With Bombastic Fancy

It's a process. This is mine.

An Occurrence on Isla Ometepe

Nearly everywhere I looked for info on travel during Semana Santa made it sound like Latin America should have "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter" posted at the entrance. Unwashed crowds of tourists everywhere, overbooked hotels and hostels, relentless heat, increased prices. 

That was not my experience. If one headed to popular beach towns, things could get hectic, but in Granada and Ometepe I never needed a reservation, and it never seemed crowded. The processionals were a treat, and the heat was bad, but not as bad as Puerto Jimenez. And I've already expressed my love for the cost of living in Nicaragua. 

But, there was a difficulty: Getting around.

When I was trying to plan my trip to Ometepe, I could never figure out for sure when and if the bus/boat schedules would change. Everyone I asked, I got a different answer. No buses Thursday and Friday only, no buses from Wednesday on, the buses are normal, the boats are normal, the boats don't run only on Friday. Sheesh. 

I finally said nuts to it and left Thursday; I wanted to go, and I knew it would be better than traveling on Good Friday, which I think is the day when most things shut down.

The only change was that there was no direct bus from Granada to Rivas. We'd have to go from Granada to Nadaime, then change to a bus to Rivas. Okay, easy enough.

But, oh god. Like anywhere, what happens when you cut a bus route? The alternate gets extra packed. And that Naidaime-Rivas bus was clogged with humanity. I've been on buses after Lollapalooza, the Taste of Chicago, and the Obama election rally, and I'd never seen anything like this. It was a puzzle of flesh; if you needed to bend your arm to fit in the curve of someone else's back, that was how you stood. Because people are made of water, and thus compressible, somehow the driver kept fitting more bodies in. It was the closest I've ever been to other people without asking if they'd been tested. 

It was hot, smelly, and uncomfortable. If I could have taken a picture, I would have, but physically pulling my camera out of my bag was out of the question. But, something about it resonated: This was truly different. This was an experience I could have only in a nation far removed from my own. This was an experience I never wish to have again.

To relieve the tension and take our minds off the fact that we were being squished like a third-grader's sandwich, I started chatting to the gringo girl next to me. Her name was Nievis (which I will never spell right), and she was from Switzerland. She was heading to Ometepe, too, and she was a teacher, so we had a decent conversation about both. It helped the time pass 'til we got to Rivas, where she and I jumped separate cabs to San Jorge (a small town with the boats to Ometepe).

You've seen shots of Concepcion from the boat over, so here's a full shot of the island. It's two volcanoes - the other is Maderas - connected by an isthmus, and my lousy camera does nothing to show how nifty it is.

Ometepe_me_between_mtns

Take the boat over, disembark, and run into Nievis again, this time with her traveling buddy, Simeon. They had decided they liked the sound of Finca Magdalena, a hostel/farm where I had my reservation, and were going to head there as well. We had lunch (where I furthered my crush on cashew fruit juice, which I'm seriously hoping I can find in the States), then caught the 2 o'clock bus to that side of the island. The thing ran so slow that we didn't get to the finca dropoff 'til almost 5-5:30, and then we hitched a ride in a pickup to the top of the hill.

What I'd expected to be a five-hour travel day had turned into almost 10 hours. Because of how I'd arranged my trip, I'd only have a full day Friday before having to head back Saturday. I was tired, cranky, hot, and frustrated. Then I saw this:

(That's Simeon in shot 3) 

And all that evaporated. I'd cut back on my Ometepe time because many people had warned me it was dull, and maybe it is if you want bars and clubs and whatnot. But if you can endlessly watch the world's gift of sunsets, then it is easily worth three, four, or more days. 

Simeon, Nievis and I had dinner - which involved a couple large bottles of Tona and me offering explanations for the American way of life that I was in no way qualified to offer, while they did the same for Europe - then crashed early; we were planning to hike Maderas, the smaller (and not active) of the two volcanoes.

We set out Saturday early and in good spirits. The hike's initial stages were challenging but not tough, and we had fun trying to spot monkeys and overtaking the group that left before us. But the mountain soon transitioned from regular forest to cloud forest. And that meant while it got glistening and dappled with exotic plants and much, much, cooler in temperature, it also got insanely muddy and difficult to hike. It soon evolved into a scramble that left us spattered with dirt and exhausted from constantly trying to maintain footing. 

I've never been in an environment like this. It's so ... verdant. Mist, exotic flowers, wildlife. There's a howler monkey in shot three; it's the rounded hump in the space between the trees on the upper-right. 

We crested the volcano, then had to descend the even-muddier trail into the caldera. This was much worse than going up (foreshadowing for the return), and we were pissed when we got to the bottom. All that greeted us was appeared to be a muddy pond; everything else was obscured by the mist that the sky was dumping into the bowl. But soon nature complied, and the winds took the mist away, revealing a tableau of forest green, sky blue, and cloud white colliding in the most brilliant fashion. I felt like I was in Jurassic Park's B-roll. 

