La Regressa del Rey

And so it ends, my latest Central American escapade. True to form, the final leg proved to be the most arduous, time-consuming, and soul-shattering travel day yet...

August 7th began bright and early on gorgeous Little Corn island. My east-facing cabana afforded me one last magnificent sunrise over the Caribbean, although I had to be up at five to take it in. One last bucket shower (have I mentioned that yet? Showers at Derek's consist of a 50 gallon drum of water and some small buckets. You dip yourself a bucket full, and douse yourself to your heart's content. Lather up, then rinse the same way. Simple, yet effective.)then a last bit of hammock sitting and into the distance staring before heading into the village for the 7:00 boat to Big Corn.

Seas were considerably choppier on the way back, and the panga felt considerably more overloaded. As we hit some large waves I began to worry about capsizing and couldn't help thinking of ferry disasters and missing bodies. I began to inventory what would happen in the event of capsizing: ipod, camera, journal- gone. I'm a strong swimmer, so I wasn't to worried about that. I would, however, miss the flight, to Managua and my connection to Miami, and I imagined that rebooking with a possibly lost passport and soaking wet cordobas would be an enormous pain. However, we made it to the dock just fine. Taxi (this time) to the airport and settled down to wait for the morning flight from Managua to arrive. The turnaround time from it arriving, passengers disembarking and luggage unloaded, to us boarding along with our baggage and taking off was less than 15 minutes.

Arrived in Managua (where I had an initial 4 hour layover) only to be informed that we were delayed 2 further hours. As my connection did not leave until 7 the next morning, I wasn't too worried about missing it. I was, however, bummed about spending 6 hours in the Managua airport. A guy I had met incidentally around the island and I decided to head out to the local mall to kill some time. Managua's largest mall is open to the air (kind of sweltering) and it's main department store provided the perfect example of linguistic dissonance: It was called Carrion. Similarly, the Chevy Nova always sold horribly in Latin American countries as No Va literally means doesn't go in Spanish. Anyway, after a vaguely cardboardish burger at Hamburloco, and a tiny, watery espresso from Cafe Latino, we headed up to the movies where I finally broke down and saw the one where Diane Lane plays some sort of FBI cyber crime expert who eventually becomes the target of an internet super killer or some other such plot device so ridiculous that not even I bothered seeing it. The movie was predictably awful (although it did feature the loathsome Colin Hanks dissolved in a vat of battery acid), but it did succeed in finishing off the rest of our waiting time. Cab back to the airport where we found our flight had been delayed another hour.

We finally boarded and were off to Miami around 5:30. With the time change we made it into Miami around 10:30. We were one of the last international flights arriving that day, so the trams to passport control were moving slowly when they were moving at all. I managed to get at the very end of the line of several hundred people who were on our flight and made it to passport control behind a group of 45 or so identically dressed teen missionaries in Maroon polos with "Teen Mission Launch Team" emblazoned on the chest. At this point I was a little loopy, so I had to, with great effort, resist the urge to ask them "was it accomplished?...your mission?" and then giggle hysterically. They were also identically equipped with black military style duffel bags, and blue handled rolly backpacks. Waiting for my bags to go through customs I was one of the last 10 pieces of luggage to come off the carousel.

Customs was a breeze, and by a little after 11 I was ready to look for a place to bed down for the night. Unfortunately, the security checkpoints were closed, so I couldn't make it out to any of the terminals. I had to settle for the main (garishly lit and loud) section of the airport where you purchase your tickets or claim your bags.

Here are some of the many things that can keep you awake in the Miami Airport:

1. The surgically intense fluorescent lighting

2. The local time (preceded my a loud chime) is literally announced every 15 minutes

3. The bathrooms your are trying to sleep next to will be cleaned at least once an hour by loudly chatting Cuban employees from 12-5 AM.

4. Peole will constantly be paged to meet their parties on lower concourses despite the fact that it is 3:27 in the morning.

I did manage to briefly pass out for 45 minutes or so until I was prodded awake by a man driving an enormous industrial carpet cleaner who wanted to clean the 6 square feet of carpet in the corner that my prostrate body occupied. Suffice to say, I never made it back to sleep.

I whiled away the rest of the hours watching Gossip Girl on my ipod. (Don't judge me, I had an itunes gift card.) I actually enjoyed it tremendously, reminiscent of the fish out of water perspective of the Walshes in the early 90210 seasons or season 1 of The OC. Take away the terrible Jenny subplots (send her to Choate or something next season!) and Serena's histrionics toward the last couple of episodes, and you've got a damn fine season of television. Plus, Chuck Bass is the sleaziest piece of amoral good-timery that it's been my pleasure to stumble across in the last couple of years.

Finally checked in around four and made my way through security (airport was packed with the members of a sold out flight to Port au Prince at 4:30 in the morning.) Got on the plane on time, but we were forced to sit and wait for an hour (bear in mind I've been going for over 24 hours at this point) as technicians ineptly struggled to replace oxygen canisters on the plane. While we sat and stewed, our pilot, who may be an expert at maneuvering multi-ton fixed wing aircraft, but gamely attempted to keep us informed.
Uh, let's see. The technicians are still working. Flight time once we get going will be uh...just under 3 hours, but if we take a land route, because weather over the seas is tricky, then the time will be...just under 3 hours. Clouds at 5000 feet but we, um...will be flying higher than that, and winds out of the SE...will have no bearing on us at all, we'll be flying due north over Florida...Georgia...South Carolina, and then um....some other States. Then we'll fly over New York and begin our descent into Boston...ok, still no word on the technicians so...

