leap year in Big Corn

12/02/29

I am sitting in a comedor - a local restaurant. There are 3 tables. At the other ones are sitting a few workers, having a smoke after breakfast. It is 9:50 am. The chickens are clucking. The black birds whistle. The cars and taxis pass. My Danish friend, M, has just walked by. He has bought us a pineapple to share later.

I am waiting for the local breakfast: gallo pinto, (rice and beans) eggs, cheese, and coffee. Maybe even bread. Should do me for the day. This is a test. If it sits well, I may eat it again before the ferry tomorrow. Do I dare or go on with an empty stomach and a few packs of soda crackers?

Last night I had what could only be called a cultural experience. We went to Mama Lola´s for supper. The taxi went off the pavement into the jungle towards the beach. We bumped along till we came to a headland. Wave after wave breaking into the distance. A 3 storeyed pink and green concrete building. The view from each floor is great but the roof terrace is impressive. Each floor has a group of local people sitting and talking and drinking. The music is blaring. A mix of hip hop and sentimental tex mex. We sit indoors because it is too windy outside for eating. A few women get up to dance to the hip hop. I am envious of their incredibly loose hips.

Mama Lola comes in at the end of our meal. She is a big woman wearing a dreads wig and a big bold smock with leggings. She sits with us and tells us her story. No prompting is required. She is Ecuadorean, 62 years old and has been living in the US for many years. Her first husband, an American Bahai missionary brought her back to Detroit. Her second husband came down to Nicaragua and bought the land where she has since built her hotel /bar/restaurant over a period of 6 years. Now she wants to sell it. Her husband doesn´t want to come back after several rough dealings with some locals. So she comes and goes. Detroit, Ecuador, Corn Island She is very friendly and effusive. I do notice a facial tic. What is behind the friendly face? We say good bye and take a taxi back to our hotels. I am right on a rocky shore beside a little sand beach. The wind blows all night.

leaving little corn

12/02/28

Fourteen days on the beach. Fourteen days of Little Corn. Reading. Walking. Swimming. Fetching drinking water from the fancy restaurant up the road. Talking with the hotel staff. Talking with the other travellers. Turquoise water. Blue blue skies. Occasional rain. Mainly sun. Thousands of stars. Good trade wind. White sand. Coconut palms. So hard to leave. I will return.

the drug dealer

12/02/28

The drug dealer shows up mid morning. I figure he is the local dealer because he is carrying a fanny pack and a little attache case. No one here carries a fanny pack and an attache case. Plus the local stoner runs over to him and they go into a little huddle. What impresses me about Mr. Pusher is not his gold teeth or good chain but the tee shirt with a grinning skull that says: SMOKE TILL DEATH. He shows me a one ounce baggy of very strong smelling grass. 1000 cordobas. $44. I ask him to let me take a photo of him but he declines.

Church

12/02/26

Today I went to church. A friend invited me to go along. Sure, I said. We met a couple of other women and started off. On the way, a few more joined us and we became a raucous group. Then we waited outside Colour Vista Restaurant for the owner, Talesa, to come out. She came out serene and majestic. I felt embarrassed for our noisy chatter. Some people fell away before we reached.

The church was in a big pink building. A stage in front with a drum set on it and many wooden benches facing it. There was no one bu a man sitting in the front row. Over the next few minutes, the hall started to bill. The man went on the stage and began to play on an electric keyboard. Talesa went up and with a microphone in hand, began to sing. The songs started slowly but then picked up speed. We were all standing. Some women began moving towards the front, hands raised. People clapping and singing and swaying. And then it was over. The man put down his keyboard and began to preach the sermon. He started with the kingdom of heaven is not in the future but in us here and now. Good, I thought. Then he started onto heaven and hell and the sins of homosexuality and it was time to go.

