(Costa RIca Day 63)
Today we split up. None of us were actually interested in sightseeing around Managua again before our bus back to Nicaragua, it wasn’t the last memory we wanted of Nicaragua. So, while Mari and Hiro decided to bus back to the market in Masaya to do some more souvenir shopping, I decided to just spend the morning at the hotel, enjoying the hot shower, writing and maybe seeing what was on T.V.
The shower was amazing. After I ended up watching Robin Hood Prince of thieves and starting my entries for this blog.
Maria And Hiro got back, just after our 11 am check out time, carrying large bags full of wooden bowls, containers, a hanging decoration and all sorts of other made for tourist artisan goodies.
They packed, we checked out and got to the bus station in time for our bus at noon.
Our movie selections started off with “The Devil Wears Prada,” and “Awake” both of which had the sound turned down very low and I watched with Spanish subtitles. The translations were almost completely correct. The third movie was a dubbed version of Mystic River, and which turned out not to be any more exciting in Spanish than it was in English.
About 7 hours into the trip, Mari and I started getting antsy, looking out into the dark landscape trying to see signs of something we recognized. The trip up had only been 6 and a half hours and that was with a much longer stop over at the border. I managed to catch a sign that read 44 km to Puntaranues, which is about 50 km outside of San Ramon.
We still have a long way to go.
We arrived at the mall at the edge of San Ramon at 9:30 pm. So excited to be off the bus that we couldn’t be sad about our vacation ending. Got home and just managed to unpack my toothbrush and throw clothes in the hamper before passing out.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Nicaragua Day 8 – Leon Viejo, Leon sorta
(Costa RIca Day 62)
With great regret we left Big Corn Island early this morning to catch our flight back to Managua. The plane ride was dun, since the plane was small, a 20 seater at most, and we were able to see into the cockpit. I won’t pretend I knew what all the semi-shinny gadgets did, but they were fun to watch. We had already decided though that we would spend our day in Leon, rather than Managua and ran out of our hotel in Managua almost as quickly as we arrived.
The trick was, which Leon would we visit? The original Leon had been left in ruins after an earthquake some 500 years ago, and the new Leon, which stood today was built some 20 km to the west. Although we were really interested in seeing the excavation and reconstruction of Old Leon, we didn’t think we could get there without taxi and did not want to spend the money.
So we were quite ecstatic when we arrived in Leon to find out that there was a bus that the driver said drove right by the entrance to Old Leon. He said it was less than an hour away. Excited we got on, with that kind of timing we would be able to see both cities.
We had forgotten about Murphy, and the fact that not all people were like the people we had met on the island. Turned out “right in front of the entrance” meant about in front of a 7km road that led to where Old Leon lay. We knew something was wrong when the bus zoomed away as soon as we got off.
The group of men painting lines on the road got a good laugh when we asked them where Old Leon was and they pointed down the road telling us it was 7 km in that direction. Our faces must have been quite comical. Luckily one of them took pitty on us and offered to drive us there for what amounted to $6. We agreed, since the bus that would actually go by, wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
Old Leon itself, turned out to be pretty, an excellent spot for a picnic if one had the time, but unfortunately by the time we got there we only had an hour before we had to catch the bus heading back. We did get to see the ruins and an amazing view of the volcano that had caused the rumbling that had toppled the town. Unlike Arenal, you could see the purple and red tinted soil on this volcano.
We headed back into the town, which I swear could have been out of an old western movie and caught the converted school bus, which would take us back to La Paz where we could catch a bus to Leon. When we got to Leon it was already 5:00 pm, we were starving because we hadn’t eaten, and a little put off that we had not been able to get as much out of the day as we had wanted.
We bought the Nicaragua equivalent of a chicken pita from a street vendor, it was absolutely delicious, and made our way to the main square, hoping to at least get to see the cathedral. We did get to see the cathedral, but arrived just in time to watch them close the doors for the day. I guess we were too late to see inside.
So in case someone if keeping score, it takes a full 3 hours to go the 20 km between Leon and Old Leon by bus. Turns out there was a reason why Lonely Planet had taxi written down as the only mode of transportation between the two. We resolved to find the nearest hole in Managua and bury Murphy in it before we returned to Costa Rica.
With great regret we left Big Corn Island early this morning to catch our flight back to Managua. The plane ride was dun, since the plane was small, a 20 seater at most, and we were able to see into the cockpit. I won’t pretend I knew what all the semi-shinny gadgets did, but they were fun to watch. We had already decided though that we would spend our day in Leon, rather than Managua and ran out of our hotel in Managua almost as quickly as we arrived.
The trick was, which Leon would we visit? The original Leon had been left in ruins after an earthquake some 500 years ago, and the new Leon, which stood today was built some 20 km to the west. Although we were really interested in seeing the excavation and reconstruction of Old Leon, we didn’t think we could get there without taxi and did not want to spend the money.
So we were quite ecstatic when we arrived in Leon to find out that there was a bus that the driver said drove right by the entrance to Old Leon. He said it was less than an hour away. Excited we got on, with that kind of timing we would be able to see both cities.
We had forgotten about Murphy, and the fact that not all people were like the people we had met on the island. Turned out “right in front of the entrance” meant about in front of a 7km road that led to where Old Leon lay. We knew something was wrong when the bus zoomed away as soon as we got off.
The group of men painting lines on the road got a good laugh when we asked them where Old Leon was and they pointed down the road telling us it was 7 km in that direction. Our faces must have been quite comical. Luckily one of them took pitty on us and offered to drive us there for what amounted to $6. We agreed, since the bus that would actually go by, wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
Old Leon itself, turned out to be pretty, an excellent spot for a picnic if one had the time, but unfortunately by the time we got there we only had an hour before we had to catch the bus heading back. We did get to see the ruins and an amazing view of the volcano that had caused the rumbling that had toppled the town. Unlike Arenal, you could see the purple and red tinted soil on this volcano.
We headed back into the town, which I swear could have been out of an old western movie and caught the converted school bus, which would take us back to La Paz where we could catch a bus to Leon. When we got to Leon it was already 5:00 pm, we were starving because we hadn’t eaten, and a little put off that we had not been able to get as much out of the day as we had wanted.
We bought the Nicaragua equivalent of a chicken pita from a street vendor, it was absolutely delicious, and made our way to the main square, hoping to at least get to see the cathedral. We did get to see the cathedral, but arrived just in time to watch them close the doors for the day. I guess we were too late to see inside.
So in case someone if keeping score, it takes a full 3 hours to go the 20 km between Leon and Old Leon by bus. Turns out there was a reason why Lonely Planet had taxi written down as the only mode of transportation between the two. We resolved to find the nearest hole in Managua and bury Murphy in it before we returned to Costa Rica.
Nicaragua Day 7 – Little Corn Island, Italian dinner
(Costa Rica Day 61)
The problem with being restricted from doing something is that that thing, for some time afterwards, will be all that occupies your mind and desires.
Today, for me, that thing is water. Sometimes being a woman sucks.
Today we got up earlier, although, 6 am is a far less painful hour on Corn Island than it is back home. The tail end of the sunrise greeted me as I walked outside to wait for the others to finish getting ready for the day. I continued my walk through Jane Austin’s romance amoung the wind, grass and sound of the the early mornign tide.
It worked out perfectly that the characters happened to be back in Southhampton near the sea themselves at that point.
Breakfast, was a surprise. We had to catch the ferry for Little Corn Island at 7:00 am, and since Alsandro had said breakfast was after 7:30 am, we were not expecting to anything. Alsandro, ever the good host, brought us tea and coffee on trays.
I was so engrossed in my book I didn’t even notice until the tray was placed ont he grass beside me, and I am sure the surprise showed on my face, because he laughed at my startled thank-you and walked away.
I took my sketchbook, novel, mp3 player; safety lines against any potential boredom, not being able to swim would cause and we headed for the dock. Our directions were to walk along the shoreline into Brigs Bay until we came upon the dock with the boat. Sunday morning there are no taxis running on Corn Island.
The boat ride across was thrilling, it felt like zooming across a wave lake on a seadoo, but only in a bigger craft, with bigger waves on the sea. The water was made up of an infinite number layers, smaller waves that textured it and larger ones that created the swells we travelled up and over or skipped across depending on the sia and speed of the boat at the time.
Some passengers enjoyed the trip more than others, I think some people got a little worried when we bounced off of one wave and came back down hard enough to lifts us all an inch off our seats.
Once we got to the island it became quickly apparent to me that the main activity here was either snorkelling or diving, or swimming or laying ont he beach. The island was small and trails for walking were fairly unexciting, the main natural wanders around were to be found in the sea.
And it was hot, the North wind that made Big Corn Island such a perfect climate did nto make it to Little Corn Island and the sun beat down with more strength. Perfect beach weather, so long as you can cool off in the water.
Needless to say, I was a little bitter about this fact, especially when I finished reading Jane Austin’s Lost Memoirs and was left without that distraction. All my other options seemed to loose their appeal to the heat and taunting crystal clear water.
So I decided to engage in some sand castle therapy, while Mari and Hiro went on their snorkelling trip with their Aussie guides.
Oh yes, despite it’s smaller size, we saw more foreigners living on the islet than we saw on it’s larger brother. In fact I think I counted more foreigners than I did natives in my time there. The total count on Big Corn Island was three.
English was definitely the preferred language by both foreigners and locals alike on the islet, although the locals could of course speak Spanish as well. The foreigners seemed to be British, or Aussie, or Canadian (didn’t meet up with them, but was told they existed), or form the US. And they were all there for the coral reef and spent the day hoping on and off boats to various underwater locations aroudn the island.
Anyway, back to my sand castle. I would characterize the architectural style as being a cross between an Aztec temple and a Medieval Spanish castle. A meeting of two cultures in this area melding together and into the very beach itself. A work of art.
And if you believe that I’ve got a white canvas with a black dot on it that represents the struggle between good and evil. Its yours for a measly quarter of a million dollars.
Meanwhile, the snorkelling trip went well for the other two, aside form a minor jellyfish run in, and we headed off to catch the boat back to the larger island. We had reserved dinner from Alsandro that evening and were looking forward to the Italian cooking.