We finally got off and watched 21, the god-awful adaptation of Bringing Down the House. Nonetheless, it distracted me from my exhaustion, and I finally made it home thanks to another ride from Gina. She really earned her rock, although given what happened to me on Cerro Negro, I guess you could say I payed for it in blood, or at the very least skin.

I'll add pictures to previous posts, and then email out invitations to my shutterfly stuff once I get them uploaded.

Dem Crazy Island Riddims

Sorry about the delayed posting, the title of this post seems to apply to more than just people's ideas of appropriate clothing, but to the internets as well. While I have been able to check emails over the past few days, I have not been able to access any blogspot sites, including mine own.

I've been sequestered on the ridiculously beautiful Little Corn Island for the last four days honing my reading, napping, swimming, and hammock lying skills. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Left Leon bright and early (ok, around 10) and caught a microbus to Managua. They had a spot for my pack, and I was able to get a window seat, so it was actually sort of comfortable. In Managua I took a cab to the airport for my La Costena flight to Big Corn Island. I was worried that I may have exceeded my 30 lb luggage maximum (all of my gear almost certainly weighs more than that), but even after weighing me with all of my stuff, they didn't blink and handed me my boarding pass. Flight was exclusively gringos in a double prop plane that was probably new back before the Sandinistas started stirring up trouble for the powers that be. Nonetheless, it took off without a hitch and we were headed east. Flight took a little less than an hour and a half, and we landed on Big Corn Island. Decided (everyone else got to the cabs first) to walk to the Panga dock for the boat to Little Corn. Big Corn reminded me of what I imagine Kingston or Port au Prince must look like, eg no place I wanted to be on foot with a giant backpack very long. One wrong turn later, I made it to the dock and readied to board my 3rd different mode of transportation of the day (unless you count microbuses and cabs as two different modes of transportation, in which case the Panga would be my fourth.)

The panga ride was about 25 minutes, and as soon as we got around the protected side of the island, became bone-jarringly bumpy. Thanks to the advice of a Swedish dive instructor named Karl, I sat on my life jacket the whole way. It was still pretty bumpy, but fortunately my spine absorbed most of the remaining impacts.

Got to little Corn late, but found a hotel no problem in the "village" the main congregation of hotels and restaurants on the island. Dinner was a nice curry made worse by a very smug group of Austrians who were delighted about how poorly the dollar's doing internationally. I wanted to tell them that blaming me for the actions of George Bush was like me blaming them for the actions of Hitler. Little Corn exhibits a fascinating intersection of Latin and Carribean cultures. About half the people speak english with a thick West Indian accent, while half speak spanish. Some people even speak some sort of West Indian/Spanish patois which is super confusing (although possible) to follow.

The next day I made it up to Derek's Place, a place so sublimely beautiful that to witness it firsthand will make you stare slack-jawed in awe as I did for the first hour and a half or so I was there. It's on the north side of the island, and it's a half hour walk up a muddy sweaty jungle trail. However, once you make it you are welcomed by a shady grove of palm trees right on the beach. There are probably 5 or 6 cabanas, a kichen/dining area, shared bathrooms, Derek and Ana's (his wife) house, and assorted outbuildings. The only sounds you hear are the waves, the breeze in the trees (situated where it is, Derek's Place is always breezy, cool, and mosquito free) , and the occasional cooing of various pigeon like birds in the trees. I cannot recommend this place highly enough for those of you who are looking to truly "get away from it all." It is a bit more expensive then some of the other places I've stayed, but that also means that it's off most backpacker's agendas which is great because I was really starting to burn out on them. Sorry perpetual student hippies, try getting a job!

My cabana is perhaps 25 feet from the edge of the water. It has electricity, a covered front porch and a hammock. The view from said hammock would make you weep with joy. A similar place in the states would be close to five times as much a night, if not more. It faces directly east, but my efforts to see a sunrise have been consistently thwarted by the fact that it tends to rise around 5 down here!I'll post some pictures when I get a chance (some older posts now have pictures too, but I've had some uploading issues) but check out the link in the meantime.

Heading home tomorrow, but thanks to a 12 hour overnight layover in Miami, I won't actually be back until Friday.

The Movie Goer

The other night I couldn´t take the heat (plus avoid some of my charmless hostel mates) and decided to take in a movie. On the one hand, not exactly the best use of my increasingly limited time in Nicaragua, but on the other, an authentic cultural experience, the chance to do what everyday Leonians do on a weekday night. The cinema is just around the corner from my hostel, housed in a complex that also contains a grocery store and two fastfood restaurants, Hollywood Pizza, and Tip Top Chicken. There is also a vaguely Starbucksian coffee shop called Cafe Latino (not a made-up name, I promise.) My first night in town I had stumbled into the place, exhausted and starving from a long day of travel. I must have been really hungry because I couldn´t find an open restaurant (this was around maybe 6:30) and decided to try Nicaraguan fast food. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) both of these establishments, despite clearly being fast food, are sitdown restaurants with waitress service. I gave both a try but they were filled with Nicaraguan families, and subject to the same lax service (from an American perspective) that all Latin American restaurants seem to have. Eventually my hunger overwhelmed me and I ended up having a strawberry ice cream cone for dinner. god I love being a grown up.

