So, there are a few things that I may have mentioned in passing, but have yet to really explain the full ramifications upon daily life. One of these topics is that of bugs, or insects if you like. Living in the middle of a jungle, there are a LOT of bugs. They range from tiny little ants that you can barely see to giant red ants that bite with a vengeance. From miniature beatles with flashy green wings to enormous cockroaches the size of a small cell phone.
When you wake up in the morning and reach for the honey, your arm is immediately covered in tiny crawling creatures you can feel, but rarely see. When you pick up the sugar, you have to sift out the black ants that have died overnight. As you sit down to enjoy your meal, you find ourself absently waving your hand over the table trying to keep the houseflies from contaminating your food. When you turn on the lights as you enter the house, you are greeted by a flurry of scurrying as all the cockroaches run for cover. Looking for a new outfit in the closet, you come across spiderwebs that you could have sworn weren't there the day before.
All in all, bugs are a fact of life here. If you leave food out on a counter for longer than 5 mins, it's a sacrifice to the bug gods. If you forget to put on long pants before commencing to cook, you find yourself doing a ridiculous dance as you hop from foot to foot attempting to continuously kill mosquitoes as they munch upon your sweet flesh.
On a grander scheme of things, bugs destroy everything here with a surprising rapidity. Wood succumbs to termites, any abandoned space is invaded by hornets, carpenter ants carry away plants piece by piece. In short, it's a jungle out there!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Kakabila
Two weekends ago, I decided it was about time that I make a trip out to one of the communities and find out what life is really like for the people we are doing our best to help. One of the other volunteers was headed up to Kakabila for a rather long stay, so I opted to join him for the trip up and a few days in the jungle. It was a rather astounding journey that began with an early morning panga ride to Pearl Lagoon. Luckily, it wasn't raining when we set off, but a few hours later, as soon as we entered the Lagoon itself, our boat engine cut and we started drifting. luckily, our panga driver had done well enough for himself to possess a cell phone and was able to call around to some friends in the area. Just as we began drifting dangerously close to the shore, an empty panga showed up to give us a tow.
After a few false starts and some hard tugs that nearly dipped the edge of the boat below the waterline, we were on our way, securely tied behind our savior's vessel. At this point, a woman towards the back decided that she couldn't hold it any longer and asked the driver if there was some way she could pee. He told her to climb back beside him and hang off the back with one hand on the motor. Not too excited by this prospect after a brief, failed attempt to balance, she asked for another option. The driver scrounged around until he found one of his bailing buckets and handed it to her with the instructions to clean it out when she was done. Adamantly asking that he stay facing forward, she crouched down and relieved herself, dumping the contents of the bucket overboard and deftly rinsing her container. Much happier, she clambered back up to her seat and the driver settled back into his space.
Pulling up to a nondescript dock on a desolate strech of land, we all climbed out and huffed it out the road. Apparently, we hadn't quite made it to Pearl Lagoon. Instead, we were in some small town a few miles out and the panga driver was busy arranging transport the rest of the way. He had us set our things down in front of his house while he went to scrounge up some 3 wheel, semi open air taxis to get us on our way. Happy to take in the sights and chat with the small children that suddenly gathered, we hung out for about half an hour while two taxis ran shuttles of 2 people at a time over to Pearl Lagoon.
The drive over to Pearl Lagoon revealed a new view of the countryside. There was a surprising mix of homes along the edge of the road, ranging from tiny wooden shacks to McMansions of concrete. Interspersed were patches of lush tropical rainforest dense with jungle vines and riotous symphonies of birds. Eventually arriving in Pearl Lagoon, we got let out down the road from the dock and continued on foot through the torn up street they were in the process of repaving. The first dock didn't yield any boats headed towards Kakabila, so we went around the corner and down an alley to a small bar that happened to have a dock. Or maybe it was a dock that happened to have a small bar. Either way, we asked around and were pointed to a table of young men who were evidently headed to Kakabila at some point that day. Judging by the beers in hand, that didn't appear to be any time soon. We asked if we could hitch a ride and were welcomed to do so for the price of gas. Happy to know we had a chance of making it to our destination, Josiah settled in make friends and I headed off to the local power plant for a slight bit of research.
The journey to the generator turned out to be significantly longer than expected, but that gave me a chance to see most of the town along the way. Having gotten the info I needed by hollering at the top of my lungs over the roar of the diesel generator that powers the entire town, I found my way back to the dock. There, Josiah was well into his 2nd beer and there was a fresh one on it's way for me. Despite the early hour (I think it was about 10:30am), I couldn't very well be rude and hence accepted the nicely chilled bottle of toña that arrived shortly. At the time, I had no idea it was to be first of at least 4 more. Apparently, this was the regular agenda for the day. The boys we were chatting with had been out at the crack of dawn to lay their fishing nets and were now waiting for the evening when they would head out again to retrieve their blunder. Having nothing else to do, they typically spend the day drinking in town before driving their boats back home. Thankfully, one of the 3 guys we were with had opted to be DD and hence switched to soft drinks after his first beer. Rather surprised, but very happy to see such responsibility, both Josiah and I were quickly feeling our early morning booze. We were both drinking pointedly slow so as not to have too many, but every time they finished a bottle, they automatically ordered a full round, despite our protests. Not wanting too many to stack up and keep us from leaving, we dutifully kept pace the best we could.
A few hours and plenty of beer later, we all piled into a large dugout canoe. The majority of the boat was carved from a single trunk with a few extra boards added to each side. Unfortunately, the seams were unsealed, so water gushed through the gaps on every wave or turn. This made things more interesting as the bottom of the boat continually collected water. When it started to get too high, one of the boys would start bailing and the water level would reside. In this manner we crossed Pearl Bay and arrived at Kakabila.
Pulling up to a white sand beach with a long dock, we stepped through the last bit of water and onto shore. Just up the beach was a large, circular thatched roof structure that used to be a mini-bar and now functions as the teenage hangout. Beyond were towering coconut trees, spreading mango boughs and a collection of varied houses ranging from traditional wood and thatch to concrete block with tin roofs. I won't go much further into the architecture at this particular moment, but lets just say I was fascinated by what I saw during my stay and by the way people spoke about their homes.
That afternoon we shared a rather meager but delicious meal with our hosts of fried dough, beans and rice. Afterwards, I took advantage of some beautiful weather to stroll through the village. In total, there were only about 75 houses, each with anywhere from 2-14 people living in it. As I wandered around, various men (never women) would come up to introduce themselves and ask me what I was up to. Happy to chat, I asked lots of questions about life on the coast, about perceptions of materials, the history of the region etc. As the light began to fade, I headed back to our host's home and shared another simple meal of fish and rice.
That night, I watched the sun go down over the water with white sand stretching in a thin ribbon in either direction, framed by lush green trees and clear blue skies. I couldn't help but feel how incredibly lucky I was to be sharing this little slice of paradise with such generous people.