The boat ride back was as much fun as the ride to the island, the views, if were even more spectacular because once again we found ourselves on a boat riding into the sunset. Two of the deck hands, if you can use that term to apply to what amounts to a very large speed boat, were standing up on the front most deat and holding onto ropes tied to the bow of the boat. It amazed me that they had no problems balancing when the boat started, it looked like so much fun to ride the boat like that. Ah well maybe next time.
We did manage to hit a few larger waves, including one that sent the younger smaller deck had nearly sprawling back into Mari, he sat down in a seat form then on and spent the rest of the trip trying not to laugh to hard at Mari’s reactions and fear of the larger waves.
We reached Big Corn Island and after showering and changing into a fresh pair of clothes we headed to the “dining hall” to wait for our meal. Puss, our cat friend from the other day joined us, eager to start buttering us up before we even received the meals he was very eager to share.
Alsandro laid out the meal perfectly, exactly as it would be at a fancy party, except that the setting was a pirates island in a stone remains of what use to be a larger hotel. And our host was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. It was pretty cool.
The most exciting part, however, was eating spaghetti with TOMATO sauce, oh how I missed that and chicken that had clearly been marinated the night before and was served with freshly cut tomatoes.
I didn’t give Puss a single bite, by then he had become pretty rude in his insistence and was putting front paws up on our chairs to beg for food and had even clawed at one of the dogs when he came around to look for food. Also the dogs were getting ideas from the cat, and they didn’t have the same table manners Pedro did in Granada. Unfortunately, although Hiro and I warned her not to, Mari could not resist Puss’ big kitten eyes and did give him some spaghetti and fish. The cat didn’t leave her alone for the rest of the night.
Ice cream for desert, and then a shot of rum to close the palette and we were all blessedly full and you know what that means. Yes we started to get sleepy. I tried to resist the lure for a little while to watch the stars and woke up in my chair outside an hour later with one of the doggy guards sitting beside me.
I didn’t want to go to bed, because the next morning we had to leave this little paradise, but sleep proved too strong a lure and I settled in for the night. I think I dreamed of pirate cats trying to steal my treasure trove of chocolate and fish. And no, I did not make that up. My dreams are just that easily influenced.
The problem with being restricted from doing something is that that thing, for some time afterwards, will be all that occupies your mind and desires.
Today, for me, that thing is water. Sometimes being a woman sucks.
Today we got up earlier, although, 6 am is a far less painful hour on Corn Island than it is back home. The tail end of the sunrise greeted me as I walked outside to wait for the others to finish getting ready for the day. I continued my walk through Jane Austin’s romance amoung the wind, grass and sound of the the early mornign tide.
It worked out perfectly that the characters happened to be back in Southhampton near the sea themselves at that point.
Breakfast, was a surprise. We had to catch the ferry for Little Corn Island at 7:00 am, and since Alsandro had said breakfast was after 7:30 am, we were not expecting to anything. Alsandro, ever the good host, brought us tea and coffee on trays.
I was so engrossed in my book I didn’t even notice until the tray was placed ont he grass beside me, and I am sure the surprise showed on my face, because he laughed at my startled thank-you and walked away.
I took my sketchbook, novel, mp3 player; safety lines against any potential boredom, not being able to swim would cause and we headed for the dock. Our directions were to walk along the shoreline into Brigs Bay until we came upon the dock with the boat. Sunday morning there are no taxis running on Corn Island.
The boat ride across was thrilling, it felt like zooming across a wave lake on a seadoo, but only in a bigger craft, with bigger waves on the sea. The water was made up of an infinite number layers, smaller waves that textured it and larger ones that created the swells we travelled up and over or skipped across depending on the sia and speed of the boat at the time.
Some passengers enjoyed the trip more than others, I think some people got a little worried when we bounced off of one wave and came back down hard enough to lifts us all an inch off our seats.
Once we got to the island it became quickly apparent to me that the main activity here was either snorkelling or diving, or swimming or laying ont he beach. The island was small and trails for walking were fairly unexciting, the main natural wanders around were to be found in the sea.
And it was hot, the North wind that made Big Corn Island such a perfect climate did nto make it to Little Corn Island and the sun beat down with more strength. Perfect beach weather, so long as you can cool off in the water.
Needless to say, I was a little bitter about this fact, especially when I finished reading Jane Austin’s Lost Memoirs and was left without that distraction. All my other options seemed to loose their appeal to the heat and taunting crystal clear water.
So I decided to engage in some sand castle therapy, while Mari and Hiro went on their snorkelling trip with their Aussie guides.
Oh yes, despite it’s smaller size, we saw more foreigners living on the islet than we saw on it’s larger brother. In fact I think I counted more foreigners than I did natives in my time there. The total count on Big Corn Island was three.
English was definitely the preferred language by both foreigners and locals alike on the islet, although the locals could of course speak Spanish as well. The foreigners seemed to be British, or Aussie, or Canadian (didn’t meet up with them, but was told they existed), or form the US. And they were all there for the coral reef and spent the day hoping on and off boats to various underwater locations aroudn the island.
Anyway, back to my sand castle. I would characterize the architectural style as being a cross between an Aztec temple and a Medieval Spanish castle. A meeting of two cultures in this area melding together and into the very beach itself. A work of art.
And if you believe that I’ve got a white canvas with a black dot on it that represents the struggle between good and evil. Its yours for a measly quarter of a million dollars.
Meanwhile, the snorkelling trip went well for the other two, aside form a minor jellyfish run in, and we headed off to catch the boat back to the larger island. We had reserved dinner from Alsandro that evening and were looking forward to the Italian cooking.
The boat ride back was as much fun as the ride to the island, the views, if were even more spectacular because once again we found ourselves on a boat riding into the sunset. Two of the deck hands, if you can use that term to apply to what amounts to a very large speed boat, were standing up on the front most deat and holding onto ropes tied to the bow of the boat. It amazed me that they had no problems balancing when the boat started, it looked like so much fun to ride the boat like that. Ah well maybe next time.
We did manage to hit a few larger waves, including one that sent the younger smaller deck had nearly sprawling back into Mari, he sat down in a seat form then on and spent the rest of the trip trying not to laugh to hard at Mari’s reactions and fear of the larger waves.
We reached Big Corn Island and after showering and changing into a fresh pair of clothes we headed to the “dining hall” to wait for our meal. Puss, our cat friend from the other day joined us, eager to start buttering us up before we even received the meals he was very eager to share.
Alsandro laid out the meal perfectly, exactly as it would be at a fancy party, except that the setting was a pirates island in a stone remains of what use to be a larger hotel. And our host was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. It was pretty cool.
The most exciting part, however, was eating spaghetti with TOMATO sauce, oh how I missed that and chicken that had clearly been marinated the night before and was served with freshly cut tomatoes.
I didn’t give Puss a single bite, by then he had become pretty rude in his insistence and was putting front paws up on our chairs to beg for food and had even clawed at one of the dogs when he came around to look for food. Also the dogs were getting ideas from the cat, and they didn’t have the same table manners Pedro did in Granada. Unfortunately, although Hiro and I warned her not to, Mari could not resist Puss’ big kitten eyes and did give him some spaghetti and fish. The cat didn’t leave her alone for the rest of the night.
Ice cream for desert, and then a shot of rum to close the palette and we were all blessedly full and you know what that means. Yes we started to get sleepy. I tried to resist the lure for a little while to watch the stars and woke up in my chair outside an hour later with one of the doggy guards sitting beside me.
I didn’t want to go to bed, because the next morning we had to leave this little paradise, but sleep proved too strong a lure and I settled in for the night. I think I dreamed of pirate cats trying to steal my treasure trove of chocolate and fish. And no, I did not make that up. My dreams are just that easily influenced.
Day 6 – Big Corn Island, bikes and beaches
(Costa Rica Day 60)
The morning started here very gently, with us going down for breakfast in the stone dining hall. Afterwards I sat in one of the deck chairs that had been laid our and began reading “The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen” a perfect book for that setting and which added to my desire to write while I was there. Every once and a while I would look up to watch the fishermen throwing their nets in the water down the coast, or the small group of children playing in the surf.
If anyone is ever looking for a location to hide away from the world where they can simply paint or write or play music, I would highly recommend Corn Island. It is the perfect inspiration for creativity.
Once we finally decided to get going on our day, our plan was to rent bicycles and ride around the island. Alsandro saw us heading on our way and offered to give us a ride to the bike rental place. It was really amazing that such an old and rusted jeep could run as smoothly as that jeep did, heck if I had seen it on the side of the road I wouldn’t have thought it could run at all. It reminded me of the riddled SUV we had ridden on Ometeppe and made me think that a car in good condition had an entirely different meaning around here. Then again with a speed of 20 km/h and almost no one else on the road, the dangers were minimal.
We got to the bike rental place, and rented out bikes, I got given a mountain bike with a basket attached to the front, an odd image, but for once I was thankful, because it would be easier to keep my camera there than to carry it on my back.
The road we set out on can’t really be said to have potholes, I suppose, since it was a dirt road, but if was definitely more of the rocky wavy road, than anything that could resemble flat and straight.
It didn’t matter, the bikes had been a great idea, we all felt sort of free, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed biking, and resolved to get my biked fixed when I returned to Canada. It seems odd to think of it now, but it has been two years since I have really rode my bike. Such a shame how we let such things that we enjoy fall to the waste side of the rapid blinding whirlwind of everyday life. Hope I can keep that in mind when I return to Canada.
We passed other cyclists on the road, some who waved, others who looked at us strangely. There weren’t a lot of tourists on Big Corn Island this time of year, so we stood out pretty spectacularly. We passed houses with beautiful untamed gardens and also a cattle farm. By the time we passed what appeared to be a Canadian owned hostel (Go Canada!) we had been on a paved road for a while and I was enjoying showing off my slalom routine, when I heard a gasp come from Mari.
Ah Murphy’s Law. Old friend we meet again.
The chain on Mari’s bike had broken, and while it didn’t put her in any danger, it did mean that we were one bike down on our bike tour. Hiro, of course, tried to fix it, but there is not much to be done for a broken bike chain in the middle of a sunny road by the beach.