Anyway, I made my way back to the theater for what I can only assume was the World Premiere of ¨The Mummy 3: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.¨ The theater showed a bizarre combination of Brand New releases (Mummy, Dark Knight, X Files 2), and movies that have long been out on dvd in the states such as Hannibal Rising, release date February 9th 2007, Shutter, release date March 21st 2008, and the one where Diane Lane plays some sort of FBI cyber crime expert who eventually becomes the target of an internet super killer or some other such plot device so ridiculous that not even I bothered seeing it.

As soon as you step into the theater you are blasted with startlingly intense conditioned air, a welcome relief from Leon´s relentless heat. My ticket (remember this was for the Mummy, a brand new release that technically didn´t even come out in the states until the next day) was a little more than two dollars, and then I went to the grocery store to buy some candy to sneak in, just like home. I was definitely the only gringo in the audience. I guess Rob Cohen´s latest directorial vision of supernatural evil confronted with lots of guns and quips (at least he didn´t make Jet Li try to speak English)could not overcome the siren song of cheap beer and dollar mojitos.

The theater rapidly filled to capacity with all manner of Leonese citizens: parents with children, couples on dates, and a pair of giggling teenaged girls who literally talked to each other throughout the entire movie. In fact, everything that you consider rude and annoying about going to the movies these days seems to be par for the course: talking, laughing, yelling, cell phone calls etc.. Nonetheless, the movie was blandly diverting (plus it had tons of kickass, although poorly rendered, CGI Yetis!) and the air conditioning was nice. Who knows, I may even take in a showing of Shutter later tonight... Tomorrow, I´m off to the Corn Islands, and I,m not entirely sure what the internet situation is there. I´ll post when I can.

Leon

OK, you all prepped from yesterday´s history lesson? Good, because the fit is going to hit the shan so to speak. I´m in Leon right now, and am hoping to leave for the Corn Islands on Sunday. Remember how Somoza I was assassinated here back in ´57? Well, the ruling elite never forgot it, and as a result, Leon suffered terribly during the Civil War. As a result, moreso than any other place I´ve been in Nicaragua, the wounds of the conflict seem fresh. The city is scattered with memorials, statues, murals, museums, FSLN flags, and other monuments to the War, particularly the fallen. Some of my favorite murals include one of Sandino with his foot on the head of Somoza, who is rendered as a dog, and its partner, a Sandinista with its head on Tio Sam (Uncle Sam), who is also rendered as a dog. Also there is a 30 foot high mural of brave soldiers doing battle with a dragon who is emerging from a helmet clearly marked ¨CIA.¨ I also visited the ¨Museo de Heroes y Matires¨(Museum of Heroes and Martyrs), which was devastating in its simplicity. It shared a building with a tailor, and it was comprised of little more than photographic portraits of each and every person from Leon to fall fighting for freedom. The dates stretched back to the earliest days of anti Somoza resistance in the 1950s, and went all the way through the Sandanista victory. I found its specificity to be particularly captivating, this wasn´t an abstract representation of the horrors of war, rather it was specific names, faces, and dates. I then visited the Museum of Folklore and Legends. The folklore it described was rather interesting, but its location was most fascinating of all. It is housed in El XXI, (The 21st Barracks) a former National Guard prison where horrible human rights abuses were commited. The walls were covered with pictures of water boardings, electrocutions, and beatings, and when I realized that I was litterally in the actual place where these events occured, I had to leave.

Today I went ¨Volcano Surfing¨on Cerro Negro,
Central America´s newest volcano. New in the sense that 150 years ago it did not exist. At first it was only about 15 meters high, but today, after pretty regular eruptions (the last was in 1999, hmmmmm...) every eight years or so, it stands nearly 800 meters tall. We hiked up the back face of it (don´t worry rock lovers, you´re taken care of) and in a little over an hour were staring down into its steaming, sulfrous crater. The air reeked, and if you dug into the sand an inch or so, the ground would be too hot to touch. Later, we made our way to the front face of the crater. The tour was billed as ¨Volcano Surfing,¨but volcano sledding would be a much better name for it. We were given tobbogan like devices with which to hurtle ourselves down the (I´m no geometry whiz) 70 to 80 degree slope of the front of the volcano. We were also eqipped with orange prison style jumpsuits to protect our skin, and high school chemisty safety goggles to protect our eyes. To accomplish this feat, we basically had to aim ourselves downhill, and let gravity take care of the rest. You were supposed to use your legs to balance yourself, but I still managed to wipe out several times. The face was not black sand like the descent of Misti (yes I just linked to myself, so what? I´ve been linking all over the place, why shouldn´t I get in on the action?), but rather tiny, black, pinky nail sized volcanic rocks. Unfortunately, the legs of my suit were a little short, so I got pretty bad road (volcano?) burn on the back of both calves.
I suppose that´s just the universe restoring balance to itself as I had manged to go the entire summer thus far without sustaining a similar kickball injury as I had in each of the previous three summers. Looks like I´ll be heading to the ocean and a nice salt water soak just in time. I´ll upload pictures when I get the chance...

