Maybe Jesus Has a Wedgie

E: what's that over there?
L: that's Jesus overlooking the city
E:Jesus? You sure it isn't San Juan? He should be the patron saint.
L: no, it's a statue of Jesus. A personal gift from some rich guy
E: interesting. How come he only has one arm?
L: one arm? Oh, you just can't see the other one at night.
E: where is it? Is it behind his back?
L: I don't know! Maybe Jesus has a wedgie!

Conversation while had in the car on the dirt road from the expatriot subdivision to the tiny very hip downtown of San Juan del Canada. I mean, San Juan del Sur.

It's nice here at the beach. Especially after some hard travel in Nicaragua. My inner Princess and the Pea has invited herself to my Central American adventure. I'm not proud of this. But I can't seem to shake her.

Maybe it's the nights being eaten by mosquitos. Or the lack of power and running water on more than a few occasions. Maybe it was the Star Wars sheets and Harry Potter pillowcase. I don't know. But she's here and she's really bugging me. I want her to leave the same way I want to get away from 22 year olds playing drinking games. But I'm stuck with her.

The final straw was in Ometepe. I hitched a ride with aforementioned 22 year olds in a collective taxi for the two hour drive on dirt roads back to the port. I should mention Ometepe is an island made of two volcanoes perched in lake Nicaragua. Stunning. We are on the base of the smaller of the two volcanos. Much farther than I imagined was possible from the ferry port.

There were 7 of us. Room for 9. In Central America, room for 14. Two more wanted to join. It was the right thing to do. We were in a remote area, quite expensive and time consuming to get back to 'civilization'. Stupid couple didn't want their oversized backpacks on top of the van. A surprise coming from stupid couple bragging about the year they are spending in Latin America, and stupid couple that didn't agree on a price before we all piled in the van. They won't budge. And they are being quite rude about it. I WANT to be passive aggressive, and say that I will stick back with the extra two and share a cab with them. But Inner Princess can't imagine another two hours at this hole of a hotel. Inner Princess wants everyone to be happy and get in the effin van. So that everyone can be where they need to be- the exact same place, in the exact same car for the exact same price.

Things works themselves out and I am thrilled to be complimented on my small backpack. Carry-on size to be exact.

We end up at the port but I can't leave for another day so I book myself a hotel in "civilization". With hot water, even. From the wall, not the electric contraption hanging on the shower head that could be misconstrued as a suicide attempt if not wearing rubber soled shoes in the shower. No AC, which I hardly notice anymore, but Inner Princess is still quite pleased. Especially because there's a laundry lady next door. This is the first time in over three weeks that I've seen a laundry lady. It's been sink laundry for a bit which was fine until my amazing trip to Río San Juan where I caked my belongings in rainforest mud. Quite a souvenir.

I'm told there is even a dryer! A strange concept in, well, most countries in the world. This means my pants might fit for the first time in a month. Inner Princess is pleased. I take a chicken bus journey to some supposed to be amazing hot springs that takes me almost three hours and involves holding a baby in an overcrowded bus- even by Central American standards- while I listen to the bus helper swear at the backpackers insistent on wearing their packs in the bus (a theme apparently) not realizing how this affects the locals. Remember them, backpackers? The ones that live here and just worked all day for a dollar and need to get home to their families?

By the time I arrive it's almost time to leave. Fortunately there is a trio walking out as I do and I am bold. "Hey, did you all drive here?" I ask, in English, and the words roll around in my mouth like rocks.

Yes, they drove. And instead of dropping me at the fork in the road, I'm driven the entire hour back to "civilization" by a Managuan living in North Carolina, visiting home for the holidays.