So we walked our biked around the corner and discovered that we were actually much closer to our lunch point on the other side of the island than we had thought. As I ran to stare at the waves, Mari and Hiro were stopped by a gentleman who thought Mari was a woman who lived on the island, as there apparently was one inhabitant of Corn Island who was of Japanese descent. He began a conversation in English of course with them and would not take their gentle nudging towards Spanish until I showed up. Then he spoke Spanish fluently.
He told us his family had lived on the island for generations and that if we wanted he could give us a complete history later. He also showed us the spot on the cliff to avoid on the island, because it was the local hangout for teen drug addicts.
After lunch we went to enjoy the beach for a while and I watched a persistent log repeatedly make a break for the sea, only to be pushed back onto the shore by the tide.
I was suddenly taken over by a childish urge to build a sand castle and set about my task using a stick as a shovel. Apparently, the Carribean did not approve of my design, however, because the tide increased and with one strong wave that went over the tree root sheltering my sandcastle, flooded the hallways and melted the sandy walls. I guess I wasn’t meant to take up residence on Big Corn Island just yet.
During lunch a man with a pick up had passed by and stopped at the restaurant. We had asked him if he would take the broken bike back to the rental place for us and he had agreed. So now down one bike, Hiro insisted that Mari take his bike and we ride back, while he would follow in a bit in a taxi. Eventually we agreed.
Half way through our ride home we passed a wooden sign nailed to a tree. It read, “Free at last, Sins forgiven.” I was then 100% positive that if one cared to look there would be hidden treasure to find on the island.
The ride back was pleasant, we got a discount because of the malfunctioning bikes, my basket had also given out on the end, remaining half attached and dragging on the wheel. Then we walked down the road to another hotel for some drinks before heading out. Good timing, because Jane had just discovered why she had been so deviously left behind.
I looked up occasionally to watch the progression of a drunk, and stoned male tourist with long hair, who was sitting near us. He was steadily working his way from mellow down to comatose. Part of me will never understand why one would come to such a magnificent island only to dull their senses and drop into a state of total unawareness. Really, why bother leaving home.
It was dark by the time we were ready to go home, but Hiro said he knew the way home from his walk in the morning. So we headed out. Turns out things look a lot different in the dark than they do during the day and we promptly got lost in a small neighbourhood of houses.
Thank god for nice locals, a family that was on their way into town and would be passing by our hotel offered to show us the way. And so we headed into the dark, with only the light form Mari’s cell phone, the stars when we hit a clearing and the occasional lamp to light our way. This didn’t seem to be problem for the locals, where as we were regularly tripping on various rocks and tree roots.
At some point, I am not sure exactly where on the island, we broke onto a stretch of beach, and came to realize that there were no clouds that night. The sky was filled with stars, enough that the area was slightly lit up with a dim blue light. The sea in contrast was pitch black, the waves keeping it form reflecting more than a few star. The sigh was incredible, and I would have been happy to camp in that spot, but we had to keep moving. For some odd reason, it reminded me a lot of the scene in the Lion King where Mufasa and Simba have their little chat. Beach, savannah….told you the island did odd things to your imagination.
We got to the hotel without problem, thanked our nice guides and tried to get to our room without setting off the dog alarms. Luckily they seemed to recognize our scent and only came up passively to walk beside us.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, Free at last!”
The morning started here very gently, with us going down for breakfast in the stone dining hall. Afterwards I sat in one of the deck chairs that had been laid our and began reading “The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen” a perfect book for that setting and which added to my desire to write while I was there. Every once and a while I would look up to watch the fishermen throwing their nets in the water down the coast, or the small group of children playing in the surf.
If anyone is ever looking for a location to hide away from the world where they can simply paint or write or play music, I would highly recommend Corn Island. It is the perfect inspiration for creativity.
Once we finally decided to get going on our day, our plan was to rent bicycles and ride around the island. Alsandro saw us heading on our way and offered to give us a ride to the bike rental place. It was really amazing that such an old and rusted jeep could run as smoothly as that jeep did, heck if I had seen it on the side of the road I wouldn’t have thought it could run at all. It reminded me of the riddled SUV we had ridden on Ometeppe and made me think that a car in good condition had an entirely different meaning around here. Then again with a speed of 20 km/h and almost no one else on the road, the dangers were minimal.
We got to the bike rental place, and rented out bikes, I got given a mountain bike with a basket attached to the front, an odd image, but for once I was thankful, because it would be easier to keep my camera there than to carry it on my back.
The road we set out on can’t really be said to have potholes, I suppose, since it was a dirt road, but if was definitely more of the rocky wavy road, than anything that could resemble flat and straight.
It didn’t matter, the bikes had been a great idea, we all felt sort of free, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed biking, and resolved to get my biked fixed when I returned to Canada. It seems odd to think of it now, but it has been two years since I have really rode my bike. Such a shame how we let such things that we enjoy fall to the waste side of the rapid blinding whirlwind of everyday life. Hope I can keep that in mind when I return to Canada.
We passed other cyclists on the road, some who waved, others who looked at us strangely. There weren’t a lot of tourists on Big Corn Island this time of year, so we stood out pretty spectacularly. We passed houses with beautiful untamed gardens and also a cattle farm. By the time we passed what appeared to be a Canadian owned hostel (Go Canada!) we had been on a paved road for a while and I was enjoying showing off my slalom routine, when I heard a gasp come from Mari.
Ah Murphy’s Law. Old friend we meet again.
The chain on Mari’s bike had broken, and while it didn’t put her in any danger, it did mean that we were one bike down on our bike tour. Hiro, of course, tried to fix it, but there is not much to be done for a broken bike chain in the middle of a sunny road by the beach.
So we walked our biked around the corner and discovered that we were actually much closer to our lunch point on the other side of the island than we had thought. As I ran to stare at the waves, Mari and Hiro were stopped by a gentleman who thought Mari was a woman who lived on the island, as there apparently was one inhabitant of Corn Island who was of Japanese descent. He began a conversation in English of course with them and would not take their gentle nudging towards Spanish until I showed up. Then he spoke Spanish fluently.
He told us his family had lived on the island for generations and that if we wanted he could give us a complete history later. He also showed us the spot on the cliff to avoid on the island, because it was the local hangout for teen drug addicts.
After lunch we went to enjoy the beach for a while and I watched a persistent log repeatedly make a break for the sea, only to be pushed back onto the shore by the tide.
I was suddenly taken over by a childish urge to build a sand castle and set about my task using a stick as a shovel. Apparently, the Carribean did not approve of my design, however, because the tide increased and with one strong wave that went over the tree root sheltering my sandcastle, flooded the hallways and melted the sandy walls. I guess I wasn’t meant to take up residence on Big Corn Island just yet.
During lunch a man with a pick up had passed by and stopped at the restaurant. We had asked him if he would take the broken bike back to the rental place for us and he had agreed. So now down one bike, Hiro insisted that Mari take his bike and we ride back, while he would follow in a bit in a taxi. Eventually we agreed.
Half way through our ride home we passed a wooden sign nailed to a tree. It read, “Free at last, Sins forgiven.” I was then 100% positive that if one cared to look there would be hidden treasure to find on the island.
The ride back was pleasant, we got a discount because of the malfunctioning bikes, my basket had also given out on the end, remaining half attached and dragging on the wheel. Then we walked down the road to another hotel for some drinks before heading out. Good timing, because Jane had just discovered why she had been so deviously left behind.
I looked up occasionally to watch the progression of a drunk, and stoned male tourist with long hair, who was sitting near us. He was steadily working his way from mellow down to comatose. Part of me will never understand why one would come to such a magnificent island only to dull their senses and drop into a state of total unawareness. Really, why bother leaving home.
It was dark by the time we were ready to go home, but Hiro said he knew the way home from his walk in the morning. So we headed out. Turns out things look a lot different in the dark than they do during the day and we promptly got lost in a small neighbourhood of houses.
Thank god for nice locals, a family that was on their way into town and would be passing by our hotel offered to show us the way. And so we headed into the dark, with only the light form Mari’s cell phone, the stars when we hit a clearing and the occasional lamp to light our way. This didn’t seem to be problem for the locals, where as we were regularly tripping on various rocks and tree roots.
At some point, I am not sure exactly where on the island, we broke onto a stretch of beach, and came to realize that there were no clouds that night. The sky was filled with stars, enough that the area was slightly lit up with a dim blue light. The sea in contrast was pitch black, the waves keeping it form reflecting more than a few star. The sigh was incredible, and I would have been happy to camp in that spot, but we had to keep moving. For some odd reason, it reminded me a lot of the scene in the Lion King where Mufasa and Simba have their little chat. Beach, savannah….told you the island did odd things to your imagination.
We got to the hotel without problem, thanked our nice guides and tried to get to our room without setting off the dog alarms. Luckily they seemed to recognize our scent and only came up passively to walk beside us.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, Free at last!”
Day 5 – Managua, flight, Isle de Maiz
(Costa Rica day 59)
I have never had as hard a time finding something to like in a place as I did in Managua, and I have rarely ever been inspired to create by a place than I was on Corn Island.
That I should feel both extremes in the same day, in the same country is a good reason why judging people as a nation is not a good idea.
Admittedly, we had not made big plans for our brief time in Managua, being the capital of the country we figured it would have fairly standard things to offer and that we could figure out what to do pretty easily once we arrived.
We had a few locations that seemed might be interesting based on our guidebooks and what reception a our hotel had told us and we called a taxi to take us to the first one which was a lookout hill. The second was an archaeological sight with 6000 year old footprints, the third the monumental hill area with an old ruin of a church. The fourth we went to the best market in town.
After an hour and 45 minutes, $30 in taxi fees (didn't negotiate as early as we should have, oops) we had seen everything there was to see in Managua, and still had an hour before having to leave to catch our flight to Corn Island.
We had also seen a lot of the actual city itself and it made us all a little sad. We knew now why no one had been around the night before. Large modern buildings we thought we had spotted on our ride in turned out to only be large bank buildings, rich hotels and government buildings. The rest were run down concrete houses, or shanties made out of metal, cardboard and plastic bags. One such community, the larges in fact we saw was directly across the shinny modern yellow brick legislative building.