200 years of Nicaraguan History in 200 words or less...

Ok, to fully understand the next post, you need to read this post. Sorry, maybe it´s just the teacher in me. Here goes...

Nicaragua gains independence from Spain in 1821. For a while things are okay, but then the U.S. steps in looking to build a camnal. Panama becomes the canal location, but then the U.S. sticks arund looking to maintain its interests- supremecy in the region- By the turn of the century Augusto Sandino begins to organize resistance to the U.S. forces. During the depression, the U.S. is forced to withdraw its troops, but not before putting Anastasio Samoza Garcia-described by FDR, ¨he may be a son of a bitch, but at least he´s our son of a bitch.¨- and his Guardia Nacional. The Somozas would rule Nicaragua brutally over the next 40 years or so. 1957-Somoza is assasinated in Leon, and is succeded by his two sons. By the 1970s opposition to the Somozas is growing, especially in the form of the Sandanista Party, named for Augusto Sandino. After a devastating earthquake on Christmas Day 1972, Somoza funneled almost all of the relief funds to himself and his friends. This single act of national betrayal legitimized the opposition more than any number of speeches or rallies ever could. From that point on the FSLN-Frente Sandanista Liberacion Naccional, or National Sandinista Liberation Front- became the major opponent of the Somoza regime. After years of brutal Civil War, the Sandanistas finally gained victory on July 19th, 1979, a date still celebrated as Nicaragua´s independence day. While the victory was lauded by human rights groups the world over, it was quickly folowed by regime change in the United States. New President Ronald Reagan certainly didn´t like the left leaning Sandanistas, especially after they nationalized many of Nicaraugua´s industries, and he provided millions in funding and training for former Guarda Naccional soldiers who became known as the ¨Contras.¨ This lead to another decade or so of Civil War in Nicaragua. After congress cut off his funding, a surreptitous arms for hostages deal was arranged with a young Colonel named Oliver North
in what would soon become known as the Iran Contra Scandal. Peace in Nicaragua was finally secured in 1993, after decades of several different Civil Wars. No one has given me any grief about being American thus far, but they certainly havce every right to. Leave the actual number of words in the comments section if you´re a stickler for post titles corresponding to the posts themselves.

Ascending Mt. Dagobah

La Isla de Ometepe (see map) is a dumbbell shaped volcanic island in the Lago de Nicaragua (Colibolca, or ¨The Sweet Sea¨ in the original Nauhautl)bookended by to volcanos: Concepcion -larger and active- and Maderas- smaller and inactive. I had heard nothing but great things about it, but I neglected to initially make much of a oplan for getting there, as it was barely 70 km away from Granada. Even by Central American time standards, that should be an easily surmountable distance, right? As I am not a good enough writer to ¨show not tell,¨I will come right out and tell you that I am foreshadowing travel misery to come...

OK, misery is a strong word. Perhaps exasperation would be more appropriate. I just wanted you to keep reading. Is that so wrong? Nobody wants to read about the trip where everything went according to plan. Chicken Bus from Granada to Rivas left on time, but I got there late and had to stand in the aisle for most of the 1.5 hour ride. After an hour a seat cleared up, but over the wheelwell (the bus being your typical appropriated 1970s era schoolbus)which ended up being even more uncomfortable. Picture me with my knees forced up to around my chest and you can start to get the picture...

At Rivas hopped right on a shuttle to San Jorge where you catch ferries out to Ometepe. Upon arrival, found out the next ferry left in an hour. Bought a ticket and settled down to wait in the not unpleasant ferry office. Started reading more in depth about Ometepe, and found out that Merida, where I had hoped to make it that day, was another 2.5 hrs away by sporadic bus service. Like I said, not really miserable, but certainly exasperating.

There are two classes of boats that run passengers to Ometepe: ferries like you would imagine that are capable of carrying cars, and then launches, considerably less seaworthy-seeming, and much more succeptable to the waves that the lake was capable of generating. As departure time approached, the wind picked up and whitecaps could be seen offshore. It also became evident that I had not, in fact, purchased a ferry ticket, but rather a ticket for a launch.

We were all shuttled into the lower level, while luggage was strapped to the upper deck. There were reasonably comfortable benches below (actually, they had clearly been removed from a schoolbus)and I settled down for the ride. Two people behind me, Joe and Iliza (not a typo), who I had brainstormed island destinations with back in the ferry office, immediately began to look queasy. Iliza put her head between her legs where it remained for the rest of the trip, but Joe soldiered on stoically at first. As we moved into open water, the launch really started to move up and down as it forced its way through the waves. Despite the tarp strapped over the windows next to me, every third wave or so found its way through and got me soaked, including one that landed perfectly in my crotch, but nowhere else...After 15 minutes or so Joe asked me if I wanted to switch seats with him. He was next to Iliza and out of the range of the incoming waves. I thought he was offering to bear the brunt of the water, and as he was a virtual stranger at the time, I felt very awkward accepting and tried to thank him but decline. He said, "Actually I think I´m going to throw up," and I switched seats immediately. The poor guy spent the rest of the hour-long ride with his head hanging over the side.