As the light faded completely, the true extent of our isolation became immediately apparent as the world turned pitch black. The moon had yet to emerge, so the only
light in town came from one house with a generator. The only other glimmers were flashlights turned on and quickly off again to save their batteries. Suddenly, the work that blueEnergy does took on a much more personal significance.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Managua Trip - Part 5: La Laguna del Apoyo
On our way out of the hostel, we asked the doorman where and when we could get a bus to La Laguna del Apoyo and were informed that there were 2 options. #1 wait til 10am and take the tourist bus to the private beach or #2 take the public bus to the intersection, get off and catch a different bus the rest of the way. Having no interest in waiting 4 hours just to pay twice as much to get to the same place, we thanked the doorman and headed towards the local bus stop.
We found the bus with little issue and once again ademantly informed the driver that we wanted to get off at the intersection to La Laguna del Apoyo and nowhere else. Nonetheless, we still had to holler and shout as we passed by in order to convince them to stop. We disembarked with our bags of goods from Masaya and rather blurryvision due to the lack of sleeping the night before. Crossing the street, we asked the sweet little couple on the corner if the bus was coming and were told yes, but they didn't know when. Not really wanting to stand still and wait, we started walking on the theory that we could just flag the bus down when it came by. Unfortunately, that never happened. Instead, we ended up hiking up hill for about 3 hours, hitching a ride for about 5mins of the way before hitting an intersection. I was truly surprised that more cars did not pass by, but it just was not destined to be our day. Instead, we got a lovely hike through the jungle whether we wanted it or not.
Finally arriving at the bottom of the monstorous hill we had just crossed and descended, we could see the water, but could not reach it. The entire beachfront was privately owned by various hotels and private homes. Slightly discouraged, but still persistant, we finally found an alley that led down to a series of restaurants right on the water. Not particularly in the mood for food just yet, we pushed through the tables and headed straight for the crystal clear lagoon. Despite the greywater runoff from the kitchen and washing stands that emptied directly into the lake, the water was stunningly refreshing. The whole body of water was ringed by hills covered in a vibrant green and rarely broken by human inhabitation.
Thoroughly refreshed and happy after our long hike finally bore fruit, we eventually climbed out and ordered some food. After a short meal of fried chicken and fries, we opted to take advantage of the hammocks hung about and each passed out in the shade for a couple hours.
When we woke, we decided we had had it for the afternoon as we were planning on catching the overnight bus back to Bluefields that evening. Hence, we decided that we would go ahead and pay for the first available taxi to take us all the way back to Managua. On our way back up the hill, we asked the guys on the corner where we could catch a cab and they waved down the truck that was just pulling out to take us out to the corner. Only, when we got in, we immediately hit it off with the driver, who had an easy laugh and was in a fabulous mood. When we mentioned that our final destination was Managua, he offered to take us the whole way. Weary and very greatful for the nice gesture, we passed the next half an hour chatting away with our driver. We did so entirely in Spanish and had a great time learning to really express ourselves only to find out later that he spoke perfect English and actually lived in the States. He was just back to check up on some business before heading back to finish a documentary on Kansas coal miners. After that, he was off to Hollywood to try his hand at becoming a movie star. I hope he makes it!
Getting dropped off essentially at our door, we came home to a mildly full house with Juli and Max having just arrived. We took care of a few last minute things before cooking a quick meal of pasta and making our way to the bus stop for another long journey back to Bluefields.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Managua Trip - Part 4: Granada
As we rolled into Granada, Stephanie and I were both amazed to discover that not only did the streets here actually have names, but that they were written on the buildings at every corner. Excited to finally have something by which to orient ourselves, we pulled out the only map we'd brought with us and started scanning streets. Not really having much idea where we wanted to go, we simply got off as soon as we knew where we were. From there, we headed in the direction of the central park with the idea that we'd rent one bed somewhere so we could drop off our purchases and lock up our passports before heading out to pass the night partying with all the city-slickers that travel to Granada specifically for that reason.
As we stepped off the bus, we found ourselves on a beautifully paved sidewalk that ran alongside a perfectly maintained cobblestone road. On either side, beautifully maintained buildings ran uninterrupted with glimpses into gorgeously furnished living rooms with leather chairs and mahogany bookshelves. Feeling as if we'd walked onto an alien planet after several months in the grit and poverty of Bluefields, we were astounded to be among such wealth. As we headed towards the center, the elegance of design and the level of detail dedicated to each building only increased. Soon, we stumbled upon a gorgeous old cathedral that was in some disrepair, but still stunning. A few more steps down the road we stepped into a small hostel to ask about getting a bed for the night. Finding the price of $6 to be worth our while, Stephanie checked in and took our belongings up to 'her' room. It was tiny little thing with 2 bunkbeds that must have been built in place as there's no way the could have been maneuvered into such a small space, but there were locking cupboards on the wall, which was all we really needed. Putting away our few belongings and locking up our passports, we headed back out to the street.
On our way out, we asked the guy tending the front desk if he knew of a place to shoot some pool. After looking at us as if we'd just asked whether we could buy cheese on the moon, he slowly responded yes, but why do you want to know? When we explained that we'd like to play, his face went pale and he seemed a bit taken aback. Apparently not that many young ladies come by and ask to play pool in this particular town (or in any other around here for that matter). In any case, he reluctantly informed us that the only pool hall in town was just around the corner and we took off with a spring in our step. Passing by the pool hall just to make sure we knew where it was, we headed off for a meandering walk through town to see where we had landed ourselves.
The further into the center of town we got, the more European the whole place felt. There were colonial style mansions, Roman-inspired promenades and French-style chariot rides through the central park. It was all a little disconcerting, but also equally refreshing. In any case, we walked the length of the main drag where every other storefront was a restaurant or bar with outdoor seating, and were about to head back up to make a dinner selection when Ricardo finally got around to calling. Apparently he'd actually made it to town and wanted to meet us for dinner. Hiking back up the street until we ran into him, we discussed our options for dinner and decided on pizza as the only affordable alternative in this true tourist trap. Luckily, it was the best pizza either of us had tasted in a very long time. Apparently the owner is Italian and you could certainly taste it in the food. Not to mention, the service was impeccable. I can't even begin to describe how entirely different dining in Granada is compared to Bluefields, or even to Managua. In Bluefields, you're lucky if someone comes to your table without whistling across the room repeatedly and possibly even getting up and going to the kitchen yourself. And god forbid you need anything in the middle of your meal. Basically, if it's not on the table when they bring your food, it's not gonna show up any other time. In Granada, the waiter stands just a few feet away waiting to jump should you need anything at all. You don't even have to ask for silverware, they just bring it!
Anyway, we followed up our delicious meal with some equally exquisite sorbe at a small shop just across town. I honestly haven't had sorbe that yummy since the last time I was in Italy. Not to mention, I ordered starfruit flavor, which I'm pretty sure doesn't show up on the menu most places.