I walk back to the hotel, inwardly excited at being able to pick up a truly clean load of laundry. I bring it back to my room with hot water. It's folded beautifully, my very small bag of clothes. I inspect my pants and there is absolutely no sign of mud. So I put them on. And suddenly I feel like I'm 7 and start yanking them off of me.
They stink.
I know this smell. It brings a memory of being in Yosemite, stuck in Yosemite because of the forest fires.
And then I want to gag. Because I know this smell. It's the toxic smell of burning trash, plastic trash. My clothes weren't put in a dryer. But they were hung outside over a fire- over burning trash- to dry quickly to appear that they indeed use one.
I'm immediately deflated. And Inner Princess isn't pleased. She wishes I was more of a girly girl and had more than the carry-on bag that I was so proud of several hours ago. Just for today. I take a shallow breath, as a deep one may make me sick- and seal them very tightly in a plastic bag.

The next morning I take the ferry back to the mainland where Terry from Canada, a friend of a friend, is waiting for me. He takes me to his beautiful home in San Juan and Inner Princess is appeased. The first thing I do when I get there is put on my bathing suit and wash every single cloth item in my backpack, in a proper washing machine. I notice almost immediately how I have come to use the word 'proper' on this trip. Grocery stores, beds, wash machines, wifi, showers. Proper. Is this like the word 'torch' or 'holiday'? Am I picking up European travel words, or am I just being high maintenance?

Originally San Juan del Sur was not on my list. Touted as a touristy party town, I just didn't see the draw vs price tag. My Kiwi friend Sophie, who I met my very first day on this trip in Guatemala, came here weeks ago planning on a three night stay. I found out later that afternoon that she was on night 15, and I could sort of understand why. Especially after a few hard weeks traveling in the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.
There's surfing. A lot of it. And yoga, which means there's access to good food. A direct correlation, actually. And there is a lot of it. The pace is nice. The amenities are comfortable without disregarding the fact that you're in a foreign country (except that its clearly a Canadian snowbird town). It's pretty. Slow. And of course there's Jesus looking over the town. In the daytime, it's clear there is no wedgie, and both of his arms are visible. I'm thrilled to hang out with Sophie again for the third accidental time in the last two months. What did we do without Facebook? Without proper wifi?

My wonderful Canadian host took me to the Costa Rican border today. My first border crossing not in a tourist shuttle. Took two busses once I crossed into Costa Rica, none with crazy paint, music, stickers, or babies in my lap. Apparently the more advanced a country is, the less interesting it is culturally. I want to snicker at Inner Princess about this.

Now I'm in Playas del Coco with other friends, and AC to boot. Inner Princess went to a proper grocery today. There were rice noodles. And green things. I cooked for myself. Inner Princess is pleased.

There's yoga here, so I'll be eating well. The smell of burning trash is still present. A reminder that I'm still in Central America and should pay attention to how my backpack affects the locals. Because everything everywhere affects the locals.

On second thought

Five nights in the Corn Islands was fascinating. Eventually I got up the nerve to boat out to Little Corn for a day trip. The maturity of the jungle was absolutely mind boggling. There are no cars or motorbikes on the island. Just walking trails, wheelbarrows, horses and bicycles.

Touristy but not lacking culture. Not as authentic as Big Corn, but much more beautiful. I mean the water is stunning from anywhere but the actual beaches were pristine.

And there was yoga. Which means there was clean, delicious food. And fresh coffee. I didn't feel the need for pizza. So I went back to Big Corn, packed my bags and left the next day to spend a night on the island. It was extremely rustic and expensive, but an experience that's worth it.

The night before I left Little Corn, I booked a flight, without a map or a plan, to San Carlos to travel down the Rio San Juan, which is the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. It's advertised as being similar to the Amazon, and the most pristine wilderness of all of Central America.

9 seater plane with only two other passengers. Wow. Dirt landing strip. Whoa.

The Río San Juan was a magical place. From the tiny plane I took a lancha to my hotel- Hotel Sabalos, about an hour east. The hotel is perched over the river and the views were astounding. For three beautiful days, I went to sleep to the sound of frogs and woke up to the sound of howler monkeys. I awoke before dawn to tour the river wildlife. Three types of monkeys, river otters, more birds than I could begin to describe. Different types of frogs, lizards, bats. So far, it is the highlight of my time in Nicaragua.