Following a hearty lunch of granola and powdered milk (food supplied by me; ingenuity to make a bowl out of half a water bottle by Simeon), we went back up the Caldera and started the trek down the mountain. No, "trek" isn't the word. It was a slog. In fact, I'm pretty sure the word "slog" exists solely to describe these conditions. It was wet, the trail was packed smooth from all the hikers that day,  and the temperature had gone up, so it was no longer refreshingly cool. It was more like hiking through a high school locker room with all the showers on. We fell repeatedly and got covered in muck.

It was exhausting. I was the weak link of our Gringo crew, having about 70 pounds and 5 years on them. I wasn't doing well, and I was trailing. My head throbbed with dehydration, and my knees throbbed with the strain of keeping me vertical. I wasn't thinking well, and the one chance I had to redeem myself, I missed. 

I've been BS'd by people a lot down here. "Oh, there's no bus there, but my friend, who is conveniently right here, can take you there for $40." "There's a mistake; your hostel is full, but I know a great place." Et cetera. I've become inherently wary of any advice from someone I don't know. So when a passing Nica told me we were on the wrong trail to go back to Finca Magdalena, I didn't believe him; I hadn't seen a turnoff, and Simeon and Nievis were tromping away confidently. I figured he wanted a guide fee to take us back.

Well, dammit, he was right. What should have been a three-hour return hike through forest turned into a six-hour hike, the last half of which took us through open fields, exposed to the brutal sun. Luckily, one stretch took us through a mango farm, so we treated ourselves to the local flora. I don't know how much we added to our hike distance-wise, but it was enough to wear down those spry Europeans at the end. Simeon did stop to pick up some astonishingly delicious coconut and banana bread from a local farmer (couldn't have cost more than a postcard stamp back home), and those almost made the trip worth it. That and, I guess, having a tale of adventure/stupidity. 

Not much else to say about Ometepe. I'd wanted to spend Saturday morning at Playa Santa Domingo -- a stunning beach that must be seen if you go -- but I passed, opting instead for the early bus back to the mainland (it was the only one everybody was sure was running). Had a relaxed night in Granada, saw some old friends at the hostel, stared at the moon from a hammock. Spent Easter Sunday on a bus back to San Jose, and then I treated myself to a night at the city's Best Western. I really wanted my own room, air conditioning, and a bath.

I worry that my stamina for the hostel/travel life is waning as I get older. Or, maybe I just left it all somewhere on that damn volcano.

Semana Santa in Granada

I opted to head to Granada was because it was supposed to be full of  festive celebrations in Semana Santa, the week leading up to Easter. And I did see a few of these. From what I understand, each church has their own, and they happen every day, at different times of day during the week.

Church members, led by alter boys and priests, slowly plodded through town. Some of the parishioners carried giant models of Jesus bearing the cross or being crucified, and usually a Virgin Mary followed. They walked slowly, and those holding the models would rhythmically sway right and left as they walked, I think signifying the burden of the cross/sin?

Trailing the carriers was a band, usually tuba, drums and horns, playing a dirge. It brought New Orleans and the blues to mind: We're sad, but we're (sort of) celebrating it.

I feel bad saying this, but the first few of these were very cool, and then they all started to seem the same. So, I stopped breaking out the camera every time I heard the horns and drums. Of course, this backfired on me one evening when everyone from the hostel ran outside, and I followed (mildly curious and thus sans camera), only to find that the people bearing Jesus were wearing dark purple tunics and hoods ... imagine the Northwestern chapter of the KKK. I asked about the symbolism of the hoods, and simply was told it's tradition (the reporter in me recognizes the need for more research here).

The same sensation also happened with the churches (not the KKK thing, the disenchantment thing). However, they are quite striking, viewed one at a time, so here's a the major ones in town. Every time I went in, there were a few people sitting there silently, and they almost always looked miserable. I'm not a smart man in the ways of religion, and I'll never understand this ... why would you go somewhere that brings you so down?

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1 & 2) Two different processions I stumbled across.

3) Guadalupe Church.

4) La Merced Church. Wave at the gringo, everyone!

5) Xalteva Church. To say the inside didn't match the out would be an understatement.

6) The inside of Iglesia Maria Auxiliadora.

7) The inside of Granada Cathedral. Looove the colors, they echo the town outside.

Avoiding the sights of Granada, and loving it

Granada enchanted me from the moment I got there.

This turned out to be an extended moment because the hostel I was to stay in had moved from the location on my map. I spent about 45 minutes wandering the city at night (not recommended), but I saw many of the city's beautiful colonial houses, and I stumbled upon the main street, full of restaurants and bars and revelry.