Well, it was still kinda early when we finished eating, and we had a full night ahead of us, so we opted to shoot some pool before commencing the night in earnest. This was a truly entertaining experience. At first, Ricardo informed us that we couldn't go into the pool hall as it was 'dangerous' and the boys were gonna shout at us. Giving him a moment of consideration, we thought about this and then burst out laughing. The truth of the matter is, there isn't a single place in Nicaragua that Stephanie and I can go and NOT get hollered at. So, after confirming the lack of another location, we led our reluctant friend into the dark underbelly of Granada.
The pool hall was brightly lit with tables spaced perfectly to allow uninterrupted play. The tables were also reasonably flat and well taken care of, quite a treat in our experience. Watching Ricardo play on the other hand, was more than just amusing. I'm not sure if he'd actually never played or simply didn't care, but I've honestly never seen anyone play even close to that poorly. This fact produced quite a few grins from the boys at the table next to us as Stephanie and I repeatedly sunk balls and Ricardo was lucky to even contact the cue ball. Well, at least I think that's what they were grinning about. It could also have been the slew of pictures they were not-so-serupticiously taking of us with their cell phones...
In any case, we killed an hour or two at the pool hall before Ricardo's friend called and invited us all over to his house. We drove a little way out of town and pulled over in front of a rather non-descript wall just as his friend was pulling into the very, very narrow garage door. Surprised that he made it through without nocking off both rearview mirrors, we followed him in to the most magnificent home I may have ever been in. The garage was bordered by an open air courtyard with lush tropically shrubbery and a brillant green lawn. Through an archway a wide, covered walkway led around another beautifully landscaped courtyard with thick columns supporting the upper story(ies). As he led us in, we could see into a few of the rooms immediatly off of the veranda, each with at least 15ft ceilings intricately decorated with carved metal crates and textured plaster. The furniture was made of solid, hand carved wood and the floor was tiled in exquisite style. Settling into one of the many sets of seating arranged around the covered veranda (which must have been at least 20ft wide), we were introduced to our hosts and asked to make ourselves at home. Both Stephanie and I were floored by the opulance of our surroundings and weren't exactly sure how we had managed to end up there.
As we sat back, our host brought out his laptop and set it to play a political documentary that discussed Nicaraguan history. Although I was only able to understand a small fraction of the film, the discussions the flew back an forth among our friends were tantilizingly interesting. Again, I wasn't able to catch quite enough to relate those conversations, but they covered every angle of politics you could imagine. Not to mention, everytime a new specialist or political figure appeared on the documentary, our host would point to him or her and relate some story of personal connection. I'm still working on figuring out exactly whose house we stumbled into that night, but I have a feeling they hold quite a few strings in this country.
Eventually tiring of politics, Ricardo invited his friends to join us for a night on the town, which they unfortunately refused, and we headed back into the city. Our first stop of the night was Cafe Nuit, a flashy little place with some live music and all the tourists you could stomach. We ended up at one of the only non-tourist tables with some people Ricardo knew from Managua, but they had all been educated in the US, so it wasn't a particularly 'genuine' Nica experience. In fact, the whole scene was a little odd. The entire time I've been in Nicaragua, I've only really spent time with people who exist relatively low on the economic food chain. Here, I was surrounded by young, rich blooded, college-educated individuals. It was a bit of a culture shock to see these very latino guys talking an acting like US frat boys. Not to mention, they weren't really interested in talking or getting to know us, just in convincing either Stephanie or myself to 'go for a ride' with them. Especially uncomfortable was the indifference they exhibited as to which one of us they wanted to take home. They simply tried one and then the other when they were refused. For the most part, we managed to ignore this and chat with the lovely girl from Argentina that was also at the table, but when they asked us to go back to Managua with them to party there for the rest of the night, we opted to decline. In fact, we were kindof hoping they'd take Ricardo with them when they left as he was getting progressively drunker and more annouying as the night went on. No such luck. They headed off and Ricardo stayed.
Then the lights went out.
Taking this as an omen, Stephanie and I discussed how we might be able to ditch our now inebriated friend without too much bad blood, considering he's a friend of our 'boss.' Just as we had decided to use the power outage as an excuse to call it a night and run, they got the generator going and the music came back in full force. We danced a couple more songs then told Ricardo we needed to drop off a few things at our hostel. He very reluctantly walked the 4 blocks with us after we refused to ride in the car with him. It was really interesting to see how uncomfortable he was with being on the streets. I have a feeling that being wealthy in Nicaragua comes with its own dangers, possibly even more so than being a foreigner. In any case, we made it back to the place we had rented with only a minor detour due to poorly recollected directions. Once there, Steph went up to the room and informed me that it was my job to get rid of Ricardo so we could go back out and enjoy the rest of the night. Using her as an excuse, I lied through my teeth and told him we weren't up for anything else that evening and we were gonna call it a night. After a very akward conversation, I finally managed to say goodnight and proceeded back up to the single bed we had rented. This was accompanied by a few odd stares from the young man at the desk, but he thankfully didn't say anything.
Hanging out in our room for a few minutes to give Mr. R a head start out the door, we started chatting with our bunk mates, 2 gorgeous European guys who were on backpacking trips. Despite our best efforts to rouse them from bed and have them accompany us to go dancing, the were insistent on calling it a night. Instead, we regaled them with tales of Bluefields and the Caribbean Coast. Pretty sure they only believed half of everything we told them, and I'm positive they thought we were drunk beyond belief, but we were just high on life by that point in time. In any case, after a very amusing little while, we decided the coast had to be clear and snuck back out into the night.
Finding ourselves quite to be rather starving, we wandered around town for awhile looking for some sort of food, but to no avail. It being well past midnight by that point in time, everyone had closed up for the night, including most of the nightclubs. However, we had heard that the real party got started down on the lake front when the town center shut down, so we flagged a cab and made our way to 'Kayak.' This place was a really cool little spot with a thatched hut bar and dance floor accompanied by seating scattered along the beach. Some of the tables landed beneath a beautiful old tree whose branches easily spread 40ft across with gorgeous, dense leaves of a rich, dark green. Kayak also served food, which made us exceedingly happy.
Stephanie and I sat down, very happy to have a private table a good distance from all the oggoling men across the way. No sooner had our waiter returned with our drinks than he informed us that the guys over yonder had asked permission to come join us. Amused, but not interested, we refused their offer and managed to make it through our delicious meal of frijoles cremas, fried chicken and plantains relatively unmolested. Of course, our privacy was too good to last. Not 5 mins after we'd finished eating, a very talkative young man approached us and began chatting. When he realized we both spoke Spanish, he sat himself down and entertained us with non-stop chit-chat. Luckily for him, he was thoroughly amusing and spoke very clear, fluid Spanish, so we let him stay. Then we discovered the real reason for his approach when he called 2 of his friends over to join us. We all chatted for awhile until the first gentleman, who was by far the most interesting, mysteriously departed and left us with his two rather inebriated companions, both of whom were more interested in convincing us to come back to their place than actually talking to us. We tried switching to dancing, but that didn't last long as both of them were more interested in feeling us up than actually dancing. Instead, we both ended up being informed we were the most beautiful women in the world and that our respective boys were each desperately in love with us.