It's Christmas Day and I am on isla de ometepe. It took me 16 hours to get here from San Carlos. It's an island comprised of two volcanoes, one still active, in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It's pretty. Isolated. Rustic. There are no busses running today so I ventured out of my crappy hotel to find somewhere nice to land for a few hours. Hiked 6 hours to a waterfall and back yesterday off of one of the two volcanoes.
Looking forward to heading to San Juan del Sur tomorrow and then to finishing my trip in Costa Rica.

Maybe when I'm a little more comfortable I will be able to write something more entertaining than a report of where I am.
Merry Xmas to all who celebrate.
Peacd

Nicaragua: first thoughts

I've gotten laZy. Some may call it safe- I've been taking tourist shuttles between countries when I can. It is more expensive but expedites the passport process at both borders and the numerous 'tramites', as well as the chicken bus hopping. It also means a guaranteed seat with nobody handing me their baby, and a place to put my luggage (even if it's still outside and I'm never convinced it will end up in the same place I do). There are downsides to this, aside from having to be wanting to go exactly where they're going. There are no fried plantain or chicken vendors, no soap salesmen, nobody carrying machetes with gentle smiles, nobody reading the bible or trying to convince you to buy their lightbulbs. There are definitely not any singing clowns. But alas, nor are there bandits with guns, banda music playing at ear splitting volumes, or borrachos telling me only Latinos are allowed on the bus (this only happened once and he was annoying but harmless).
Some people think its safer, and it probably is. But I take them because I'm lazy. And because the difference between 14$ and 45$ doesn't mean I have to eat ramen for a week, or not bring fresh food home to my children. I take the easy way because I can, but I never for a second turn my knowledge or my heart away from the 90% of the generous people who live here that don't have this choice.

Our shuttle picked us up in northwestern El Salvador, and drove 10 hours across the Honduran and Nicaraguan border. The difference in the quality of the roads was almost immediate during the three hours of highway driving in Honduras. Pot holes bigger and more plentiful than I've seen in New Orleans (how sad to use this as a viable example), horses and bulls in the roads. As it got dark, not one light helped our exhausted driver through the labyrinth. Once at the Nicaraguan border, our van was sprayed with something toxic, trying to stop the spread of some pig-borne pathogen, and the roads cleaned up again to our final destination.

Truth be told, I came to Leon knowing I wasn't going to like it. I don't remember what it was that I'd read or seen or heard. I do recall thinking I'd probably love the people in this extremely progressive (for Latin America) town, and was prepared for the heat. But I wasn't prepared for La Griteria.

Now I love love love experiencing cultural holidays in the places they originate. I love learning about the food and the emotion and the special ins and outs that there are. I love a good party, and a display of fireworks. But three days of oppressive heat and never-ending fireworks had me on edge. The people were just as interesting or even moreso (see "guerrilla" post. Learned so much from the tour guides who grew up in the war) than I imagined. Having kitchen access brought me to tears as I was able to eat vegetables every single meal. Listening to the singing that was rampant in the doorways of homes presenting altars to the Virgin was fascinating. But those dang fireworks NEVER stopped. I found myself fantasizing about Earthlodge and a treehouse by myself. Somewhere I could sleep more than two or three hours at a time.

I did have wonderful Santa Cruz companions and a Kiwi friend I'd met at earthlodge a month prior in town at the same time which made Leon a fantastic stop. And an indulgent sushi experience with all of them. But I was ready to move.

I got myself all worked up and headed north to Matagalpa, in hopes I could find a finca in the cloud forest to just have a little peace. Was I still enjoying myself? Yes. But I needed a recharge.
I took the bus to Matagalpa, checked into my hostel and slept. All day. I emailed every finca haven in the area and most were booked so I stayed in the hostel another day. There was nothing of any interest directly in town so I pretty much stuck around the hostel and ate pizza. A lot of pizza. I don't particularly like pizza, but as a vegetarian in a completely non-touristy developing country town, and after a few questionable meals, pizza is safe.