It should be said, however, that Joe and Iliza were awesome people who I spent a fair amount of time with over the next several days, and that is the last that I will embarass them in this particular forum.

When we actually made it to the island, we hopped one the first bus pulling out of town. There are very few direct buses from the larger, more developed side of the island to the smaller less developed side where most of us were headed. This bus stopped in Altagracia on the northwestern side, and we ended up waiting there for over an hour for the next bus to arrive. The roads on the other side of the island are unpaved, and going was maddeningly slow at times. At Santa Cruz, Joe, Iliza, and a bunch of others got off and headed to the Finca Magdelena (more on that later) whereas I continued on to Merida.

Finally, around 5, I arrived at the lovely Hacienda Merida, almost 9 hours after I had initially set off from Granada. Booked myself a room, and made it down to the dock (built by the Somozas apparently) just in time to see the sun set over Concepcion.
The HM is a beautiful and secluded place that I wish I had had more time to experience. Unfortunately, I´m on a kind of HURRY UP AND RELAX!! whilwind tour, so I get nervous spending too much time in any one place. However, I highly recomend it for anyone looking for pleasant Nicaraguan destinations. I booked a tour to climb the Volcan Maderas, had a delicous dinner, and then went to bed as I had a long day of climbing ahead of me tomorrow.

Started up the mountain around 7:30. My plan was to leave from Merida, climb the mountain

, but to descend down the other side into the Finca Magdelena where I would maybe see Iliza, Joe and some other people from the bus the previous day. Initially km was a gradual ascent through banana groves and grazing land, but always Maderas loomed ahead of me, its summit shrouded in clouds. It should be said that although Maderas is only about 1390 m tall, we started from the shores of the lake, aka exactly sea level, so we climbed every single one of those vertical meters.

As we started to make our way into the forest that covers Maderas all the way to its summit (as its inactive, nature has long since reclaimed every inch of it)the path became steeper and steeper. As we continued to ascend, we moved out of the lower tropical forests and into the cloud forests, in this case so-named because we where literally hiking through clouds. The weather turned and became incredibly windy and wet (not really raining, but misting to the point that we were all pretty soaked.) At this point the trail became even steeper, and very very muddy. At times (and by "at times" I mean the last 25% of the ascent)we were reduced to crawling upwards, pulling ourselves along by the surprisingly strong roots of trees along the trail. On several occasions I found myself wiggling under, or crawling over a warren of tangled roots and fallen limbs like where Luke failed in his intitial training with Yoda that lead to the title of this post.



Eventually, soaking wet, exhausted, and buffeted by typhoonesque winds, we reached the highest point of the crater´s rim. Since Maderas is so lushly blanketed in vegetation, and since we were inside a cloud, the view was less than spectacular. We then began a slow and slippery descent to the crater lake. It took a while (and a few falls,) but we made it back down to the lake where we enjoyed a much deserved lunch. Well, everyone else did. My sandwich was slightly moldy, so I elected to pass.

Going down, the trail was even muddier, and keeping your balance was nearly impossible. At one point, the soles of my shoes were so coated, that they hight as well have been pats of warm butter for all the traction they were affording me. Suffice to say, after 8 long hours of hiking, I made it to the Finca Magdelena muddier and more tired than I´ve been in a long time.

The Finca Magdelena is another amazing Ometepe locale that I would highly recommend to anyone. It is a working 100% cooperative and organic farm that is completely self-sufficient. They also offer clean and basic rooms and incredible ambiance overlooking the lake. It was the perfect place to relax after the exertion of Maderas. It took about 4 showers for me to get completely clean, and I thought I was going to have to throw my shoes away until I had the bright idea to take them in the shower with me. Thanks to elbow grease and the hippie magic of Dr. Bronners hemp/almond soap, I was able to salvage them. At least until I do my last hikes in Leon later this week. Spent another lazy day at Magdelena the next day
A typical Nicaraguan Breakfast: Gallo Pinto, Eggs, Fried Cheese aka Heaven...


which was good considering I was probably too sore to travel anyway. Lots of hammock lying and book reading.

Coming back we managed to make it onto the actual ferry (Much to Joe and Iliza´s relief) and for the entire time we were shown videos by my new favorite band, Oro Solido (Solid Gold). I dare you to watch the entire video for their classic "Maria, Se Fue." (Maria, She Left.)