Watching the sunrise over the lake, we decided it was probably time to ditch the guys somewhere around the 7th time they tried to kiss us. Telling them we were gonna walk back to town, we started heading up the beach accompanied by their incredulous stares, but thankfully not their presence. Wandering back along the beach and through the back streets to our hostel, we got a very different view of Granada than the one presented by the main streets. In the back alleys, there were no grand homes with tiled roofs and porches that spilled onto the street. Instead, there were the same ramshackle wood and tin structures that we had become accustomed to in our less touristy travels. Happy to see that Granada did in fact have real residents, and not just foreigners passing through, we eventually found our way back to the hostel. There, we each passed out for a few minutes in the hammocks swaying in the foyer before rising again and getting on our way.
As we stepped off the bus, we found ourselves on a beautifully paved sidewalk that ran alongside a perfectly maintained cobblestone road. On either side, beautifully maintained buildings ran uninterrupted with glimpses into gorgeously furnished living rooms with leather chairs and mahogany bookshelves. Feeling as if we'd walked onto an alien planet after several months in the grit and poverty of Bluefields, we were astounded to be among such wealth. As we headed towards the center, the elegance of design and the level of detail dedicated to each building only increased. Soon, we stumbled upon a gorgeous old cathedral that was in some disrepair, but still stunning. A few more steps down the road we stepped into a small hostel to ask about getting a bed for the night. Finding the price of $6 to be worth our while, Stephanie checked in and took our belongings up to 'her' room. It was tiny little thing with 2 bunkbeds that must have been built in place as there's no way the could have been maneuvered into such a small space, but there were locking cupboards on the wall, which was all we really needed. Putting away our few belongings and locking up our passports, we headed back out to the street.
On our way out, we asked the guy tending the front desk if he knew of a place to shoot some pool. After looking at us as if we'd just asked whether we could buy cheese on the moon, he slowly responded yes, but why do you want to know? When we explained that we'd like to play, his face went pale and he seemed a bit taken aback. Apparently not that many young ladies come by and ask to play pool in this particular town (or in any other around here for that matter). In any case, he reluctantly informed us that the only pool hall in town was just around the corner and we took off with a spring in our step. Passing by the pool hall just to make sure we knew where it was, we headed off for a meandering walk through town to see where we had landed ourselves.
The further into the center of town we got, the more European the whole place felt. There were colonial style mansions, Roman-inspired promenades and French-style chariot rides through the central park. It was all a little disconcerting, but also equally refreshing. In any case, we walked the length of the main drag where every other storefront was a restaurant or bar with outdoor seating, and were about to head back up to make a dinner selection when Ricardo finally got around to calling. Apparently he'd actually made it to town and wanted to meet us for dinner. Hiking back up the street until we ran into him, we discussed our options for dinner and decided on pizza as the only affordable alternative in this true tourist trap. Luckily, it was the best pizza either of us had tasted in a very long time. Apparently the owner is Italian and you could certainly taste it in the food. Not to mention, the service was impeccable. I can't even begin to describe how entirely different dining in Granada is compared to Bluefields, or even to Managua. In Bluefields, you're lucky if someone comes to your table without whistling across the room repeatedly and possibly even getting up and going to the kitchen yourself. And god forbid you need anything in the middle of your meal. Basically, if it's not on the table when they bring your food, it's not gonna show up any other time. In Granada, the waiter stands just a few feet away waiting to jump should you need anything at all. You don't even have to ask for silverware, they just bring it!
Anyway, we followed up our delicious meal with some equally exquisite sorbe at a small shop just across town. I honestly haven't had sorbe that yummy since the last time I was in Italy. Not to mention, I ordered starfruit flavor, which I'm pretty sure doesn't show up on the menu most places.
Well, it was still kinda early when we finished eating, and we had a full night ahead of us, so we opted to shoot some pool before commencing the night in earnest. This was a truly entertaining experience. At first, Ricardo informed us that we couldn't go into the pool hall as it was 'dangerous' and the boys were gonna shout at us. Giving him a moment of consideration, we thought about this and then burst out laughing. The truth of the matter is, there isn't a single place in Nicaragua that Stephanie and I can go and NOT get hollered at. So, after confirming the lack of another location, we led our reluctant friend into the dark underbelly of Granada.
The pool hall was brightly lit with tables spaced perfectly to allow uninterrupted play. The tables were also reasonably flat and well taken care of, quite a treat in our experience. Watching Ricardo play on the other hand, was more than just amusing. I'm not sure if he'd actually never played or simply didn't care, but I've honestly never seen anyone play even close to that poorly. This fact produced quite a few grins from the boys at the table next to us as Stephanie and I repeatedly sunk balls and Ricardo was lucky to even contact the cue ball. Well, at least I think that's what they were grinning about. It could also have been the slew of pictures they were not-so-serupticiously taking of us with their cell phones...
In any case, we killed an hour or two at the pool hall before Ricardo's friend called and invited us all over to his house. We drove a little way out of town and pulled over in front of a rather non-descript wall just as his friend was pulling into the very, very narrow garage door. Surprised that he made it through without nocking off both rearview mirrors, we followed him in to the most magnificent home I may have ever been in. The garage was bordered by an open air courtyard with lush tropically shrubbery and a brillant green lawn. Through an archway a wide, covered walkway led around another beautifully landscaped courtyard with thick columns supporting the upper story(ies). As he led us in, we could see into a few of the rooms immediatly off of the veranda, each with at least 15ft ceilings intricately decorated with carved metal crates and textured plaster. The furniture was made of solid, hand carved wood and the floor was tiled in exquisite style. Settling into one of the many sets of seating arranged around the covered veranda (which must have been at least 20ft wide), we were introduced to our hosts and asked to make ourselves at home. Both Stephanie and I were floored by the opulance of our surroundings and weren't exactly sure how we had managed to end up there.
As we sat back, our host brought out his laptop and set it to play a political documentary that discussed Nicaraguan history. Although I was only able to understand a small fraction of the film, the discussions the flew back an forth among our friends were tantilizingly interesting. Again, I wasn't able to catch quite enough to relate those conversations, but they covered every angle of politics you could imagine. Not to mention, everytime a new specialist or political figure appeared on the documentary, our host would point to him or her and relate some story of personal connection. I'm still working on figuring out exactly whose house we stumbled into that night, but I have a feeling they hold quite a few strings in this country.
Eventually tiring of politics, Ricardo invited his friends to join us for a night on the town, which they unfortunately refused, and we headed back into the city. Our first stop of the night was Cafe Nuit, a flashy little place with some live music and all the tourists you could stomach. We ended up at one of the only non-tourist tables with some people Ricardo knew from Managua, but they had all been educated in the US, so it wasn't a particularly 'genuine' Nica experience. In fact, the whole scene was a little odd. The entire time I've been in Nicaragua, I've only really spent time with people who exist relatively low on the economic food chain. Here, I was surrounded by young, rich blooded, college-educated individuals. It was a bit of a culture shock to see these very latino guys talking an acting like US frat boys. Not to mention, they weren't really interested in talking or getting to know us, just in convincing either Stephanie or myself to 'go for a ride' with them. Especially uncomfortable was the indifference they exhibited as to which one of us they wanted to take home. They simply tried one and then the other when they were refused. For the most part, we managed to ignore this and chat with the lovely girl from Argentina that was also at the table, but when they asked us to go back to Managua with them to party there for the rest of the night, we opted to decline. In fact, we were kindof hoping they'd take Ricardo with them when they left as he was getting progressively drunker and more annouying as the night went on. No such luck. They headed off and Ricardo stayed.