And then the most amazing thing happened. I was walking in from a pizza meal and there were two girls sitting on the couch. They weren't sleeping in my dorm so I hadn't met them yet. As I walked past, One of them spoke English in the most beautiful accent I'd heard in a while, "the Saints game should be on this channel." Louisiana. I backed up slowly and said, "Saints game?" and joined them on the couch. The two women were Peace Corps volunteers, taking a breather after a meeting in Managua. One was from Northern Louisiana, but last lived in nola, the other from NYC. We spent the rest of the day eating yet more pizza, drinking beer and watching football- well, pretending to watch football, really. It was really fun, but I was ready to move forward. So I took a bus to Granada, hoping my previous travel companions were still in town.

They were not, but it was no bother. Granada was every bit as colonial and international as I expected it to be. Antigua about 20 years ago. Clean(ish) streets, renovated and/or restored colonial buildings that made New Orleans' high ceilings wince with jealousy. Horse drawn carriages, both elegant and rustic, a main plaza so beautiful it seemed unreal. Gardens and ancient doorways that would make even the most modern of modernists swoon.

Expatriates. Hundreds of them. Mostly retirees, and I could hear myself saying ... Yeah, this is good. Aesthetic. Clean. International. Hot weather. Close to the beach and the mountains.

And then I noticed most were single men in their 70's, or hard lived 60's. Many of them with much much MUCH younger Nicaraguan women. Girls. All of my heart wants to "go into that." But I will stop there. Many people don't notice this. They're lucky.

Granada is stunning and so much lies within twenty minutes of it, it makes a perfect base camp. Like wandering the streets of a preserved colonial city isn't enough to be grateful for, two volcanoes overlook the city. I've only explored one, Mambacho, which was like a fairy tail of jungle trails leading to views of Lake Nicaragua, smoking volcano Masaya, the city of Granada, the collapsed crater of another volcano now a warm water lake, Laguna de Apoyo.

I spent the next two nights in a cabana with an outdoor shower and bathroom at this lake. The first night there, I got all the sleep I needed, tucked inside a fancy mosquito net, listening to geckos make unfathomably loud noises for such small creatures and me saying to the night sky, "that's right! Now do your job."

The second night was more of the same Central American noise I am really really trying to accept and get used to. Club music from across the lake pumped up to such volumes I truly don't understand how any of them have their hearing intact. Maybe they don't and that's why the music is so loud. Who knows.

The taxi picked me up from the lovely resort on the lake and took me to the airport, with a break for a flat tire on the highway in Managua- what's a story without a story? And now I am blogging from my Caribbean bungalow 40 miles offshore at Big Corn Island. Rich in culture, English speaking black creole replaces Spanish, though I find myself sometimes wanting them to speak Spanish instead, as the Caribbean cadence sings its way through my brain, only half understood. On the other hand I want to listen to it for hours, studying word choice.
Him go to the party.
S'good.
Aright.
How ya mama en em?
I see more now why people say New Orleans is so Caribbean in nature. Though much more impoverished, in many ways I feel like I'm home. There was a funeral today for a young man who took his own life after his wife left him. Most of the island went to the funeral. They drove and marched past my divorcee bungalow, carrying umbrellas like a second line. But silent. It was a beautiful sight.

Originally I planned on going to Little Corn island, 7 miles away by sea, with no roads or cars. An idyllic paradise. Rough seas has me thinking twice. As does knowing the island is completely tourist centered. Though this isn't necessarily a bad thing.

To be honest, I'm kind of craving pizza.

I say "gorilla" and you say "guerrilla"

"During that thing that happened in the 80's," responded my hiking companion.

He wasn't talking about bad hair or Duran Duran. Gael is a professor at a university in Georgia, and this was his response to my question, "when did you move to the states?"

That thing that happened in the 80's, (and in the 90's) is apparent everywhere that I have been in Central America. Contras, Sandinistas, FLMN, zapatistas. Different names in different places, all with similar history.

I remember hearing about the wars in the 80's. I remember being in middle school and my 9 yr old brother being glued to the Ollie North trials. I remember hearing about 'gorillas' in this far-away place. I had no idea that these far-away places weren't very far away.