It was big business, and poverty, with no in between. And everywhere there were large pink posters and other propaganda for the newly elected president. The trees and lamp posts had the black and red banner of the FSLN painted on them. At various traffic circles in the city there were people standing with love is stronger than hate signs and flags, but they looks less than interested in whatever their purpose was.
Shopkeepers and our taxi driver were no different, crossing the line form insistent to rude and acting extremely wary of locals and foreigners alike. The war had ended over 10 years ago, and yet it seemed nothing had been fixed, and I know I am basing this on very little time there, but it didn't seem like anyone had the motivation to try and change things here anymore. It was a start difference from the happy bustle of Masaya or the pride of Granada. And this was the capital.
This description in no way can give a sense of what it was like to be there and how much the city makes you want to leave as quickly as possible. I felt extremely guilty for wanting to leave, because of the field I work in and because poverty issues are one of my main interests, but I was worried that much longer and the greyness and filth and despair of the city would weigh me down as well. Especially since we weren't in a position to help much.
Isle the Maiz, was the exact opposite. Unlike the rest of Nicaragua, which had been colonized by the Spanish, both corn islands were deemed too dangerously located and not having any natural resources of interest to be of much use to the colonists.
English pirates, viewed things differently and ended up settling down into the place. And the island looks like a perfect setting, with rocks and cliffs and sandy beaches, as well as an amazing north wind that constantly blows setting the palms swaying and keeping the a perfect warm temperature without being stifling.
Our hotel, La Princesa del Isle, was actually the stone foundation of a former hotel that had been ruined in a hurricane that hit the island in the 1990s. It added character to the place, as did Alesandro the Italian gentleman who ran the place with his wife. He ran the hotel with the elegance that would befit Italy, but did it wearing brightly coloured shorts and t-shirts that did not match, and had a relaxed chummy air with his quests. More like he was inviting them into his house rather than his hotel, which I guess since he lived on the same property could be said to be true.
After depositing our bags in our rooms we left to go hunt down somewhere to eat, and as such found ourselves on the road to Brig’s Bay, the only ‘town’ on the island, which was a 25 minute walk along deserted beach from our hotel. On the way we were treated to our first island sunset, a spectacular display of roses and violets that went to the horizon and then continued into the waves.
In Brig’s Bay, we came to realize two things, first that there were people out and about at night on this small island than there were in Managua. And secondly, English was definitely the preferred language here, although all residents spoke flawless Spanish as well. Actually, funny story. Mari actually spent a year in England studying English and so has a decent understanding of the language, and her Spanish, needless to say, is fluent. So it was with horror that she regarded me when we got in the cab at the airport and our driver spoke with one of the airport workers in Caribbean English and said, ‘I don’t understand a word they are saying.’ I couldn’t help laughing. But I understood and explained that it was because of the dialect and that she shouldn’t worry, I would translate if needed. Hiro was nodding in agreement.
We got our second experience of the Island dialect at our restaurant that nice. We had ordered lobster ceviche as an appetizer, oh so good, and oh so much more affordable than in Canada, when a wily old gentleman started playing and singing a song at the table next to us. It was a bawdy type song about how he met his wife, and seemed to fit perfectly with the feel of the island and the boats bobbing up and down at the dock in front of us.
So went our introduction to Corn Island. Maybe the next day we would go hunting for buried treasure.
I have never had as hard a time finding something to like in a place as I did in Managua, and I have rarely ever been inspired to create by a place than I was on Corn Island.
That I should feel both extremes in the same day, in the same country is a good reason why judging people as a nation is not a good idea.
Admittedly, we had not made big plans for our brief time in Managua, being the capital of the country we figured it would have fairly standard things to offer and that we could figure out what to do pretty easily once we arrived.
We had a few locations that seemed might be interesting based on our guidebooks and what reception a our hotel had told us and we called a taxi to take us to the first one which was a lookout hill. The second was an archaeological sight with 6000 year old footprints, the third the monumental hill area with an old ruin of a church. The fourth we went to the best market in town.
After an hour and 45 minutes, $30 in taxi fees (didn't negotiate as early as we should have, oops) we had seen everything there was to see in Managua, and still had an hour before having to leave to catch our flight to Corn Island.
We had also seen a lot of the actual city itself and it made us all a little sad. We knew now why no one had been around the night before. Large modern buildings we thought we had spotted on our ride in turned out to only be large bank buildings, rich hotels and government buildings. The rest were run down concrete houses, or shanties made out of metal, cardboard and plastic bags. One such community, the larges in fact we saw was directly across the shinny modern yellow brick legislative building.
It was big business, and poverty, with no in between. And everywhere there were large pink posters and other propaganda for the newly elected president. The trees and lamp posts had the black and red banner of the FSLN painted on them. At various traffic circles in the city there were people standing with love is stronger than hate signs and flags, but they looks less than interested in whatever their purpose was.
Shopkeepers and our taxi driver were no different, crossing the line form insistent to rude and acting extremely wary of locals and foreigners alike. The war had ended over 10 years ago, and yet it seemed nothing had been fixed, and I know I am basing this on very little time there, but it didn't seem like anyone had the motivation to try and change things here anymore. It was a start difference from the happy bustle of Masaya or the pride of Granada. And this was the capital.
This description in no way can give a sense of what it was like to be there and how much the city makes you want to leave as quickly as possible. I felt extremely guilty for wanting to leave, because of the field I work in and because poverty issues are one of my main interests, but I was worried that much longer and the greyness and filth and despair of the city would weigh me down as well. Especially since we weren't in a position to help much.
Isle the Maiz, was the exact opposite. Unlike the rest of Nicaragua, which had been colonized by the Spanish, both corn islands were deemed too dangerously located and not having any natural resources of interest to be of much use to the colonists.
English pirates, viewed things differently and ended up settling down into the place. And the island looks like a perfect setting, with rocks and cliffs and sandy beaches, as well as an amazing north wind that constantly blows setting the palms swaying and keeping the a perfect warm temperature without being stifling.
Our hotel, La Princesa del Isle, was actually the stone foundation of a former hotel that had been ruined in a hurricane that hit the island in the 1990s. It added character to the place, as did Alesandro the Italian gentleman who ran the place with his wife. He ran the hotel with the elegance that would befit Italy, but did it wearing brightly coloured shorts and t-shirts that did not match, and had a relaxed chummy air with his quests. More like he was inviting them into his house rather than his hotel, which I guess since he lived on the same property could be said to be true.
After depositing our bags in our rooms we left to go hunt down somewhere to eat, and as such found ourselves on the road to Brig’s Bay, the only ‘town’ on the island, which was a 25 minute walk along deserted beach from our hotel. On the way we were treated to our first island sunset, a spectacular display of roses and violets that went to the horizon and then continued into the waves.
In Brig’s Bay, we came to realize two things, first that there were people out and about at night on this small island than there were in Managua. And secondly, English was definitely the preferred language here, although all residents spoke flawless Spanish as well. Actually, funny story. Mari actually spent a year in England studying English and so has a decent understanding of the language, and her Spanish, needless to say, is fluent. So it was with horror that she regarded me when we got in the cab at the airport and our driver spoke with one of the airport workers in Caribbean English and said, ‘I don’t understand a word they are saying.’ I couldn’t help laughing. But I understood and explained that it was because of the dialect and that she shouldn’t worry, I would translate if needed. Hiro was nodding in agreement.
We got our second experience of the Island dialect at our restaurant that nice. We had ordered lobster ceviche as an appetizer, oh so good, and oh so much more affordable than in Canada, when a wily old gentleman started playing and singing a song at the table next to us. It was a bawdy type song about how he met his wife, and seemed to fit perfectly with the feel of the island and the boats bobbing up and down at the dock in front of us.
So went our introduction to Corn Island. Maybe the next day we would go hunting for buried treasure.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Day 4 – Granada, Masaya, Managua
(Costa Rica day 58)
Our last morning at the Patio del Malinche, started out slower than the preceding two. We had some time before out 11 am bus to Masaya, so we decided to split up for a couple hours in the morning and meet up again at 9 am for breakfast.
I spent my time wandering around the quiet streets of Granada, taking in the colonial architecture and trying to picture what the town may have been like when those buildings were new. Granada is quite proud of it’s heritage, and there are constant restorations going on to repair damage caused by earthquakes, or to maintain the beauty that already exists. But even still the streets were fairly empty.
Breakfast, again a fruit plate for me, of course, I couldn’t get enough. Then we were checking out, saying bye to Pedro (poor thing was having asthma problems that day) and walking through the streets towards the bus to Masaya.
Actually it was a bus to Managua that could stop in Masaya as well. Actually it was a large van that doubled as a minibus, with enough space to squeeze in 12 people in seats. We had to keep out packs on our laps. If ever someone is wandering about the virtues of packing light, this is it.
Just like in Costa Rica, the buses in Nicaragua like to be full when they travel, but full takes on a whole other meaning here. These minibuses in Nicaragua come equipped with not only a driver, but what I have come to call a hollerer, someone who ushers people into the bus until it is full. We left the station when there were no more seats to fill, but would still slow down at various corners with the hollerer yelling out our destination. Maximum capacity for him seemed to entail, all the seats plus foldouts occupied, including one couple sharing a seat and 3 people standing in the space between the seats and the door. We totalled 18 at that point. I was very glad that we were getting off in Masaya.
The bus driver said he would let us off at the main market in Masaya, which turned out to mean about 9 blocks to the west. We took a city bus the rest of the way.
The artisans’ market in Masaya is the same as any outdoor market, except that it is actually in a large old wooden fort. I am not sure how the outer structure has survived this long, but it has, and it is large and nowadays filled with colourful shops teeming with wooden containers, ceramics, dolls, clothes, leather goods and various other goodies for locals and tourists alike. Even if you are not a shopper it is a worthwhile experience. You keep thinking you have reached the end and then you turn another corner.
We spent the first bit walking around just seeing what was there and getting a feel for prices. I myself, didn’t budget a lot of money for souvenirs while away, I planned to spend more on just travelling, but I did want to buy a ceramic or two for my kitchen. There were hundreds of ceramics here to choose from.
Dozens of different shapes, colours, sizes and prices of ceramics lined shelves around me. I felt overwhelmed.