Then the lights went out.
Taking this as an omen, Stephanie and I discussed how we might be able to ditch our now inebriated friend without too much bad blood, considering he's a friend of our 'boss.' Just as we had decided to use the power outage as an excuse to call it a night and run, they got the generator going and the music came back in full force. We danced a couple more songs then told Ricardo we needed to drop off a few things at our hostel. He very reluctantly walked the 4 blocks with us after we refused to ride in the car with him. It was really interesting to see how uncomfortable he was with being on the streets. I have a feeling that being wealthy in Nicaragua comes with its own dangers, possibly even more so than being a foreigner. In any case, we made it back to the place we had rented with only a minor detour due to poorly recollected directions. Once there, Steph went up to the room and informed me that it was my job to get rid of Ricardo so we could go back out and enjoy the rest of the night. Using her as an excuse, I lied through my teeth and told him we weren't up for anything else that evening and we were gonna call it a night. After a very akward conversation, I finally managed to say goodnight and proceeded back up to the single bed we had rented. This was accompanied by a few odd stares from the young man at the desk, but he thankfully didn't say anything.
Hanging out in our room for a few minutes to give Mr. R a head start out the door, we started chatting with our bunk mates, 2 gorgeous European guys who were on backpacking trips. Despite our best efforts to rouse them from bed and have them accompany us to go dancing, the were insistent on calling it a night. Instead, we regaled them with tales of Bluefields and the Caribbean Coast. Pretty sure they only believed half of everything we told them, and I'm positive they thought we were drunk beyond belief, but we were just high on life by that point in time. In any case, after a very amusing little while, we decided the coast had to be clear and snuck back out into the night.
Finding ourselves quite to be rather starving, we wandered around town for awhile looking for some sort of food, but to no avail. It being well past midnight by that point in time, everyone had closed up for the night, including most of the nightclubs. However, we had heard that the real party got started down on the lake front when the town center shut down, so we flagged a cab and made our way to 'Kayak.' This place was a really cool little spot with a thatched hut bar and dance floor accompanied by seating scattered along the beach. Some of the tables landed beneath a beautiful old tree whose branches easily spread 40ft across with gorgeous, dense leaves of a rich, dark green. Kayak also served food, which made us exceedingly happy.
Stephanie and I sat down, very happy to have a private table a good distance from all the oggoling men across the way. No sooner had our waiter returned with our drinks than he informed us that the guys over yonder had asked permission to come join us. Amused, but not interested, we refused their offer and managed to make it through our delicious meal of frijoles cremas, fried chicken and plantains relatively unmolested. Of course, our privacy was too good to last. Not 5 mins after we'd finished eating, a very talkative young man approached us and began chatting. When he realized we both spoke Spanish, he sat himself down and entertained us with non-stop chit-chat. Luckily for him, he was thoroughly amusing and spoke very clear, fluid Spanish, so we let him stay. Then we discovered the real reason for his approach when he called 2 of his friends over to join us. We all chatted for awhile until the first gentleman, who was by far the most interesting, mysteriously departed and left us with his two rather inebriated companions, both of whom were more interested in convincing us to come back to their place than actually talking to us. We tried switching to dancing, but that didn't last long as both of them were more interested in feeling us up than actually dancing. Instead, we both ended up being informed we were the most beautiful women in the world and that our respective boys were each desperately in love with us.
Watching the sunrise over the lake, we decided it was probably time to ditch the guys somewhere around the 7th time they tried to kiss us. Telling them we were gonna walk back to town, we started heading up the beach accompanied by their incredulous stares, but thankfully not their presence. Wandering back along the beach and through the back streets to our hostel, we got a very different view of Granada than the one presented by the main streets. In the back alleys, there were no grand homes with tiled roofs and porches that spilled onto the street. Instead, there were the same ramshackle wood and tin structures that we had become accustomed to in our less touristy travels. Happy to see that Granada did in fact have real residents, and not just foreigners passing through, we eventually found our way back to the hostel. There, we each passed out for a few minutes in the hammocks swaying in the foyer before rising again and getting on our way.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Managua Trip - Part 3: Masaya
Waking up to our first leisurely morning in a long while, Stephanie and I enjoyed a wonderful breakfast of yogurt, granola, orange juice and much more that is would be unimaginable in Bluefields. We hadn't received a call from our acquaintance of the night before about the ride he had offered, so we enjoyed our morning and got into a bit of planning. Pulling out maps and consulting our local friends, we decided that our mini vacation would consist of a trip to Masaya to check out the markets followed by a night in Granada and rounded off with an afternoon at La Laguna del Apoyo, a volcanic crater lake with what is posited to be the cleanest water in the country. Beyond being aware that there were buses linking each of these locations and that they were all reasonably close (anywhere from 20min to 2hrs depending on who you asked), we opted to leave the rest up to spontaneity and good luck.
Packing light enough to avoid renting a room should we so desire, the two of us headed down the road with the clothes on our backs and a vague notion of where we were headed. Accompanied by the usual chorus of car horns, whistles and catcalls that accompanies any mildly attractive woman (especially those of lighter skin tones) in this country, we cut across the the busy streets and headed towards the bus station. Along the way, we passed street vendors hawking everything from beautifully crafted jewelry made of seeds, shells and obsidian to gallo pinto, pineapples, gum and cigarettes.
We also meandered past the Universidad Centro Americana whose walls were covered in magnificent graffiti art and a myriad of political messages.
Arriving at the bus station, we were immediately accosted by conductors wanting to know where we were headed and attempting to entice us onto their bus. Informing one of them that were were on our way to Masaya, he ushered us towards a bus labeled with Granada and assured us that we could get off at Masaya on the way. Discovering the price of passage to be less than $1 we figured we couldn't go too far astray and climbed aboard.
On the way out of town, we slowly cruised the streets as the conductor leaned out the front door and shouted "Granada, Granada, Granada!" Passengers walked alongside the bus to get the pace of it's movement before stepping up with the wheels still rolling. In no time at all, all the seats were taken and the aisles filled. Satisfied that he had gotten all the fairs he could hold for the moment, the driver steered us out of town and onto the highway connecting Managua to Granada.