In front of Ometepe, note Concepcion and Maderas in the background

One more brief travel thing: back in Rivas to transfer back to Granada, there was a guy who walked around touching everyone, local and gringo alike, on the shoulder. It wasn´t to get their attention, apparently it was just some compulsive need he had. I thought he did everyone once, perhaps counting them, but then I started to notice him doubling up. As I had already been touched once, I began to try to put myself in his path, but he seemed to be deliberately swerving out of my way at the last second. When he tapped my shoulder a second time right before I got on the bus, I was bizarely relieved

One last night in Granada. While eating dinner, we were approached by some kids who said they were going to do a presentacion de breakdance (I don´t need to translate that one, do I?). While there moves actually weren´t half-bad, they needed serious lessons in hypemanship. While one would dance they others would arythmically and half-heartedly clap, while occasionally calling out a particularly desulatory "whoah." after a nice move. Afterwards they were overjoyed to to be given the leftovers from our dinner and didn´t even ask for money.


Left Granada this morning for Masaya, reputed to be Nicaragua´s finest market town. Spent the afternoon shopping, and did come up with some interesting purchases, but was overwhelmed overall. There was, however, erotic frog art, and literally a hammock district, which was pretty awesome. Tomorrow, I push on to Leon, and then amazingly I have less than a week left.

Isla de los Monos? More like Isla de los Strung Out Junkies!

I know, I know. If you´re going to do a ____________? More like ________! post title, then it should be a pun. Trust me, I worked through all of the possibilities for puns on Monos (Monkeys in Spanish). Phonos (phonies) Homos (homophobic and not at all indicative of the actual behavior of the monos) Mopos (not even really a word) etc... Leave a better Pun Title in the comments if you´re so smart.

Returned to the Zona Turistica today to search out a trip to Las Isletas, particularly Isla de los Monos (I´ll tone down the self-righteous indignation on the Spanish translations a bit). I was once again struck by the weird abandoned playground equipment everywhere. Varied from brand new to rusting and overgrown, but I saw maybe three children playing over the course of two days on probably twenty five separate apparatuses. Apparatti? It had the air of a J.G. Ballard story minus the eroticized car crashes and mastabatory Ronald Reagan assassination fantasies. My favorite building was the hilariously titled "Optomisticas of Nicaragua" school of sailing instruction that was rundown, abandoned, and all but boared over. However, the inside was still full of windsurfing gear and other sailing equipment. Pictures to follow as soon as I can figure out how to put them inside this here fancy computer machine.

Anyway, walking along I struck up a conversation with Lester, who, as it happened, owned a launch that he wanted me to book a tour on. His quote was slightly higher than others I had spoken with yesterday, but he was very pleasant, and I enjoyed talking with him. Like many native speakers, he made sure to praise my clumsy pigdin Spanish, and god knows I´m a sucker for facetious words of praise. What follows is my attempt to translate his conversation for yor reading benefit. Note: I´m recording iut as a monologue, although technically it should be punctuated with uh´huhs, sis, and clumsy, childlike questions on my part.

Yeah, so my dad has done this launch thing for 30 years, and I´ve been helping him out for the last 5. But that´s not me. Really, I go to school. I study some english (author´s note: as near as I could tell he couldn´t speak a word.)and cumputers. But what I really do is music. I play guitar, and a bit of the piano. I write music, and also sing in a chorus where I´m totally the first tenor. You could say that music is my life.

So as you can see, it´s not beyond the realm of possibility that we are forging some sort of connection. I´m happilly plugging along, beaming inwardly at my successful window into the personal life of a real live Nicaraguan. When I tell him what I do, he laughs and says that all primary school teachers in Nicaragua are women because men are needed to keep the older students in line. (By the way, on the way to the lake you walk past a primary school.
It´s been filled with screaming children each time I´ve gone by, and I can´t imagine any teaching or learning actually happening. That being said, it surrounds a central courtyard, and the open to the air windows are all barred. I guess that´s to help some of the less imaginative children complete the school as prison metaphor that sustains so many of them.)

So we finally make it to the port, and Lester tells me that it won´t be him taking me out, but rather his brother. He has to go back to town to prepare for class that afternoon. I´m slightly bummed to be parting company with my new friend with barely a ¨mucho gusto,¨but we´re off and cruising within a matter of minutes. His brother (who´s name I never caught)was monosyllabic until we were well away from the dock when he immediately began to try and change the agreed upon price with me talking about tides, the cost of gas, and some other ridiculous nonsense. What insued was a lengthy and draining argument wher eI conssitently refused his price. It took almost the entire way to Isla de los Monos for him to finally back off.

Isla de los Monos was tiny, but as soon as our launch started to approach, we saw rustling in the trees ahead. Monkeys!
Several of them, hardly the horde I had expected to see, but the Isla itself was pretty tiny. I noted to myself that it wouldn´t have been big enough to support more monkeys anyway. I didn´t think about how they had gotten there to begin with, or why they weren´t on other islands as well. As it turns out, they had been introduced there five years ago, and are now completely dependent upon food offerings from tourists. I got some great monkey shots because they came right up to the boat expecting a handout. One of them even held its hands out to me plaintively and only a "Will Fuck for Food" sign separated it from bums you or I might see on the street back home. I always get bummed out to see the natural order of things (animal or human) become twisted and dependant upon tourist dollars.