Mari, on the other hand seemed to have the same problem but in a different way. She has apparently not done much souvenir shopping during her past couple of years in Costa Rica, and all that pent up shopping urge came forth here. Her love was containers made of wood. Wooden bowls, jars, spoons, you name it.
For Hiro, it seemed to be T-shirts. He got his baby niece a shirt that translates to saying ´Love knows no species´ and it had a picture of a cute little turtle on it.
I did eventually end up purchasing two ceramic vases and a wooden jar, after which point I decided to wait out the other two sitting at a refreshment stand, I have never had the stamina some people have for shopping and the exhaustion comes even more quickly when you are carrying around a large backpack.
After the market, we grabbed a cab and headed for Coyotepe, an old fortress up on the hill overlooking Masaya. I knew it was up high, but I wasn’t prepared when the cab driver pointed up a stone structure hundreds of meters above us. The card was at a forty-five degree angle the whole way up the hill.
We got to the fortress, and for a $2 entrance fee, had out run of the place. My first instinct, which I acted upon was to climb to the top of one of the lookout towers and see the view. It really wasn’t that hard to do, the rampart was quite wide, but still I had Mari worrying the whole way up.
The view was spectacular. We could see Lago Masaga, and in the distance the Lake in Managua. We could see mountains and volcanoes and the whole city. And everyone looked so small in comparison.
Between Hiro and I, we convinced Mari to climb up, and she wasn’t disappointed when she got there.
After a while we got down and started running around the rest of the place exploring. There were small lookout windows in each mini tower, three for each view, positioned to look like two eyes and a nose. And there were tunnels leading down into the bowels of the fortress. I also managed to convince Mari and Hiro to explore these, although I had to go first.
You know, but for all her appearance of fear it was Mari who started humming the ominous Phantom of the Opera song. It’s a song I quite enjoy, but it takes on a different feeling when you are walking around dark deserted quarters, some of which had round holes at the entrance that may have once been for bars.
It was not very large and pretty soon we found ourselves climbing back into the light. Some photography and trying to descend another stair case that turned out to be barred against me, we left reluctantly to catch our bus to Managua. I had just been thinking that the place would be a great spot for a picnic, when on our drive down the hill we passed a not-quite-so-hidden couple making out among some trees along the side of the road. Apparently, my idea wasn’t an original one.
We arrived in time to catch our mini-bus to Managua, a much less cramped trip than the one in the morning since we paid for an extra seat for all of our bags. By the time we were pulling into Managua, we were all too tired and hungry to pay much attention to our surroundings, and just wanted to arrive at our hotel, shower and go grab something to eat.
We were met by slight confusion when we asked the reception at the hotel for suggestions of restaurants nearby, apparently few f the employees lived in the are and were only familiar with a few places. We got directions of a place in walking distance and headed.
Perhaps I have not travelled as much as some people, but I have never seen the streets of a capital city as deserted as the streets of Managua were that night at 7:00 pm. We could not figure it out, and we quickened our pace as we became increasingly aware of the dark and lack of people, or even many cars.
We arrived at the restaurant and dinner and the rest of the night went by without anything to note. That night we all crashed early and slept the fulfilling sleep of the exhausted traveller.
Our last morning at the Patio del Malinche, started out slower than the preceding two. We had some time before out 11 am bus to Masaya, so we decided to split up for a couple hours in the morning and meet up again at 9 am for breakfast.
I spent my time wandering around the quiet streets of Granada, taking in the colonial architecture and trying to picture what the town may have been like when those buildings were new. Granada is quite proud of it’s heritage, and there are constant restorations going on to repair damage caused by earthquakes, or to maintain the beauty that already exists. But even still the streets were fairly empty.
Breakfast, again a fruit plate for me, of course, I couldn’t get enough. Then we were checking out, saying bye to Pedro (poor thing was having asthma problems that day) and walking through the streets towards the bus to Masaya.
Actually it was a bus to Managua that could stop in Masaya as well. Actually it was a large van that doubled as a minibus, with enough space to squeeze in 12 people in seats. We had to keep out packs on our laps. If ever someone is wandering about the virtues of packing light, this is it.
Just like in Costa Rica, the buses in Nicaragua like to be full when they travel, but full takes on a whole other meaning here. These minibuses in Nicaragua come equipped with not only a driver, but what I have come to call a hollerer, someone who ushers people into the bus until it is full. We left the station when there were no more seats to fill, but would still slow down at various corners with the hollerer yelling out our destination. Maximum capacity for him seemed to entail, all the seats plus foldouts occupied, including one couple sharing a seat and 3 people standing in the space between the seats and the door. We totalled 18 at that point. I was very glad that we were getting off in Masaya.
The bus driver said he would let us off at the main market in Masaya, which turned out to mean about 9 blocks to the west. We took a city bus the rest of the way.
The artisans’ market in Masaya is the same as any outdoor market, except that it is actually in a large old wooden fort. I am not sure how the outer structure has survived this long, but it has, and it is large and nowadays filled with colourful shops teeming with wooden containers, ceramics, dolls, clothes, leather goods and various other goodies for locals and tourists alike. Even if you are not a shopper it is a worthwhile experience. You keep thinking you have reached the end and then you turn another corner.
We spent the first bit walking around just seeing what was there and getting a feel for prices. I myself, didn’t budget a lot of money for souvenirs while away, I planned to spend more on just travelling, but I did want to buy a ceramic or two for my kitchen. There were hundreds of ceramics here to choose from.
Dozens of different shapes, colours, sizes and prices of ceramics lined shelves around me. I felt overwhelmed.
Mari, on the other hand seemed to have the same problem but in a different way. She has apparently not done much souvenir shopping during her past couple of years in Costa Rica, and all that pent up shopping urge came forth here. Her love was containers made of wood. Wooden bowls, jars, spoons, you name it.
For Hiro, it seemed to be T-shirts. He got his baby niece a shirt that translates to saying ´Love knows no species´ and it had a picture of a cute little turtle on it.
I did eventually end up purchasing two ceramic vases and a wooden jar, after which point I decided to wait out the other two sitting at a refreshment stand, I have never had the stamina some people have for shopping and the exhaustion comes even more quickly when you are carrying around a large backpack.
After the market, we grabbed a cab and headed for Coyotepe, an old fortress up on the hill overlooking Masaya. I knew it was up high, but I wasn’t prepared when the cab driver pointed up a stone structure hundreds of meters above us. The card was at a forty-five degree angle the whole way up the hill.
We got to the fortress, and for a $2 entrance fee, had out run of the place. My first instinct, which I acted upon was to climb to the top of one of the lookout towers and see the view. It really wasn’t that hard to do, the rampart was quite wide, but still I had Mari worrying the whole way up.
The view was spectacular. We could see Lago Masaga, and in the distance the Lake in Managua. We could see mountains and volcanoes and the whole city. And everyone looked so small in comparison.
Between Hiro and I, we convinced Mari to climb up, and she wasn’t disappointed when she got there.
After a while we got down and started running around the rest of the place exploring. There were small lookout windows in each mini tower, three for each view, positioned to look like two eyes and a nose. And there were tunnels leading down into the bowels of the fortress. I also managed to convince Mari and Hiro to explore these, although I had to go first.
You know, but for all her appearance of fear it was Mari who started humming the ominous Phantom of the Opera song. It’s a song I quite enjoy, but it takes on a different feeling when you are walking around dark deserted quarters, some of which had round holes at the entrance that may have once been for bars.
It was not very large and pretty soon we found ourselves climbing back into the light. Some photography and trying to descend another stair case that turned out to be barred against me, we left reluctantly to catch our bus to Managua. I had just been thinking that the place would be a great spot for a picnic, when on our drive down the hill we passed a not-quite-so-hidden couple making out among some trees along the side of the road. Apparently, my idea wasn’t an original one.
We arrived in time to catch our mini-bus to Managua, a much less cramped trip than the one in the morning since we paid for an extra seat for all of our bags. By the time we were pulling into Managua, we were all too tired and hungry to pay much attention to our surroundings, and just wanted to arrive at our hotel, shower and go grab something to eat.
We were met by slight confusion when we asked the reception at the hotel for suggestions of restaurants nearby, apparently few f the employees lived in the are and were only familiar with a few places. We got directions of a place in walking distance and headed.
Perhaps I have not travelled as much as some people, but I have never seen the streets of a capital city as deserted as the streets of Managua were that night at 7:00 pm. We could not figure it out, and we quickened our pace as we became increasingly aware of the dark and lack of people, or even many cars.
We arrived at the restaurant and dinner and the rest of the night went by without anything to note. That night we all crashed early and slept the fulfilling sleep of the exhausted traveller.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Nicaragua Day 3 - San Juan del Sur, Orion Restaurant
(Costa Rica day 57)
This was one of those days characterized most by what you eat.
Breakfast was again an amazing fruit platter for me. I couldn’t get enough.
And then we ran to the ´shuttle´ really more of a taxi, since there was no one else, to San Juan del Sur. A town and beach that one of Mari’s friend’s had recommended.
The thing about towns built almost entirely around the tourist trade, is that they tend to be sad empty affairs during the low season. San Juan del Sur, reminded me of this type of town and was kind of eerie in its desertedness. It made me think of how tourism cuts through many towns like this in Tropical areas, acting as a double edged sword that both infuses them with much needed money, but at the same time kills a lot of the individuality they once possessed.
We spent some time at the beach. The waves were great, the two creepy guys who kept passing by and hitting on me were not. You know, it really isn’t appealing or flattering when a guy leers at you on the beach and without a hello suggests you going back to his place. I told them to keep walking.
On the bright side I found an amazing pair of flow beach/island pants while we were walking around town afterwards.
Lunch was a full-fledged seafood fest. We all ordered something with seafood because well we were there and it was cheaper and well we were right beside the ocean. When our food arrived it was hard to believe the size of the seafood and the amount. Everything seemed magnified, and the fish head in Hiro’s soup kept staring at me.
The evening proved to be much more rewarding than the day.