Gorillas. Words are powerful. I knew they were speaking of men, not animals. But the images in my head were quite strong. Hairy, mud-covered men hiding in the forest shooting any moving being. Whispers and sneakiness. Che. Presently we hear the word in the media when talking about current wars and even in marketing. Gorillas.

In Spanish, the word for war is la guerra. This is the base word for 'guerrilla' , or fighter/militar. This conjures up a different image somehow, something more conservative, like a regular soldier. As if war could be conservative.

The 80's weren't very long ago. The war in El Salvador didn't end until the 90's which feels like it was just yesterday. It's been interesting to hear locals speak of this time period, especially the differences in thought among the rich and the poor, and the confusion and mixed feelings of the middle class. Life has changed in this not-so-far-away place for most Central Americans.

Gael's family had to make a decision and live with it. His father and sister stayed in Nicaragua while he and his mother immigrated illegally to the US. With the cost of airfare to Mexico and paying Coyotes for help crossing the Rio Grande, they could only choose one parent and one child. With the 100% likelihood that Gael would be drafted into the war at a very young age, his mother made this extremely difficult choice to leave her daughter and husband and save her son. Gael's mother pushed him to learn English and do well. He did. And Gael went to graduate school and now teaches international studies to some very lucky students.

And fortunately, his story has a happy ending- his sister and father joined them in south Florida ten years later. He says his sister always understood the choice. I can't imagine how difficult this must have been. The thought of not being around my brother for ten years leaves me gasping for breath. And this is just one of many many stories I've been listening to.

More of the good stuff later. For now, I'm trying to rewrite and redraw the pictures in my head to read "guerrilla". And learn again about that thing that happened in the 80's, while I had the freedom to have bad hair and listen to Duran Duran. Gael gave me his information, both in the states and here in Nicaragua. He hugged me as he and his cousin and student I jumped out of the back of the pick up.

"Please keep in touch! I need to feed off your energy," he said, as I was thinking the same thing about him, "and remember now you have family here in Nicaragua, too."

I may have to take one of his classes.

Trying to get on the map

El Salvador is relatively new to the travel scene. Recent wars and dangerous drug and gang problems kept it a place of media bullying for some time.
Having progressed to a "second world" country (I find this term odd), more security in place and a stable economy, El Salvador is trying, desperately, to make its way into the guidebooks as a tourist destination.
Before leaving on this adventure, my mom went searching for a book. There wasn't one. The small section in Lonely Planet does a good job reiterating what ES tourism is touting, but that's just not a lot. It was quite strange trying to get around after the ease of its much poorer neighbor, Guatemala.
In any case, explore we did. After El Tunco, we spent a night in the capital, sick as dogs from something we ate, and finally headed up north to the small colonial art town of Suchitoto. We liked it so much we stayed two nights and ended up traveling for five days with just one change of clothes. This was remarkably easy, and quite nice to be so unencumbered. We roamed the cobblestone streets and cute little shops -and spent quite a bit of time at our hotel pool, overlooking a lovely lake that wraps itself around the city. Also included in this journey was a visit to the museum of cinematography of Don Allejandro Coto, a Salvadorean icon, as well as my friend Xavier's uncle. In his museum were medals from over 50 countries for his contribution in the arts, as well as gifts from world famous artists, including a painting by Diego Rivera. We also ate our only pupusas in El Salvador there, cooked by the wife of "the" Gringo, Robert, from San Francisco, ca.
From Suchitoto, we headed to La Ruta de las Flores for their well publicized food festival. We based ourselves in a sweet little hotel/hostel in Juayua and explored the area. Once a shock factor experience with things like iguana and frogs on the menu, the food feria in Juayua is now pretty tame, and we tried a couple new dishes. We also took a short tour of neighboring Ataco, known for its colorful
murals, and a coffee tour. We headed back to the capital for mom's last night, and then I scooted back to El Tunco, where our new friends from Santa Cruz were, to take a 10 hour shuttle from northwest El Salvador, to Leon, Nicaragua. Sure beat chicken bus jumping!
In all, El Salvador was really tranquil. The people were very nice and helpful, and the countryside was pretty. We enjoyed.