William

12/02/24

William tells me that he just started work at the hotel last week. He says that he works from 6 am till 5 pm 7 days a week with a day off every 2 weeks. He rakes the beach of the daily seaweed. He rakes the grounds. He carts everything to the back with the wheelbarrow. He goes back and forth to the village with the wheelbarrow, carrying bags of laundry, supplies, cases of beer. Most of the way it is a flat path but there is a steep hill that he must negotiate up and down. Last year, there was only a dirt path which got regularly washed out in the rain. Now there is a cement path reaching down to the beach. Steps in the middle and ramps on either side to accomodate the back wheels of the wheelbarrows. It is pretty steep.

I meet him on the path today. How many times has he been today, I ask. He says 25 times. He tells me he makes 1000 cordobas a month. $44. He gets his meals and a place to stay. S tells me this is impossible. Minimum wage is 3500 cordobas. $154 Still....

departures

12/02/23

T and D left this morning. I set the alarm for 5.20. It was just barely light when we walked out 10 minutes later but by the time we reached the dock around the other side of the island, a 20 minute walk, the sun was up and bright. A few people were already sitting on the wharf. More arrived soon after with wheelbarrows loaded with bags and suitcases. We had been told to get there by 6. There is only 1 boat in the morning and once it fills, it goes. Nonetheless, the boat only arrived at 6.30, loaded up quickly and was gone in 10 minutes. T and D managed to get seats in the back. They waved to me and off they went. Now after a week of their presence, it will take a little moment to readjust to my quieter rhythm.

It was a great visit. We met in Masaya at the hotel. A knock on my door and there they were. The next morning we took a taxi to the Managua airport. We wandered into the almost empty International Departure area but were redirected to the National flights. There was already a long queue even though the plane was not due to leave for another 2 hours. The line was not moving. Eventually check-in began. Very complicated, it seemed. Many people were carrying overweight bags and the sole clerk was not rushed. People started crowding in behind us and the queue snaked off to the left. D ran around and between the groups of people. An hour later, we were passed through to the waiting area. My full bottle of water was ignored by the check-in crew. We sat down to wait. And wait . And wait.

There seemed to be some problem with loading the luggage. Attendants leaned up against the propeller plane. Which side does which bag go?. An hour and a half after our scheduled departure, we finally left.

When we landed, it was the same sort of thing. It easily took an hour before our bags were fully unloaded. Our passports were inspected. Then there was a mad rush for bags and to the taxis whose drivers were patiently waiting outside. To the dock. Again, the passports. A dock fee. When we finally get to the small boat, it is crammed full. It is also getting later by the minute. Another boat is brought alongside and we cross from the first to the second. Our bags are carried across and packed somewhere. We are the last to board and are in the front row of seats beside some French tourists. Finally we are off. It is after 5. The water is very choppy and the front of the boat starts to slap the waves with great force. D gets frightened and begins to wail. He wails all the way across - "I dont like this!"

It is dark when we arrive. Our bags are the last to emerge and we are the last to leave the dock. The wheelbarrow transport has left. D is very glad to be on dry land and races ahead. I hadnt thought to leave out my flashlight and stop to hunt for it. Luckily at that moment another group arrives with lights and we follow them onto the beach.

I have made reservations at Elsas but as I feared, she has not honoured them and her place is full. I am shown a small bare room with a double bed and told this is all that is available for the night. All 3 of us to sleep here. D is playing in the sand and refuses to move. T is waiting somewhere behind with the bags. A moment of worry but I am too tired to panic. Then a room with 3 beds at a 3rd place is available and we happily move in. We stay the whole week. It is a dark and sandy room and there is no electricity on the island from 5 am to 3 pm. But there is a hammac and chairs on the little porch. A parrot that adopts us. Very friendly staff and guests. The beach in front of our door. We eat at different restaurants, we play in the turquoise water. We turn red and brown. We hunt for crabs. A good week.

Now they have gone. I will stay another week. Then I will take the ferry. The day ferry. No more night ferries for me on the Atlantic with rainstorms and no electricity, thank you very much.

After a good dose of ocean, I will head south to the Rio San Juan on the border of Costa Rica

postscript- One of the hotel owners was on the boat. He reports to me that D did not cry at all on the trip over and that they were able to catch an earlier flight out. Yay!