For me it began with a refreshing swim in the hotel pool, as I watched the sunset overhead. The colours were quite spectacular, and array of oranges and purples, and the garden where the hotel pool was beautifully landscaped with hibiscus and other tropical plants I can’t quite identify. It was perfectly lazy and perhaps not the most exciting thing I could have been doing with two hours in a foreign country, but it was amazing and relaxing and I wouldn’t trade it all the same. I think when I return to Canada, I am going to miss these tranquil times the most, time and clearness of thought to read, write, paint or just relax without the constant feeling that I need to be doing something, or going somewhere.
We went to Jardin de Orion, a French restaurant at the edge of town for dinner, it is only open a couple days a week. The whole restaurant was a gardens and patios, it felt like we had made it to France some how. There were paintings done by an artist (who I later found out was from Germany) on the walls. They were interesting and had a stain glass sort of design.
The food was great. I had a lamb done in prune sauce, and was thrilled to discover that the sauce was think and the meat had actually been marinated. Not that I don’t like Central American food, but it does tend to consist of more readily prepared items.
The wine was a Chardoney Sauvignon, recommended by the obviously French owner of the restaurant.
More important than the entrée or wine, was the desert, which we all ordered for once. I had chocolate cakes, made with real dark chocolate sitting in a warm lime sauce. If we had had any room left we would have ordered more.
This was one of those days characterized most by what you eat.
Breakfast was again an amazing fruit platter for me. I couldn’t get enough.
And then we ran to the ´shuttle´ really more of a taxi, since there was no one else, to San Juan del Sur. A town and beach that one of Mari’s friend’s had recommended.
The thing about towns built almost entirely around the tourist trade, is that they tend to be sad empty affairs during the low season. San Juan del Sur, reminded me of this type of town and was kind of eerie in its desertedness. It made me think of how tourism cuts through many towns like this in Tropical areas, acting as a double edged sword that both infuses them with much needed money, but at the same time kills a lot of the individuality they once possessed.
We spent some time at the beach. The waves were great, the two creepy guys who kept passing by and hitting on me were not. You know, it really isn’t appealing or flattering when a guy leers at you on the beach and without a hello suggests you going back to his place. I told them to keep walking.
On the bright side I found an amazing pair of flow beach/island pants while we were walking around town afterwards.
Lunch was a full-fledged seafood fest. We all ordered something with seafood because well we were there and it was cheaper and well we were right beside the ocean. When our food arrived it was hard to believe the size of the seafood and the amount. Everything seemed magnified, and the fish head in Hiro’s soup kept staring at me.
The evening proved to be much more rewarding than the day.
For me it began with a refreshing swim in the hotel pool, as I watched the sunset overhead. The colours were quite spectacular, and array of oranges and purples, and the garden where the hotel pool was beautifully landscaped with hibiscus and other tropical plants I can’t quite identify. It was perfectly lazy and perhaps not the most exciting thing I could have been doing with two hours in a foreign country, but it was amazing and relaxing and I wouldn’t trade it all the same. I think when I return to Canada, I am going to miss these tranquil times the most, time and clearness of thought to read, write, paint or just relax without the constant feeling that I need to be doing something, or going somewhere.
We went to Jardin de Orion, a French restaurant at the edge of town for dinner, it is only open a couple days a week. The whole restaurant was a gardens and patios, it felt like we had made it to France some how. There were paintings done by an artist (who I later found out was from Germany) on the walls. They were interesting and had a stain glass sort of design.
The food was great. I had a lamb done in prune sauce, and was thrilled to discover that the sauce was think and the meat had actually been marinated. Not that I don’t like Central American food, but it does tend to consist of more readily prepared items.
The wine was a Chardoney Sauvignon, recommended by the obviously French owner of the restaurant.
More important than the entrée or wine, was the desert, which we all ordered for once. I had chocolate cakes, made with real dark chocolate sitting in a warm lime sauce. If we had had any room left we would have ordered more.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Nicaragua Day 2 - Ometeppe
(Costa Rica Day 56)
Today’s lesson, food in Nicaragua arrives much faster than it does in Costa Rica, transportation is much slower.
The plan for today was that we were suppose to bus down to San Jorge and get on the 10 am ferry for Ometeppe, which would give us 5-6 hours there before we have to catch the last return ferry.
What is that saying…´the best laid plans of mice and men…´
We started the morning off quite nicely with breakfast at Patio del Malinchee, which consisted of the larges fruit platter I have been served to date. It was a thing of dreams, filled with star fruit, papaya, pineapple, watermelon, mammon chino (a white sweet fruit with a spiky red exterior), and a fruit that looked like a beet slice but was sweet and had black seeds. And a side of toast with mango marmalade on the side. Freshly squeezed orange juice and green tea on the side. *sigh* I will forever be spoiled by the fruit selection here, every bite was amazing.
Pedro, the resident dog at the hotel kept us company and showed off his tricks, including handshakes and patting your leg when he wanted food. Even though we showed him that we were all eating fruit, which he didn’t like, he was persistent, telling us that he could smell the toast that we were hiding. Hiro, of course, needed little convincing and Mari broke down soon afterwards.
After breakfast we dashed and arrived on time to catch the 8 am bus heading for Rivas. Right form the get go the experience was different from riding the buses here in Costa Rica. While Coast Rican buses resemble Go Transit or TTC type buses, apparently converted school buses and mini-bus/vans are all the rage in Nicaragua. The second difference is that while in Costa Rica you may get the occasionally vender boarding the bus on longer later trips, generally the ride you are left alone.
In Nicaragua, things are done a little differently and we had a constant stream of vendors boarding and getting off the bus, I am convinced the trip takes as long as it does solely for this reason. The highlight of the trip was when we stopped outside of a stadium and 3 people selling snacks and one man carrying a briefcase boarded the bus.
The three people with food started walking up and down the aisles, trying to get individuals to buy the regular fare of peanuts, bagged drinks and toffee. The man with the briefcase, however, stayed at the front of the bus. In a loud voice he called our attention telling us that he had some great deals and that we were lucky enough to be on the receiving end of them. He then proceeded to provide award winning infomercial style descriptions of a Casio calculator, a packet of paper, and dollar store quality assortment of office supplies. I was impressed at the spiel he was able to put together, but even more so when he walked down the aisle managing to care one sample of each item (ant there were 11 in total) in his hands at all times.
And then we arrived in Rivas, and even before we pulled into the bus station we had taxi drivers climbing in the back of the bus trying to convince anyone that looked like a tourist that they had the best deals to San Jorge, or San Juan del Sur, and they should definitely go with them.
Thanks to my appearance (read skin colour) I was overlooked in their first sweep, Mari and Hiro were not so lucky and were targeted out right. To the point that when we stopped one driver had grabbed a hold of Mari´s arm across the back of 3 other seats and was trying to pull her with him as we got off the bus. Mari, being nice didn’t want to be rude to him, and was simply asking him to wait because she couldn’t climb over the people who were ahead of her, even if he did rip her arm out of the socket.
The taxi driver, however, seemed to think that breaking contact for a minute would mean she was lost to him forever and would not let go. Luckily, I am less worried about being rude in these situations and was ahead of Mari. So I told him in a less than polite voice that he needed to let go of her and move out of the way or not only were we not going to hire him, but that I would walk right through him and essentially push him off the bus.
The taxi driver let go and with a shocked, ´but I’m just trying to help,´ said what loosely translates to ´but they need help, I am going to take them to San Jorge.´ He tried to move forward again, but with me and the rest of the crowd moving forward, he was forced to let go.
A local woman beside me whispered that the $4 each he was asking us was triple the regular cost and that we should be careful, before she too was lost in the crowd pouring out the bus.
Once off the bus, I immediately planted myself in front of Mari and Hiro and told them what the lady had said, we didn’t have time to really discuss the matter, or think, because we were instantly descended upon by 4 or 5 taxi drivers shouting numbers and asking us where we were going. I wanted to consult my lonely planet, I knew their prices were too high, but how high, I wasn’t sure. But despite us asking for a minute and trying to walk away, the swarm simply followed us.
I am not generally a claustrophobic person, except when it comes to people and I had an overwhelming urge to scream at our little swarm. I took a deep breath instead. Mari and Hiro were looking just as hassled and uncertain as I felt. And we did need to make that 10 am ferry.
Most were asking $4 each, one guy offered $3, so I turned to him, and said that we would hire him, but were only paying $7 for the lot of us. He agreed, I looked at Mari and Hiro, to make sure they were ok with this, they said they were and we headed for his car.
We made it to San Jorge, which thankfully turned out to be enough of a distance that we didn’t feel totally cheated out of our $7 (although I did find out that according to lonely planet it is more of a $4 trip). When we got to the dock, however, we found out that the ferry was waiting for some cargo today and was going to be delayed, and so would not be leaving until 11:30 am.
Furthermore, the ferry that would get us back from the island in time to catch the last bus back to Granada left at 3 pm. Our taxi driver said he would meet us here when that ferry arrived to give us a ride back for our bus, and that if we wanted to catch the next ferry he could drive us back to Granada for $25.
So we bought bottles of water and boarded the ferry to wait as I calculated the time we would have on Ometeppe and realized that there was no way we would have any real time to go hiking or see the Petroglyphs, given our new time table of 3 hours.
The ferry did not leave at 11:30 am…it did not leave at 11:35 am…at 11:40 am when they were loading the bit of , something, onboard someone’s hands slipped and item fell into the water and promptly sank down to the bottom. At 11:45 am, we heard a small splash and based on the discussion realized that someone had dived in after whatever had been dropped in the water. At 11:53 am, the apparently valuable something as retrieved and cheers from the crew resounded.
At 12:05 pm the ferry started its journey over Lake Nicaragua towards the island made up of two volcanoes, Ometeppe.
The ferry ride was nice, I’ve always loved being around water, and the breeze and the views were great, despite the muddy colour of the lake. On the boat, we were in the company of a group of American tourists, as well as the couple from Europe I had overheard talking at the border the day before. They were interesting to watch too.
A typical young tourist group, starting from their taking up twice the space the required, running around snapping pictures of the scenery and of themselves in the scenery. I have to give the girls credit for coming up with some interesting poses, including one where one girl nearly fell over the rail.