After a curt farewell to my driver I began the long hot walk back to town. (Note if you ever do an Isletas tour, spend the 40 cents on the cab back to town afterwards.) Had a delicious meal in a Mexican restaurant which I went to despite resisting the siren´s call (literally) of a local pizza place. They´ve hired a car to drive back and forth with enormous speakers bolted to the top blaring out the virtues of their establishment (La Pasta mas fresca de todo de Nicaragua!) and the sound is literally unignorable. Needless to say, the ploy did nothing but guarantee that I wouldn´t visit their establishment. After a couple of lazy relaxing days in Granada, I think I´m pushing on for Ometepe, a volcanic island further south in the Lake, tomorrow. It was Nicaragua´s sole entrant in last Summer´s new wonders of the world contest, and the signs urging people to vote are still up everywhere. Not sure what the interweb sitch is there, so I may be out of touch for a couple of days.

Soy El Americano Feo

Soy El Americano Feo. If you don´t know what that means, then click on the link. But if you don´t...seriously? In 2008? As some nobody once said "You don´t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." That check is in the mail, so to speak. Start learning Spanish.

Got into Nicaragua yesterday. By all accounts I should avoid Managua as much as possible (the least damning praise I could find for it stated that it eventually grows on you. Hardly 2 thumbs up.)so I took a shuttle straight to Granada. Granada is Nicaraugua´s colonial jewel, akin to Antigua in Guatemala, or Arequipa in Peru. Over the years it (the conservative one) fueded ceaselessly with its liberal rival Leon until the Span ish finally stepped in and declared a previously insignificant fishing village, Managua, to be the once and future capitol.

Situated on the shores of the majestic Lake Nicaragua, Granada has a rich and varied history that includes several burnings, the last by William Walker in 1856. After his failed bid to create an empire for the South in Central America, he burned Granada to the ground upon his retreat, and left the now infamous sign "here was Granada.



Spent the morning (after literally sleeping for 12 hours, the most I´ve slept in as long as I can remember) exploring the lakefront in Granada. Unlike many other Latin American countries I´ve visited, Granada actually has a series of lakefront parks and playgrounds that suggest that its inhabitants have a leisure life beyond Sweeping their stoops and dogfights. Of course the artea is known as the Centro Turistico,so maybe it´s unofficially open only to gringo suckers such as myself as it was eerily deserted today. Of course, I was exploring it at 10 am on a schoolday, so maybe that explains the dearth of children playing. Pretty much the only people I saw where motor launch captains who wanted me to book a tour tyo Las Isletas with them. Las Isletas are a series of tiny islands (some say 365 one to explore for each day of the year) that are a popular day trip excursion from Granada. I´ll visit them tomorrow, especially Isla de los Monos as I´ll partake in anything that has ¨de los monos¨in it´s title. If your unsure about de los monos, then visit the translator from earlier.

It´s miserably hot here, but really no worse than New Orleans in the summer (90s really humid) so I´m not faring too poorly. What´s kind of excellent is the locals actually seem to be affected by the climate as well, not just those of us of the Northern European persuasion. I´ve seen many people carrying around parasols as protection from the heat of the day, including one otherwise all-business, shotgun-toting bank security guard. His was an amazing shade of purple, but despite the amazing juxtaposition, he looked super pissed off, so I was too scared to take his picture.

You Call These Mountains?...Well...okay

Just got back from a brief 3 day excursion into New Hampshire's White Mountains. Waking up this morning, I felt like I had been thrown down several flights of stairs, a humbling sensation for someone such as myself who considers himself to be a quasi competent hiker and woodsman. Turns out that the White Mountains aren't the Andes, but that doesn't mean that they aren't demanding.