Puccini in Leon

12/02/12

They have been preparing for days. The entrance to the Basilica is surrounded by big cameras. Are they making a movie? After a day of watching more equipment amass, I ask a policeman who is lounging against his car, what is going on. Opera, he says, at 7 tonight. A free performance.

At 7, a new friend and I go down to the Central Park. There are many plastic chairs set up in front of the cathedral. They are all taken. The square behind is filled with people, vendors, small carnival rides. My friend is hungry so we go behind the cathedral to eat from the barbeque vendors.

We wander back to the square. Nothing happening yet. We sit on a park bench to talk and soak up the festive atmosphere. At 8, after a few speeches from local authorities and then the Italian producer, we all stand for the Nicaraguan and very lengthy Italian national anthem. Finally the opera begins. It is the Rustic Cavalier by Puccini. Spanish subtitles are on the big screen hidden behind the scaffolding holding more people with cameras. The orchestra in front of the stage stands to bow then the music begins. The opening piece is a crowd scene with many comings and goings on the stage. I normally love Puccini but am too far back to appreciate the music or follow the story. We stay to hear the beginning of the first solo then wander off to get ice cream.

leon

12/02/11

I love Leon! It is as hot as Hades here but it is so alive! Beautiful churches. Friendly people. Interesting museums. A great big clean market. After visiting the Museum of Legends and Myths in the old prison and then, the old home of Ruben Dario, Nicaragua's beloved poet, I load up on fruit and vegetables at the mercado and walk up the narrow sidewalks to my hotel, avoiding the sun as much as possible.

A young boy accosts me on the street, asking me to buy some of his tortillas. I had no plans to buy tortillas but he is so earnest that I can't resist . He wants to sell me 12 for 10 cordobas. What will I do with 12 tortillas? They are boring enough when they are hot. Cold, they are like chewing humid paper. I give him 5 C for 5 tortillas. As it is, that is too much. These are big tortillas. So I stop at a house and buy fresh cheese and make a little lunch in the park before I move on.

It is interesting to consider why people choose to live in extreme conditions. Montreal has such a cold winter and yet there we are. And here, it is hot all the time and people seem happy enough to be here. I guess the word choose is a bit grand. Most people don't get a choice.

heat

12/02/10

I will not complain about the heat. However, I must state the fact that it is very hot here in this northwestern corner of Nicaragua. It must be in the mid 30s most of the day. I am now in Leon which has the reputation for being the hottest city in Nicaragua. It also has the reputation for lots of churches, museums and universities. So I am here for culture after 3 days on the beach where the sand was burning my feet through my sandals at 9 am.

playa jiquililo

12/02/07

Finally, a chicken bus. I had no choice. It is the onlty bus heading to Playa Jiquililo. I am waiting in the little market and slowly collect food and water for the trip. There appear to be only 3 of us waiting but when the bus appears, it fills very quickly. Just before the bus leaves, a young boy appears and asks me if the seat next to me is taken. He then call to his mother (grandmother?) who arrives with a a white plastic bag filled with raw meat which she puts on the floor in front of her. I have given her the window seat to avoid the sun. He then passes her a huge plastic bag which she holds on her lap. She opens it and gives him little plastic purses, hairbands, plastic combs to sell. He does a few turns up and down the aisles. The aisles are swarming with vendors selling food, drinks, batteries, razors, watches, q-tips, etc. He returns, gives her his earnings and she gives him a stack of DVDs. He goes off again. Each time he returns, he asks me for something. Give me your watch. Give me your water. He is not begging. He is demanding. Finally the sales are over. He squeezes past me and takes his place by the window.

Playa Jiquililo is on a peninsula in the far northwest of Nicaragua. The beach stretches for miles. It is very undeveloped. The countryside is arid and dusty. I see many citrus trees. They look dead - all dry wood and thorns. But there is fruit hanging on the branches.