On the same deck with us, there was also a guy, who I believe to be a local, who watched the group of American´s out of the corner of his eye, and never once changed positions for the whole hour ride. There was also another, slightly older, maybe 30s, attractive European (I think) tourist. He had the look of someone who is use to travelling on his own, and was perfectly happy people watching and thinking to himself. He laughed at the antics of the larger group, and at one point came to ask me if he could look at my lonely planet (he was excited to find out I spoke Spanish, his Spanish was better than his English) because his guidebook didn’t have an adequate map of the island.
The island, even from a distance looked like an untouched tropical paradise, just as all the descriptions said, and when we pulled into port we noted that even the largest town on the island was little more than a village. It was not 1:00 pm.
In the end we hired a guide/driver who took us to a museum of native art, an amazing view point for the larger volcano, and a tropical beach restaurant for lunch. Activities that would have been more fun if I didn’t know that we were missing out on the real life Petroglyphs on the other side of the island, as well as the 2 hour hike that would take us halfway up the volcano.
We did get to see the island though, and it turned out to be just as untouched as we thought, the people were nice, the locations beautiful and the life described to us was happy and simple. Most people who lived on the island loved it and never moved away.
I also learned that the same arrow points and axe heads and ads heads that we painfully studied in second year archaeology from Natives living in Coastal British Columbia, were characteristic of the artefacts uncovered in Ometeppe. The small petroglyph carvings, on the other hand, were styled uncannily like the Nazca Lines in Peru. The museum curator told us that a lot of long distance trading was going on in these parts, no kidding.
We reached the dock at 3:02 pm. And in an unprecedented show of punctuality, watched as our ferry took off without us.
We wandered around to the town for a while, before heading to the dock to wait for the next ferry at 4:30 pm. There was a group of men ranging from the ages of 17 to 32, diving and canon balling off the dock into the water.
I walked to the edge of the dock to get a picture of the sun over the water and was spotted by one of the divers, who grinned, waved at me and asked me if I wanted to take a picture with him and then struck a pose that would have shown off some muscles, if he had been more defined. I laughed and walked away quickly saying, saying thanks, but maybe another time. He yelled after me that maybe I would like to go have a drink with him instead. I pretended not to hear him.
The next time I ran into him, was on the ferry, when him and his friends decided to up their excitement and dive off the railings of the ferry (two guys form the very top) into the water as the ferry drove off. It could have a pretty cool sight, if most of them hadn’t over rotated on their dives and gone in with rather large splashes. Thankfully, 5 little heads bobbed out of the water not too long afterwards, telling us that they had in fact not been sucked under the propeller.
The ride back was kinda like an old movie. We had music from the fifties playing and the timing was perfect that we were took off just before sunset began and docked just after. It made up for the time we didn’t get to spend at the island.
Two hours, and twenty five dollars later we were back at our hotel, showered changed and on the hunt for a restaurant for dinner. It took us about 20 minutes on the main street to find a restaurant that wasn’t completely empty. It was only 8:00 pm, and yet we still only passed by maybe 5 people on the street, and three guys stumbling out of the bar already drunk. This seemed, so strange, because although it was a Tuesday, it wasn’t all that late, Granada was suppose to be a fairly safe town, we were on the main street, and furthermore it was a fairly large tourist town.
All in all, the day had turned out not quite the way we had planned, but pleasant all the same.
Today’s lesson, food in Nicaragua arrives much faster than it does in Costa Rica, transportation is much slower.
The plan for today was that we were suppose to bus down to San Jorge and get on the 10 am ferry for Ometeppe, which would give us 5-6 hours there before we have to catch the last return ferry.
What is that saying…´the best laid plans of mice and men…´
We started the morning off quite nicely with breakfast at Patio del Malinchee, which consisted of the larges fruit platter I have been served to date. It was a thing of dreams, filled with star fruit, papaya, pineapple, watermelon, mammon chino (a white sweet fruit with a spiky red exterior), and a fruit that looked like a beet slice but was sweet and had black seeds. And a side of toast with mango marmalade on the side. Freshly squeezed orange juice and green tea on the side. *sigh* I will forever be spoiled by the fruit selection here, every bite was amazing.
Pedro, the resident dog at the hotel kept us company and showed off his tricks, including handshakes and patting your leg when he wanted food. Even though we showed him that we were all eating fruit, which he didn’t like, he was persistent, telling us that he could smell the toast that we were hiding. Hiro, of course, needed little convincing and Mari broke down soon afterwards.
After breakfast we dashed and arrived on time to catch the 8 am bus heading for Rivas. Right form the get go the experience was different from riding the buses here in Costa Rica. While Coast Rican buses resemble Go Transit or TTC type buses, apparently converted school buses and mini-bus/vans are all the rage in Nicaragua. The second difference is that while in Costa Rica you may get the occasionally vender boarding the bus on longer later trips, generally the ride you are left alone.
In Nicaragua, things are done a little differently and we had a constant stream of vendors boarding and getting off the bus, I am convinced the trip takes as long as it does solely for this reason. The highlight of the trip was when we stopped outside of a stadium and 3 people selling snacks and one man carrying a briefcase boarded the bus.
The three people with food started walking up and down the aisles, trying to get individuals to buy the regular fare of peanuts, bagged drinks and toffee. The man with the briefcase, however, stayed at the front of the bus. In a loud voice he called our attention telling us that he had some great deals and that we were lucky enough to be on the receiving end of them. He then proceeded to provide award winning infomercial style descriptions of a Casio calculator, a packet of paper, and dollar store quality assortment of office supplies. I was impressed at the spiel he was able to put together, but even more so when he walked down the aisle managing to care one sample of each item (ant there were 11 in total) in his hands at all times.
And then we arrived in Rivas, and even before we pulled into the bus station we had taxi drivers climbing in the back of the bus trying to convince anyone that looked like a tourist that they had the best deals to San Jorge, or San Juan del Sur, and they should definitely go with them.
Thanks to my appearance (read skin colour) I was overlooked in their first sweep, Mari and Hiro were not so lucky and were targeted out right. To the point that when we stopped one driver had grabbed a hold of Mari´s arm across the back of 3 other seats and was trying to pull her with him as we got off the bus. Mari, being nice didn’t want to be rude to him, and was simply asking him to wait because she couldn’t climb over the people who were ahead of her, even if he did rip her arm out of the socket.
The taxi driver, however, seemed to think that breaking contact for a minute would mean she was lost to him forever and would not let go. Luckily, I am less worried about being rude in these situations and was ahead of Mari. So I told him in a less than polite voice that he needed to let go of her and move out of the way or not only were we not going to hire him, but that I would walk right through him and essentially push him off the bus.
The taxi driver let go and with a shocked, ´but I’m just trying to help,´ said what loosely translates to ´but they need help, I am going to take them to San Jorge.´ He tried to move forward again, but with me and the rest of the crowd moving forward, he was forced to let go.
A local woman beside me whispered that the $4 each he was asking us was triple the regular cost and that we should be careful, before she too was lost in the crowd pouring out the bus.
Once off the bus, I immediately planted myself in front of Mari and Hiro and told them what the lady had said, we didn’t have time to really discuss the matter, or think, because we were instantly descended upon by 4 or 5 taxi drivers shouting numbers and asking us where we were going. I wanted to consult my lonely planet, I knew their prices were too high, but how high, I wasn’t sure. But despite us asking for a minute and trying to walk away, the swarm simply followed us.
I am not generally a claustrophobic person, except when it comes to people and I had an overwhelming urge to scream at our little swarm. I took a deep breath instead. Mari and Hiro were looking just as hassled and uncertain as I felt. And we did need to make that 10 am ferry.
Most were asking $4 each, one guy offered $3, so I turned to him, and said that we would hire him, but were only paying $7 for the lot of us. He agreed, I looked at Mari and Hiro, to make sure they were ok with this, they said they were and we headed for his car.
We made it to San Jorge, which thankfully turned out to be enough of a distance that we didn’t feel totally cheated out of our $7 (although I did find out that according to lonely planet it is more of a $4 trip). When we got to the dock, however, we found out that the ferry was waiting for some cargo today and was going to be delayed, and so would not be leaving until 11:30 am.
Furthermore, the ferry that would get us back from the island in time to catch the last bus back to Granada left at 3 pm. Our taxi driver said he would meet us here when that ferry arrived to give us a ride back for our bus, and that if we wanted to catch the next ferry he could drive us back to Granada for $25.
So we bought bottles of water and boarded the ferry to wait as I calculated the time we would have on Ometeppe and realized that there was no way we would have any real time to go hiking or see the Petroglyphs, given our new time table of 3 hours.
The ferry did not leave at 11:30 am…it did not leave at 11:35 am…at 11:40 am when they were loading the bit of , something, onboard someone’s hands slipped and item fell into the water and promptly sank down to the bottom. At 11:45 am, we heard a small splash and based on the discussion realized that someone had dived in after whatever had been dropped in the water. At 11:53 am, the apparently valuable something as retrieved and cheers from the crew resounded.
At 12:05 pm the ferry started its journey over Lake Nicaragua towards the island made up of two volcanoes, Ometeppe.
The ferry ride was nice, I’ve always loved being around water, and the breeze and the views were great, despite the muddy colour of the lake. On the boat, we were in the company of a group of American tourists, as well as the couple from Europe I had overheard talking at the border the day before. They were interesting to watch too.
A typical young tourist group, starting from their taking up twice the space the required, running around snapping pictures of the scenery and of themselves in the scenery. I have to give the girls credit for coming up with some interesting poses, including one where one girl nearly fell over the rail.
On the same deck with us, there was also a guy, who I believe to be a local, who watched the group of American´s out of the corner of his eye, and never once changed positions for the whole hour ride. There was also another, slightly older, maybe 30s, attractive European (I think) tourist. He had the look of someone who is use to travelling on his own, and was perfectly happy people watching and thinking to himself. He laughed at the antics of the larger group, and at one point came to ask me if he could look at my lonely planet (he was excited to find out I spoke Spanish, his Spanish was better than his English) because his guidebook didn’t have an adequate map of the island.
The island, even from a distance looked like an untouched tropical paradise, just as all the descriptions said, and when we pulled into port we noted that even the largest town on the island was little more than a village. It was not 1:00 pm.