Day 1 Crawford Notch to Lakes of the Clouds

Up at 5 to hit the road and pick up Chris. Despite some quirky mapquest directions, I actually managed to successfully navigate the streets of Cambridge and find his new place. We were barreling up 93 N together by 6:30. Turns out the Whites are well into New Hampshire, and after a breakfast stop (The Lonestar off exit 32: a covered wagon/wild west themed restaurant because nothing says the wild west like rural New Hampshire) we arrived at the trailhead by 10, and were merrily hiking along by 10:30. It was raining at the time, but within the trees, it wasn't too much of an issue. We stopped at the Mitzphah hut on the way up. It's a beautiful location, but too close to anything to make it worthwhile to stop. Why would anyone do a 2.5 mile day, and then stop for the night? As we pushed on, over the summit of Pierce we encountered some serious weather. Once we passed the treeline, the rain became a lot bigger deal than it had been at lower altitudes. Heading into Lakes of the Clouds was one of the most adverse days of hiking I've ever experienced in my long years of backcountry experience. Since we were going in late June, we both figured that weather would not be too big of an issue. Although we both packed raingear, we had no rainpants, and were rather unprepared for the severity of the wind above the treeline. Rain came in horizontally as we struggled forward. Fog (or maybe clouds?) enveloped us, and visibility was reduced to maybe ten feet. Chis had the lead, and despite his bright yellow slicker, he remained a hazy and indistinct shape on the trail in front of me. Apparently, these sort of conditions are not out of the ordinary, as cairns marking the trail stood barely ten feet apart. We plodded on at a brisk pace, but we certainly were not going to outdistance the rain. Within the first 15 minutes we both were pretty soaked save our torsos. Chris' ill-fitting pack cover flapped in the winds, and I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. As we neared the hut, I began to worry that we'd walk right past it in the Degobah like conditions. As we neared it, I began to hear the turning of the windmill atop the hut (all AMC huts run on green energy, a combination of wind and solar powers), and we were unable to see it until it loomed out of the fog directly in front of us. When we arrived, the hut was already pretty full. We were assigned to a room at the end, and found 18 bunks squeezed within an area the smaller than a typical bedroom. Our clothes were soaked, and although we spread them out to dry, the humidity and temperature were such that nothing really dried out. Fortunately, our trip was short enough that we didn't need to wear those socks or shirts again. (Note: The Jimmy Carter, History's Greatest Monster shirt I wore on Day 1 was still wet and well on its way to mildewy 3 days later when I dropped it off at the laundry.) The hut itself was a pleasant surprise. Large common area where Chis and I played backgammon and scrabble, and tried to play cribbage, although neither one of us could follow the written instructions. After changing we enjoyed a delicious dinner of lemon chicken and rice (brownies with white chocolate Ghiradeli chips for dessert...wow!), and the enthusiastic staff (liberal arts college kids who were friendly and likeable despite their earnestness, youth, and hippie-esque tendencies.) made for a very pleasant experience. We were in bed by 9:00 as we had hiked all day, and thanks to Chris' ear plugs I slept through the night. 3 blankets and a pillow were provided to each guest. I slept pretty well, despite frequent bathroom breaks which were no easy task given my third bunk status. Chris did not have a pillow and consequently slept terribly. i felt bad, but given my sleep peculuarities, better him than me. Woke up before the wake up call (6:30) but it was still to grey and rainy to investigate much of anything. Another large and delicous breakfast-- pancakes! later and we were ready for Washington...

Day 2 Lakes of the Clouds to Madison Springs vis Mt. Washington

Up early and another meal much nicer than it had any right to be 7 miles uphill from civilization. We were the first people on the trail to Mt. Washington, and althought the rain had temporarily abated, visibility was nil, and the wind was horrific. Not 200 yards from the hut we past a sign saying that Mt. Washington has the worst weather in the country, and to turn back if the weather was bad. We kept going.

Trail was rocky, but not too steep. We were passed by employees from the hut about 45 minutes in, and they sailed by us like we were standing still, hardly out of breath at all, talking, laughing, one girl was even wearing a skirt. We pressed on and summited by 9:00.



We couldn't really take in the view, and the visitor's center, parking lot, and road to the top kind of took away from the rustic sense of back-country achievement that we had been hoping for. With little reason to dally, we headed back down and off toward Madison Springs Hut. We had another 5 miles or so to go, and made slow, but deliberate progress along the rocky path. We were within a mile of the hut when it began to rain again. With unpleasant memories of soaked socks and underwear fresh in our minds, we readied ourselves for the final push. In our haste for a warm and dry environment we somehow missed the correct turn off for the hut. The trail began heading downward and gradually became steeper and steeper. Soon we were reduced to crawling backwards and we were forced to consider that maybe we made a mistake. Were we going to be those hikers you hear about? Who wander off the trail and then need to be rescued to their own great embarassment? I thought back to wilderness survival skills from scouts... priorities range from shelter, to water, to food, in that order. We were fine on food and water, but unfortunately, we were clinging rather precariously to the side of a mountain in a rainstorm, so shelter, that most pressing of all survival needs, was the one thing we lacked.

After consulting our map (funny that we hadn't thought of that at any other stage of our trek thus far: akin to starving to death next to a fridge stocked with food) we immediately realized that we had turned onto the Great Gully trail, and were in fact well off course. The rocks were unbelievably slippery, and we were faced with the unappetizing prospect of crawling our way back up the same trail we had just barely made it down. Nonetheless, we had no other options, so we began the slow arduous trek back up. The rain finally stopped, and eventually we made it to the Madison Springs Hut. Slightly smaller than Lakes of the Clouds, but by that point we weren't feeling particularly picky. Bunk rooms were even more space efficient (stacked up 4 high) and we had at least 50 people in our room. Ear plugs were once again a must-have neccesity, but our exhaustion made for relatively pleasant sleeping.

Day 3 Madison Springs to Pinkham Notch

Left bright and early after a "Hans and Franz" inspired sketch reminding us to pack out our garbage, fold our blankets, and (most importantly) tip the staff. We decided to bypass the Madison summit due to our creaky 30 something muscles and bones. Unfortunately the bypass was probably more difficult as it was a mile-long boulder scramble, followed by another two miles of sheer descent back below the treeline. Every source we consulted (hut information, our own maps, posted trail signs) gave use different mileage figures, but we eventually made it back to Pinkham Notch. Given the nice weather we had for the last part of the last day, I would love to make it back there sometime, perhaps at the end of the summer when Chris and I return from our respective travels. To bring next time: REAL hiking boots, polypro or other synthetic shirts and underwear, fleece jacket (not vest) Extra extra socks, less food, ear plugs, gloves, a fleece hat, sunglasses, and mayhaps my iplodito