As the conductor squeezed his way down the aisle collecting fares, we informed him that we wished to disembark at Masaya, preferably somewhere near the marketplace. He nodded and confirmed that he'd let us know when to get off. We should have known something was up by the skeptical expression of the older man next to him, but it wasn't till we'd passed our turnoff that the older man spoke up and told us we should get off. This was a little perplexing since we had not through any town of any description, but had been on the 'highway' the whole ride. Nonetheless, the conductor agreed that we had gone past our stop, asked the driver to halt and told us to get off. We stepped out on a non-descript stretch of road with nothing more than a few thatched homes in either direction and a fat horse happily grazing along the embankment. With a vague gesture back in the direction we had come from, the conductor stepped back aboard and took the bus away with him.
Luckily, both Steph and I were in the mood for an adventure, and neither of us had any pressing engagements to attend, so we calmly began strolling back towards the only intersection we'd seen, a couple kilometers back down the road. Being the only people walking and two gingas to boot, we attracted a fair bit of attention as we wandered down the road. Taking advantage of such to request slightly better directions, we were informed that the marketplace we were searching for was located to the left a 'short' distance past the intersection. I should probably take this moment to explain a bit about directions here... There are no addresses, even in Managua, which makes getting anywhere a bit of an adventure. The closest you might get is something along the lines of so-and-so's house, half a block south of such-and-such commercial center. There are rarely any street names and when there are, no one knows them. In some cases, directions don't even relate to existing things, but rather places that used to belong to so-and-so or buildings that used to have such-and-such store. In any case, this results in very vague directions and very relative concepts of distance. You can ask 5 people how far one place is from another and you'll get 5 very different answers generally ranging anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours apart. Hence, we didn't really put much stock in the description of the town being 'close' but simply commenced walking in the general direction indicated.
It didn't take long before the ominous skies that had been brewing most of the morning decided to let loose a short burst of rain as we made our way along the side of the road towards Masaya. Luckily, that interlude didn't last too long and we managed to continue without getting too soaked. Strolling along, we were passed on all sides by every conceivable variety of bicycles, motorbikes, horse-drawn carts, taxis, buses and trucks. Happy to enjoy the scene, we managed to wander past the turn that no one we asked had bothered to mention actually led to Masaya. We discovered this minor mishap only after flagging down a bus we thought was headed to Masaya only to be informed we actually wanted on headed in the opposite direction. Whoops. Relatively unperturbed, we spun on our heels and headed back the way we had come. This time, a nice young man on a bicycle slowed down to chat and we managed to get slightly more informative direction out of him. Double checking his suggestions with people hanging out on each corner, we found ourselves walking down a wide, cobbled road, this time with slightly more people on foot. Unfortunately, the rain had held off as long as it could and the light drizzle we'd been ignoring was quickly becoming for forceful. Luckily, we happened to be passing by a small food/beer shop and managed to duck inside just as the skies let loose.
Passing the time with a beer and some excellent chicken, tortillas and gallo pinto, we managed to shake any bad feelings from having ended up slightly lost. As soon as the rain let up, we were on our way again. This time, we could already see the beginning of the market in the distance, so we knew we were headed in the right direction. We walked down a rutted dirt road past shanty wooden structures with rusted metal roofs lining both sides. It being a saturday afternoon, we had to dodge a few soccer balls from the riotous games being perpetrated down every side street, but we made it through unscathed.
Arriving at the market, we wound our way through rows of small wooden stands, stepping gently to avoid the large puddles of mud, but still emerging significantly more mud splattered than when we began. As we passed through the food market where the tables were piled high with bananas, mangoes, cabbages, casava and much more, we soon found ourselves entering the clothing section. Pushing on through the maze of passages that ran seemingly without reason through the miniature city that the market turned out to be, we finally arrived at the area we were searching for, the one with vendors hawking crafts of all varies. There were tables piled to the ceiling with wooden table sets, hand carved sculptures, dozens of varieties of jewelry made from obsidian, shells and seeds. Hanging from the rafters were colorful bags of every conceivable variety, woven hammocks, tapestries and more.
In some sections, stuffed chickens were displayed alongside dried, bloated frogs positioned in rather compromising manners. It was like walking into a forest of industrious elves keen to show off their skills. Picking through the trinkets, we each made a few small purchases and headed our way.
As luck would have it, we managed to arrive at the bus terminal just as the last bus to Granada was getting ready to embark. Taking the last available seats, we sat back, relaxed and headed off to what we had heard was a breathtaking city.
Packing light enough to avoid renting a room should we so desire, the two of us headed down the road with the clothes on our backs and a vague notion of where we were headed. Accompanied by the usual chorus of car horns, whistles and catcalls that accompanies any mildly attractive woman (especially those of lighter skin tones) in this country, we cut across the the busy streets and headed towards the bus station. Along the way, we passed street vendors hawking everything from beautifully crafted jewelry made of seeds, shells and obsidian to gallo pinto, pineapples, gum and cigarettes.
We also meandered past the Universidad Centro Americana whose walls were covered in magnificent graffiti art and a myriad of political messages. Arriving at the bus station, we were immediately accosted by conductors wanting to know where we were headed and attempting to entice us onto their bus. Informing one of them that were were on our way to Masaya, he ushered us towards a bus labeled with Granada and assured us that we could get off at Masaya on the way. Discovering the price of passage to be less than $1 we figured we couldn't go too far astray and climbed aboard.
On the way out of town, we slowly cruised the streets as the conductor leaned out the front door and shouted "Granada, Granada, Granada!" Passengers walked alongside the bus to get the pace of it's movement before stepping up with the wheels still rolling. In no time at all, all the seats were taken and the aisles filled. Satisfied that he had gotten all the fairs he could hold for the moment, the driver steered us out of town and onto the highway connecting Managua to Granada.
As the conductor squeezed his way down the aisle collecting fares, we informed him that we wished to disembark at Masaya, preferably somewhere near the marketplace. He nodded and confirmed that he'd let us know when to get off. We should have known something was up by the skeptical expression of the older man next to him, but it wasn't till we'd passed our turnoff that the older man spoke up and told us we should get off. This was a little perplexing since we had not through any town of any description, but had been on the 'highway' the whole ride. Nonetheless, the conductor agreed that we had gone past our stop, asked the driver to halt and told us to get off. We stepped out on a non-descript stretch of road with nothing more than a few thatched homes in either direction and a fat horse happily grazing along the embankment. With a vague gesture back in the direction we had come from, the conductor stepped back aboard and took the bus away with him.
Luckily, both Steph and I were in the mood for an adventure, and neither of us had any pressing engagements to attend, so we calmly began strolling back towards the only intersection we'd seen, a couple kilometers back down the road. Being the only people walking and two gingas to boot, we attracted a fair bit of attention as we wandered down the road. Taking advantage of such to request slightly better directions, we were informed that the marketplace we were searching for was located to the left a 'short' distance past the intersection. I should probably take this moment to explain a bit about directions here... There are no addresses, even in Managua, which makes getting anywhere a bit of an adventure. The closest you might get is something along the lines of so-and-so's house, half a block south of such-and-such commercial center. There are rarely any street names and when there are, no one knows them. In some cases, directions don't even relate to existing things, but rather places that used to belong to so-and-so or buildings that used to have such-and-such store. In any case, this results in very vague directions and very relative concepts of distance. You can ask 5 people how far one place is from another and you'll get 5 very different answers generally ranging anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours apart. Hence, we didn't really put much stock in the description of the town being 'close' but simply commenced walking in the general direction indicated.
