. Next we come to an ant that locals call the ‘King of Sting’; a species big enough to leave footprints and definitely more uncle than ant!
This mountain is definitely ant central, as we also encounter 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 numbers but also by wily birds hopping through the bushes just above them, hoping to scarf down any morsels of prey flushed out by the advancing legion of legs. Stopping at a termite mound for a protein fix, I not surprisingly find that munching the munchers tastes 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; and the ‘little armored ones’ are known to leap into the air and kill the snake with their sharp armor on landing! He swears he’s seen this happen, but both Greg and I are convinced that his farfetched tale is likely a product of being sozzled on hallucinogenic jungle juice!
At the top of the volcano we catch our breath and admire the vistas. On our descent we’re treated to frolicsome monkeys and an array of butterflies fluttering about like iridescent space aliens. Our best moment however is an exciting encounter with a flashy dude dressed in a striking yellow and black striped suit. As I approach the Oriole Snake for a photo, the slender seven foot serpent employs amazing speed, and races away before slithering up a tree trunk into the branches; clearly at ease in its leafy lair.
After the four hour hike we’re joined at lunch by a pair of yellow-naped parrots hopping about our tabletop in search of errant crumbs. Greg heads back to his cabin, but having not yet satisfied my lust for dust, I rent a bike to further explore. Coming to a shack, I see a puppy and piglet intently watching little ragamuffins kicking a soccer ball about. They seem skittish at my approach, but when I dismount and join in they get all giggly, and even a toothless as a toddler grandma looks out the hut window sharing a gummy smile.
After a couple of close encounters with perturbed brahma bulls unwilling to share a dirt path, I introduce my bike tires to the lake shore, and grunting through the sand, come to a pair of pigs participating in a little grunt-fest of their own while rooting through garbage the waves have washed ashore.
Back at the bungalows a slipping sun means we are once again providing nourishment for the thirsty 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 small village of Balgue. The unpaved rural road is smothered in blackness except for occasional clusters of fireflies that pulse like demented little Christmas lights.
Having reached our destination I attempt to order dinner using my limited arsenal of Spanish; praying I haven’t just told them I covet a plate of fried cockroach! Washing down dinner with a few 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, and turning on the lamentable light I notice a hideous spider with the acreage of a Frisbee 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. No doubt about it, Nicaragua is the country offering the most crawlers for your dollars!
For something different today we’re off to the swamp-like estuary of Rio Istrian that meanders inland from the lake. We launch the kayaks beside a few gossiping gals waist deep in the lake scrubbing their laundry on smooth rocks imbedded in 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 discounting the getting, here we would concur. It does, however, seem quite ironic that such a peaceful place lies in the shadow of an active volcano. To re-cross the massive lake back to the mainland, we’re definitely waiting for the large ferry this time, in hopes of saving ourselves a shipload of grief!
Strong winds make docking tricky for even the big ferry and put us behind schedule, and rushing about after disembarking I confirm the fact I cannot fly. In an epic stumble I introduce myself to ‘Mr. Gravity’ and 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, while I futilely try convincing him that the ground looked a little glum and I just decided to give it a hug! Locating transport, we head upcountry to Granada. The town’s charming little houses are clothed in cheerful shades of paint, and a profusion of horse carts clomp along the slender streets with the turmeric colored Granada Cathedral dominating the background.
By contrast we find graffiti-blasted Managua a thuggish city with an intimidating vibe. Due to the rising levels of violence most windows and doors are fortified with burglar bars, and armed guards stationed outside businesses are common. Lamentable livability is further evidenced by men with assault rifles patrolling the streets from the back of pickup trucks! I doubt many would argue that Managua is the lump of dog-shit on the carpet of Nicaragua.
We continue north to Nicaragua’s second largest and reportedly hottest city; the colonial masterpiece 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, but as a serial rum drinker concerned about taking up residence should I join him, I opt to spend the afternoon wandering the town to see what other mischief I can muster up. At Leon Cathedral, the most prominent of the 18 churches in town, I withdraw my camera and shoot the large stone lions outside then squeeze up a measly stone staircase to walk barefoot on the white domed roof enjoying a view of huge bronze church bells, surrounding volcanos, and the 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 ever sensible Greg wants no part of the absurdity other than as a spectator. Personally, I find secure and predictable a bit of a snore, with many of my most memorable adventures having 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, and sitting on hard inflexible seats, are tossed about like lottery ping pong balls during the twenty mile drive to the intimidating 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 are 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! We are noticing that this is a country that seems real fond 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 volcanic 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 and remind 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 suit up in an unbecoming bile-green and lemon-yellow jumpsuit and a pathetic set of eye goggles; acheiving the look 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 idea 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 four foot piece of plywood with a slab of Formica nailed beneath it to increase speed for the dumb-ass sitting atop it. A piece of attached rope acts as a grip. Our guide informs us the speed record for this negligence of sanity 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 adrenaline surging, my body displays all the classic symptoms of impending menace. 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 mess of male ego responsible for the stupidest shit in otherwise normal men!
With 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 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, and any notion of a graceful descent quickly evaporates with my body 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 skin, or rather the lack of it. Though it may be the body’s largest organ, I’m still very squeamish about this ending up 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, 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, and when I remove 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; and of the 35,000,000 minutes I’ve spent on this planet this ranks right up there 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 this is not the start of another brutal Sandinista uprising; 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 holiday winding down 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, who I’ve met here in Nicaragua. Intuition tells me that she and I are going to make 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, becoming far more refined and enticing 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’m 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 desirable 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 have 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