In the end we hired a guide/driver who took us to a museum of native art, an amazing view point for the larger volcano, and a tropical beach restaurant for lunch. Activities that would have been more fun if I didn’t know that we were missing out on the real life Petroglyphs on the other side of the island, as well as the 2 hour hike that would take us halfway up the volcano.
We did get to see the island though, and it turned out to be just as untouched as we thought, the people were nice, the locations beautiful and the life described to us was happy and simple. Most people who lived on the island loved it and never moved away.
I also learned that the same arrow points and axe heads and ads heads that we painfully studied in second year archaeology from Natives living in Coastal British Columbia, were characteristic of the artefacts uncovered in Ometeppe. The small petroglyph carvings, on the other hand, were styled uncannily like the Nazca Lines in Peru. The museum curator told us that a lot of long distance trading was going on in these parts, no kidding.
We reached the dock at 3:02 pm. And in an unprecedented show of punctuality, watched as our ferry took off without us.
We wandered around to the town for a while, before heading to the dock to wait for the next ferry at 4:30 pm. There was a group of men ranging from the ages of 17 to 32, diving and canon balling off the dock into the water.
I walked to the edge of the dock to get a picture of the sun over the water and was spotted by one of the divers, who grinned, waved at me and asked me if I wanted to take a picture with him and then struck a pose that would have shown off some muscles, if he had been more defined. I laughed and walked away quickly saying, saying thanks, but maybe another time. He yelled after me that maybe I would like to go have a drink with him instead. I pretended not to hear him.
The next time I ran into him, was on the ferry, when him and his friends decided to up their excitement and dive off the railings of the ferry (two guys form the very top) into the water as the ferry drove off. It could have a pretty cool sight, if most of them hadn’t over rotated on their dives and gone in with rather large splashes. Thankfully, 5 little heads bobbed out of the water not too long afterwards, telling us that they had in fact not been sucked under the propeller.
The ride back was kinda like an old movie. We had music from the fifties playing and the timing was perfect that we were took off just before sunset began and docked just after. It made up for the time we didn’t get to spend at the island.
Two hours, and twenty five dollars later we were back at our hotel, showered changed and on the hunt for a restaurant for dinner. It took us about 20 minutes on the main street to find a restaurant that wasn’t completely empty. It was only 8:00 pm, and yet we still only passed by maybe 5 people on the street, and three guys stumbling out of the bar already drunk. This seemed, so strange, because although it was a Tuesday, it wasn’t all that late, Granada was suppose to be a fairly safe town, we were on the main street, and furthermore it was a fairly large tourist town.
All in all, the day had turned out not quite the way we had planned, but pleasant all the same.
Nicaragua Day 1 - Trip across the border
(Costa Rica Day 55)
5:00 am.
Why to adventures always have to start so bloody early in the morning.
As it was Mari and I were lucky that the bus stopped in San Ramon on the way to Nicaragua, otherwise we would have had to get up 2 hours earlier and find our way to San Jose for a 6:00 am departure. Poor Hiro wasn’t as lucky, he lives in Cartago, on the other side of San Jose, and so had a much earlier start.
Our first leap of faith came when Mari and I realized that we had to put are larger backpacks in the compartment under the bus, I mean I had realized that would likely happen, but am for some reason always reluctant to do so, I always feel like I might not see it again.
Mari looked at me as if she was worried about the same. Our fears seemed unfounded though, since everything was handled professionally and we got stubs for our luggage.
The bus ride to the border went by fairly smoothly and despite being 4 hours long felt shorter. I spent the first couple hours watching a Morgan Freeman, Jack Nicholson movie, sort of ones journey through the dying process. It was actually a pretty good movie and not morbid the way these movies can often be, so it passed the time well. The sound was low but I could catch what I missed in the Spanish subtitles....had more trouble with the next movie which was in Spanish, with no subtitles and the sound not much higher than before.
We reached the border at about 11 am and discovered for the first time that Nicaragua was going to be a lot warmer than the Costa Rican mountains. And that we had a very long line to go through in order to get the little stamp in our passports that says we have officially left Costa Rica.
One thing I have learned in my time being here, is that I have a hard time blocking out conversations that others around me are having in English. Mari made fun of me for it this entire trip. In the line there was a group made up of a couple from the United States and another from somewhere in Europe (they had European Union passports, couldn’t quite sort out the country). It made me shake my head listening to them, because the conversation and opinions the two travellers from the U.S. were relating to the other couple was so stereotypical of what people outside the U.S. think of Americans. I was proud of myself though I managed not to lecture them on their views of homelessness, a good thing since, well, I was essentially eavesdropping.
Since we had a lot of time to kill at the border while we waited in the stifling heat to see if the bus people would really get out passport entry stamps or simply run away with our main travel documents we got to run our luggage through a check point to see if it would be searched. They actually have a very interesting system, where they check your ID and your customs card and they you are told to push a button, if it turns green you are good to go, if red, you have to take your luggage inside a room to be searched. It is amazing how heart stopping the 3 seconds it takes the light to decide can be. Poor Hiro got the red light.
Afterwards we sat down in front of the bus to wait for our passports to be processed, which was apparently the signal for all the child vendors in the area to begin their attack. Their tactics were cunning, and I am amazed that we got away with Hiro only buying a packet of gum. It is amazing how quickly they figured out who was the weakest link.
After 2 hours, me reluctantly relinquishing my passport to the bus people so they could get us through the Nicaragua entry side faster, and 20 people hassling us (Hiro mostly) to buy peanuts, gum or figures made of grass, we were through the boarder and cruising towards Granada.
We arrived at our hotel with no more delays and barely glanced around out beautiful temporary home on our way out the door again to withdraw money and eat. Other than a bag of chips, none of us had had anything since breakfast, and it was 4:30 pm.
For the record, apparently if you want to change money at the bank, bring along your passport, don’t leave it in the safe at the hotel. And also just because a bank has an atm does not mean it is functioning, or that you can take out money even if it says you can. In such situations as these, you go to the banks competition.
If ever in Nicaragua I recommend going to the bank BAC, it actually accepts all cards.
So we had money, but few options as to where to exchange it for food. We went around walked down the main street where the lady at the front desk of our hotel had told us there would be a place to eat, but most places were not open for dinner until 6:00 pm and it was only 5:20 at that point. Finally we found another hotel that had a restaurant as well and happily went in to eat.
The one plus side to our wandering around town was that we came across a woman’s organization in Granada, that is involved in a lot of community and education work.
5:00 am.
Why to adventures always have to start so bloody early in the morning.
As it was Mari and I were lucky that the bus stopped in San Ramon on the way to Nicaragua, otherwise we would have had to get up 2 hours earlier and find our way to San Jose for a 6:00 am departure. Poor Hiro wasn’t as lucky, he lives in Cartago, on the other side of San Jose, and so had a much earlier start.
Our first leap of faith came when Mari and I realized that we had to put are larger backpacks in the compartment under the bus, I mean I had realized that would likely happen, but am for some reason always reluctant to do so, I always feel like I might not see it again.
Mari looked at me as if she was worried about the same. Our fears seemed unfounded though, since everything was handled professionally and we got stubs for our luggage.
The bus ride to the border went by fairly smoothly and despite being 4 hours long felt shorter. I spent the first couple hours watching a Morgan Freeman, Jack Nicholson movie, sort of ones journey through the dying process. It was actually a pretty good movie and not morbid the way these movies can often be, so it passed the time well. The sound was low but I could catch what I missed in the Spanish subtitles....had more trouble with the next movie which was in Spanish, with no subtitles and the sound not much higher than before.
We reached the border at about 11 am and discovered for the first time that Nicaragua was going to be a lot warmer than the Costa Rican mountains. And that we had a very long line to go through in order to get the little stamp in our passports that says we have officially left Costa Rica.
One thing I have learned in my time being here, is that I have a hard time blocking out conversations that others around me are having in English. Mari made fun of me for it this entire trip. In the line there was a group made up of a couple from the United States and another from somewhere in Europe (they had European Union passports, couldn’t quite sort out the country). It made me shake my head listening to them, because the conversation and opinions the two travellers from the U.S. were relating to the other couple was so stereotypical of what people outside the U.S. think of Americans. I was proud of myself though I managed not to lecture them on their views of homelessness, a good thing since, well, I was essentially eavesdropping.
Since we had a lot of time to kill at the border while we waited in the stifling heat to see if the bus people would really get out passport entry stamps or simply run away with our main travel documents we got to run our luggage through a check point to see if it would be searched. They actually have a very interesting system, where they check your ID and your customs card and they you are told to push a button, if it turns green you are good to go, if red, you have to take your luggage inside a room to be searched. It is amazing how heart stopping the 3 seconds it takes the light to decide can be. Poor Hiro got the red light.
Afterwards we sat down in front of the bus to wait for our passports to be processed, which was apparently the signal for all the child vendors in the area to begin their attack. Their tactics were cunning, and I am amazed that we got away with Hiro only buying a packet of gum. It is amazing how quickly they figured out who was the weakest link.
After 2 hours, me reluctantly relinquishing my passport to the bus people so they could get us through the Nicaragua entry side faster, and 20 people hassling us (Hiro mostly) to buy peanuts, gum or figures made of grass, we were through the boarder and cruising towards Granada.
We arrived at our hotel with no more delays and barely glanced around out beautiful temporary home on our way out the door again to withdraw money and eat. Other than a bag of chips, none of us had had anything since breakfast, and it was 4:30 pm.
For the record, apparently if you want to change money at the bank, bring along your passport, don’t leave it in the safe at the hotel. And also just because a bank has an atm does not mean it is functioning, or that you can take out money even if it says you can. In such situations as these, you go to the banks competition.
If ever in Nicaragua I recommend going to the bank BAC, it actually accepts all cards.
So we had money, but few options as to where to exchange it for food. We went around walked down the main street where the lady at the front desk of our hotel had told us there would be a place to eat, but most places were not open for dinner until 6:00 pm and it was only 5:20 at that point. Finally we found another hotel that had a restaurant as well and happily went in to eat.
The one plus side to our wandering around town was that we came across a woman’s organization in Granada, that is involved in a lot of community and education work.
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