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.