It didn't take long before the ominous skies that had been brewing most of the morning decided to let loose a short burst of rain as we made our way along the side of the road towards Masaya. Luckily, that interlude didn't last too long and we managed to continue without getting too soaked. Strolling along, we were passed on all sides by every conceivable variety of bicycles, motorbikes, horse-drawn carts, taxis, buses and trucks. Happy to enjoy the scene, we managed to wander past the turn that no one we asked had bothered to mention actually led to Masaya. We discovered this minor mishap only after flagging down a bus we thought was headed to Masaya only to be informed we actually wanted on headed in the opposite direction. Whoops. Relatively unperturbed, we spun on our heels and headed back the way we had come. This time, a nice young man on a bicycle slowed down to chat and we managed to get slightly more informative direction out of him. Double checking his suggestions with people hanging out on each corner, we found ourselves walking down a wide, cobbled road, this time with slightly more people on foot. Unfortunately, the rain had held off as long as it could and the light drizzle we'd been ignoring was quickly becoming for forceful. Luckily, we happened to be passing by a small food/beer shop and managed to duck inside just as the skies let loose.
Passing the time with a beer and some excellent chicken, tortillas and gallo pinto, we managed to shake any bad feelings from having ended up slightly lost. As soon as the rain let up, we were on our way again. This time, we could already see the beginning of the market in the distance, so we knew we were headed in the right direction. We walked down a rutted dirt road past shanty wooden structures with rusted metal roofs lining both sides. It being a saturday afternoon, we had to dodge a few soccer balls from the riotous games being perpetrated down every side street, but we made it through unscathed.
Arriving at the market, we wound our way through rows of small wooden stands, stepping gently to avoid the large puddles of mud, but still emerging significantly more mud splattered than when we began. As we passed through the food market where the tables were piled high with bananas, mangoes, cabbages, casava and much more, we soon found ourselves entering the clothing section. Pushing on through the maze of passages that ran seemingly without reason through the miniature city that the market turned out to be, we finally arrived at the area we were searching for, the one with vendors hawking crafts of all varies. There were tables piled to the ceiling with wooden table sets, hand carved sculptures, dozens of varieties of jewelry made from obsidian, shells and seeds. Hanging from the rafters were colorful bags of every conceivable variety, woven hammocks, tapestries and more.
In some sections, stuffed chickens were displayed alongside dried, bloated frogs positioned in rather compromising manners. It was like walking into a forest of industrious elves keen to show off their skills. Picking through the trinkets, we each made a few small purchases and headed our way. As luck would have it, we managed to arrive at the bus terminal just as the last bus to Granada was getting ready to embark. Taking the last available seats, we sat back, relaxed and headed off to what we had heard was a breathtaking city.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Managua Trip - Part 2 : Managua
After arriving in Managua, Stephanie and I spent the following few days running around town gathering various supplies and running errands of one kind of another. On Thursday we had the pleasure of sitting through a three hour presentation by the US Embassy on their role in aiding NGOs operating in Nicaragua. Over the course of those 3 hours, only about 3 things they said were actually interesting and useful, but it wasn't a horrible way to spend the afternoon. In theory, the objective of the meeting was to provide a arena for networking among NGOs, but in reality, everyone was so tired of being there by the time the presentations were done that no one stuck around long enough to chat with. Not that it would have made much difference if they had. We were the only people there who do any kind of work on the Atlantic coast, so there weren't that many options for partnerships or mutual aid. However, I've neglected to mention how ridiculously ostentatious the Embassy ground were. After going through 2 security checks just to get through the front gate, we were met by a mini-van that shuttled us across the expansive grounds and up the hill to 'casa grande,' which lived up to it's name. Sitting in the entrance hall with roughly 100 other people, we had more than enough room to spare. I was somewhat flabbergasted when we were informed that the massive structure we were sitting will shortly be converted into the private residence of the ambassador. What anyone needs with quite that much space is well beyond my understanding.
Once we left the Embassy, we headed home where a couple other volunteers were just arriving from the airport on their way off on vacation. A little jealous, Steph and I determined that we also deserved a short vacation and began planning our own short trip for the weekend. Sometime after dinner as our friends were filing off to bed in preparation for their 4am departure, Steph and I decided we were in the mood for a few rounds of pool. Enlisting Rafael to act as our negotiator, we flagged down a cab and headed off to a very high class pool hall complete with full-size tables and air conditioning. Once again we were the only females in the room, but we're getting used to that pretty quick so it wasn't much of a bother. Plus, since the place was air conditioned, you didn't have to fight the stickiness of your own skin while sliding your cue into place. This made for significantly better games on all accounts. A few beers later, we were ready to make our way home.
It being quite late by this point, there weren't many taxis around, but we were willing to be patient. Finally one drove by and stopped only to inform us that the asking price was 3 times what we had paid to get there. Sending that driver on his way, Steph and I decided to test our theory of ginga price inflation by stepping out of sight while the next taxi rolled up. Our hypothesis was proven correct when Rafael had absolutely no problem getting a reasonable price the first time he asked. Thoroughly amused, we stepped out from behind the SUV we'd been watching through and hopped in the cab. I don't think our driver was all that impressed, but he'd already made the deal with Rafael and hence had to give us a fair price.
The next day, Juli called to inform us that she was coming into town to hang out for the weekend. Excited to have another friend in the big city with us, we managed to finish up the last of our most important errands in time to meet her back at the house as she came in from the airport. Having already made plans with a group of her French friends for the evening, all we had to do was step outside and climb into the back of the truck her friend was driving. It must have been quite a sight for everyone we passed on the way. Here were 10 'extranjeros' dressed up to go out on the town and riding in the back of a pickup truck through the streets of Managua. Again, thoroughly amused.
When we got out, we were at Bar Arriba where an apparently famous Nicaraguan band from Masaya was rocking the house. The music was actually awesome, but so incredibly loud that it was impossible to enjoy properly. We hung out through a couple sets and enjoyed some good old Toña (local beer for those of you who missed that blog). Had a rather amusing few moments when a guy came up and started trying to chat in rather broken Spanish. A little unused to being the one speaking superior Spanish, I asked him where he was from and discovered he had just come down from San Francisco to visit his family for Father's day. When I offered to switch to English, he was visibly relieved, but the conversation didn't last all that long anyway.
After the music had come to an end, all the Frenchies decided to head across town to a gay bar with a ridiculously high cover price (for Nicaragua, that is). Being on a rather tight budget, Steph and I opted for the free salsa bar down the road instead. Despite being the only people there, we still had a good time spinning across our own private dance floor. We were joined relatively shortly by a friend of G's who had come to visit Bluefields and who we had run into at the concert just a little while before. He didn't really know how to salsa, but he was forgiven when we discovered he had a car and offered to drive us to Granada the next day. Excited at the possibility of getting a free ride down the coast, we called it a night relatively early and headed home.