It was even better during the day. The buildings' different colors make it like strolling through a spectrum. On a given block you'll see sky blue, mint green, peeps yellow, and the pink of an infant girl's pajamas. Unfortunately it's impossible to capture the vibrancy on film. Adding to the atmosphere was that the house are built right on the street, so if people had their door open, passersby can peer directly inside and see the plant-filled and fountain-adorned courtyard.

Between the fantastic architecture, the cultural heritage and what seemed to be a happening night scene, I thought I'd maybe found a tinier version of Barcelona. I soon realized that this was not the case. Granada's pretty small, the churches and houses start to look the same after a bit, and that one street is pretty much the nightlife (and it's expat-driven). I have to remember that I'm seeing everything through Puerto Jimenez. It makes parties rowdier, cities bigger, colors brighter, salads richer. The enchantment soon wore off, but I still very much enjoyed the city.

I spent four days there, and I never left for any of the recommended day trips: the volcano at Mombacho, the market at Masaya, the crater lake at Apollo. I considered racing around and trying to grab buses to all those different places, and one day, when I felt I'd run out of things to do in Granada, I did go to a Spanish lesson. This felt forced, like I was trying to pack my life with things, just like I had been doing in Chicago. Anyone who ever saw my day planner or watched me rush from job to freelance gig to social outing, always with a backpack full of crap, will understand how important it was for me to ease up.

Unfortunately, this approach makes for lousy stories.

Snapshot of a day: My birthday happened while I was in Granada. I considered springing for a day trip, but you know what? There's a waffle house in the city, and I wanted me a pe-can waffle. It was delicious, and I shared a table with Mexican named Ezekiel and his son, Ezekiel. With them, I had my my best Spanish conversation ever (and watching the older interact with his son, I got the sense that he's the father I'd like to be). Totally worth it. Still time for a trip, but no: I wanted to watch Barcelona and Arsenal's Champions League quarterfinal. My Barca jersey all day had been attracting Nicas to me to talk soccer, but in the bar, it drew the stink-eye from an Arsenal fan named Chris, a Canadian expat living in the UK. We watched the game together, and it was a drama-packed masterpiece. Totally worth it. Chris asked if I want to meet later that night for dinner, and I paused; maybe I could still do a volcano night tour. But that was still holding on to the old notion of life, so I said sure. I spent the rest of the day managing to find what must have been the only copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces” in the city and reading it. Chris and I that night grabbed a pizza and had one of those expansive conversations you can have only with someone who you're going to meet once: about politics, life, women. It was the most mundane birthday I've ever had, and very much one of the best. Totally worth it.

Lacking in adventure, I know. If/when I come back to Granada, I will do Masaya and Mombacho. But that trip was what I needed, and it was so good to realize that that kind of trip is okay. Plus, much adventure was due to happen next, when I went to Isla Ometepe.

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1. The Granada cathedral, which is stunning inside and out. Shots of churches coming later.

2. Cheap, cheap, cheap mangos: This bag was about a mango and a half for 5 cordobas, roughly 20 cents. Prices made Nicaragua worth it alone.

3. The best I could do for showing the different colors of the city.

4. Looking into a house from the street. Not the best shot, but this felt really creepy.

5. Courtyard in the cafe I liked, which resembled others throughout the city. My Nica daytime drink of choice? Banana and milk smoothie. (At night it was Tona, one of the two nat'l beers.)

6. Looking west over the city from the cathedral bell tower.

I have a few more things I'd like to do on Granada, but the Posterous photo system sort of sucks for varied content. So sorry if I flood inboxes with posts.  

Back from Nicaragua and missing it already

I'd love to say that I returned from Nicaragua today with loads of new insights into Latin American culture and heaps of Spanish practice that will, together, help me totally dazzle the kids with lessons tonight.

But what I really returned with is a massive case of vacation hangover, which does not bode well for my lesson planning. The travel and hostel life is so vibrant and attractive (never mind Nica itself), and that makes it harder to leave than other vacations. It's totally my scene: You're constantly engaged with a high concentration of adventuresome, curious, and free-spirited people from different corners of the globe. (Two I recommend checking out: Seth and Parker of Pebble Pedalers, who are biking from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego to raise awareness against a potentially damaging mine in AK). 

Not that you can't do this in real life, but it is harder ... and I doubt I'd be ready to say hostel "friendships" are true replacements for the rich ones you build with a solid group of friends,

Nicaragua stories and pics will be coming through the week. For now, I need to work. I leave you with this advice: Anyone visiting Costa Rica should take a flight down the Pacific side of the country. It truly is a stunning stretch of Earth. Had my camera not died, I'd have gorgeous shots of Isla Ballena and Bahia Drake on the coast. As is, here's the wham-bang clutter of San Jose, and the rolling mountains outside of it.

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