Once we left the Embassy, we headed home where a couple other volunteers were just arriving from the airport on their way off on vacation. A little jealous, Steph and I determined that we also deserved a short vacation and began planning our own short trip for the weekend. Sometime after dinner as our friends were filing off to bed in preparation for their 4am departure, Steph and I decided we were in the mood for a few rounds of pool. Enlisting Rafael to act as our negotiator, we flagged down a cab and headed off to a very high class pool hall complete with full-size tables and air conditioning. Once again we were the only females in the room, but we're getting used to that pretty quick so it wasn't much of a bother. Plus, since the place was air conditioned, you didn't have to fight the stickiness of your own skin while sliding your cue into place. This made for significantly better games on all accounts. A few beers later, we were ready to make our way home.
It being quite late by this point, there weren't many taxis around, but we were willing to be patient. Finally one drove by and stopped only to inform us that the asking price was 3 times what we had paid to get there. Sending that driver on his way, Steph and I decided to test our theory of ginga price inflation by stepping out of sight while the next taxi rolled up. Our hypothesis was proven correct when Rafael had absolutely no problem getting a reasonable price the first time he asked. Thoroughly amused, we stepped out from behind the SUV we'd been watching through and hopped in the cab. I don't think our driver was all that impressed, but he'd already made the deal with Rafael and hence had to give us a fair price.
The next day, Juli called to inform us that she was coming into town to hang out for the weekend. Excited to have another friend in the big city with us, we managed to finish up the last of our most important errands in time to meet her back at the house as she came in from the airport. Having already made plans with a group of her French friends for the evening, all we had to do was step outside and climb into the back of the truck her friend was driving. It must have been quite a sight for everyone we passed on the way. Here were 10 'extranjeros' dressed up to go out on the town and riding in the back of a pickup truck through the streets of Managua. Again, thoroughly amused.
When we got out, we were at Bar Arriba where an apparently famous Nicaraguan band from Masaya was rocking the house. The music was actually awesome, but so incredibly loud that it was impossible to enjoy properly. We hung out through a couple sets and enjoyed some good old Toña (local beer for those of you who missed that blog). Had a rather amusing few moments when a guy came up and started trying to chat in rather broken Spanish. A little unused to being the one speaking superior Spanish, I asked him where he was from and discovered he had just come down from San Francisco to visit his family for Father's day. When I offered to switch to English, he was visibly relieved, but the conversation didn't last all that long anyway.
After the music had come to an end, all the Frenchies decided to head across town to a gay bar with a ridiculously high cover price (for Nicaragua, that is). Being on a rather tight budget, Steph and I opted for the free salsa bar down the road instead. Despite being the only people there, we still had a good time spinning across our own private dance floor. We were joined relatively shortly by a friend of G's who had come to visit Bluefields and who we had run into at the concert just a little while before. He didn't really know how to salsa, but he was forgiven when we discovered he had a car and offered to drive us to Granada the next day. Excited at the possibility of getting a free ride down the coast, we called it a night relatively early and headed home.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Managua Trip - Part 1 : the Panga ride
Last Tuesday afternoon, after a hectic morning of last minute errands, Stephanie and I got decked out in our best fisherman's outfits and headed off to catch the panga to el Rama in the pouring rain. Having packed all of our belongings in layers of plastic and donned very flattering, over-sized, bright yellow rainpants, we were ready to embark upon our journey to Managua. Arriving at the docks, we paid our 4 cordoba entrance fee and lined up. An hour or so later, were were cozily squished into the front seat of the small wooded boat awaiting our departure. After wrapping up the luggage in another layer of plastic, the driver passed a clear plastic sheet along one edge of the boat and instructed us all to pull it up and over our heads. This was to be our only protection from the driving rain for the duration of the nearly two hour ride. As we exited the lagoon and picked up speed, those of us in the front had the pleasure of holding down the front edge of the plastic with our feet while forcibly pressing the top half away from our faces. With the panga moving at a good speed, this was no easy task. Of course, Stephanie and I had to count ourselves lucky since the farther back in the boat you were seated, the harder the plastic snapped down upon your head to the rhythm of the wind and waves.
Throughout the entire ride, all we could see was a thin haze of gray with an occasional splash of green on the horizon. Pushing the plastic away from your face was more than a casual motion and required constantly switching hands as one arm became exhausted. Luckily, both Stephanie and I were in high spirits and managed to thoroughly enjoy the ride, despite bone jarring bounces, fetid smelling plastic, rock hard wooden benches and rivers of water flowing across our feet. By the time we arrived in el Rama, we were both very thankful for the abundance of waterproof clothing we had worn and the redundant plastic wrapping of our belongings.
Hoping off the panga, we stripped down to slightly more reasonable clothes, secured seats upon the bus that would be departing at 7pm (about 4 hrs after we arrived), and prepared to wait. Smelling something delicious upon the air, we ventured across the street and discovered a lovely little stand selling deliciously marinated chicken, gallo pinto cooked to perfection and homemade tortillas. Feeling like queens at a banquet, we enjoyed our savory snack and settled in once again. Well, settled in until we discovered the existence of a billiards hall just down the street. Thoroughly excited, we passed the next couple hours accumulating quite a crowd as the only female pool players el Rama had apparently ever encountered.
A few pleasant hours later, we were on our way to Managua on the nicest bus I have yet to come across. Serenaded by everything from Spanish hiphop to Bob Marley to Brittney Spears and Madonna, we passed through the countryside and into the big city. Arriving in Managua, we were met by Victor and chauffeured back to casa Ivan where we happily collapsed into bed.
Throughout the entire ride, all we could see was a thin haze of gray with an occasional splash of green on the horizon. Pushing the plastic away from your face was more than a casual motion and required constantly switching hands as one arm became exhausted. Luckily, both Stephanie and I were in high spirits and managed to thoroughly enjoy the ride, despite bone jarring bounces, fetid smelling plastic, rock hard wooden benches and rivers of water flowing across our feet. By the time we arrived in el Rama, we were both very thankful for the abundance of waterproof clothing we had worn and the redundant plastic wrapping of our belongings.
Hoping off the panga, we stripped down to slightly more reasonable clothes, secured seats upon the bus that would be departing at 7pm (about 4 hrs after we arrived), and prepared to wait. Smelling something delicious upon the air, we ventured across the street and discovered a lovely little stand selling deliciously marinated chicken, gallo pinto cooked to perfection and homemade tortillas. Feeling like queens at a banquet, we enjoyed our savory snack and settled in once again. Well, settled in until we discovered the existence of a billiards hall just down the street. Thoroughly excited, we passed the next couple hours accumulating quite a crowd as the only female pool players el Rama had apparently ever encountered.
A few pleasant hours later, we were on our way to Managua on the nicest bus I have yet to come across. Serenaded by everything from Spanish hiphop to Bob Marley to Brittney Spears and Madonna, we passed through the countryside and into the big city. Arriving in Managua, we were met by Victor and chauffeured back to casa Ivan where we happily collapsed into bed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)