The bus drops me off at my hotel: Rancho Tranquilo. I don't know what to expect. What I do find is a budget resort owned and run by an American from San Francisco. She is very talkative and introduces me to everyone there. I have my own bungalow - a well built cabin with a very high thatch roof and cement floor. A sagging double bed with a mosquito net. Lights and a fan. But alas, I have to share the bathroom. No ensuites here. We are right on the beach. The food is vegetarian. Tina, the owner says she wants no meat on her property. She is a woman in her late 40s. She smokes constantly and smells of alcohol. She tells me she is an extrovert but that her boyfriend is overwhelmed by many people so he is building them a house further away. She tells me he was a Navy "Seal". He looks like a musician who could play for the Grateful Dead. He has a full long and straight grey beard.

Meals are by vote. You put your choice on the white board and the most voted for choice gets served. So I am not sure what I am having for supper.

the middlewoman

12/02/06

I meet Carla on the minibus from Choluteca to the Nicaraguan border. She is sitting behind me and is heading to the same town as I am. She takes me under her wing and I let her guide me though customs, changing money and buses.

Carla is 29 years old. She is not tall but is very round.. She tells me she has 3 children and pays someone to look after them as both she and her husband work. She crosses the border 7 days a week to go to the Honduran capital to buy cases of apples and grapes. She has bought 6 crates of apples this time. The fruit is coming from the US. The Nicaraguan government imposes a very high import tax so she goes daily to Honduras to bring them in herself. She pays the border guards to look the other way. She has a connection in Managua that she sells to. She sends them on, in the bus. I notice another woman with boxes of canned juice. A man has some cases of soda. Carla has been doing this for 3 years now. She hopes to continue. The money goes toward home improvement, she says.

When I come back from the beach 3 days later, I meet Carla in the bus station heading back to Honduras yet again.

hotels

12/02/06

I don´t expect much for $13 for a room. A fair enough bed and a private bathroom. No bedbugs. Hot water would be nice but not necessary. In Copan, the room was so cute: A firm bed. A shower with hot water. A ceiling fan. A view out on the mountains. And a rooftop terrace with hammocks and kitchen included. In Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, I expected less. Nonetheless, a quiet room overlooking a courtyard back from the street,. A ceiling fan. A big bathroom but no hot water even though the friendly receptionist said there would be. And both had TVs.

Today I arrived in Nicaragua. Again, I looked in the guidebook and chose one near the Central Park. The guidebook did note that the rooms were bit grungy. When I arrive with the bicycle taxi, the driver had to ring and ring before the dueño finally appeared. He had been sleeping and looked drunk. He sent me upstairs to look. The rooms were beyond grungy. The sheets had not been changed. The curtains were dirty. He was asking $15 for this. I left in a hurry. After a few more trials, I settled for the Hotel Glomar, not in the guidebook. A room in the back corner with a window high up in the bathroom reflecting into the room.The walls painted a bright green. A TV. After sorting out money, tickets and food in the town, I came back to the hotel. I am so grateful for the fan as the room is very hot. Then the power went out. Luckily after 10 minutes, it came on again. Now in the distance a very loud music is playing. The bass is very insistent. But the fan is working. Price? $8.50. Tomorrow I am going to the beach.

San Pedro Sula

12/02/05

It is 7 am. I am sitting in the bus heading to San Pedro Sula. I was thinking to leave yesterday morning but I woke up from a dream about death. Someone was trying to convince someone (me?) to commit suicide. At the last moment, I rebelled and refused. I got very angry and physically fought back. When I awoke, it was dark and I was in no mood to go. This morning, at 5:50 the alarm went off and I got up, bright and easy.

I just remembered that today is the anniversary of my mother´s death 50 years ago. She was 47. From where I sit, it seems so young. As I take a moment to think about her, the bus starts to move.

carbs at comedor mary

12/02/01

I am sitting in a popular local restaurant. It even received a World Bank grant. I ordered the vegetarian plate. Salad and rice and vegetables. Can´t go wrong. The plate actually consisted of a broiled potato, 2 pieces of avocado, fried rice and a pasta salad which did contain some diced carrots and green beans. And small pieces of ham. And 3 hot tortillas on the side. In Jane Fonda´s new book, Prime Time, she remarks on an improved sense of humour after 50. It is true. I smiled inwardly and removed the ham.

Copan is a pretty little town. All cobblestones. Very touristy. I moved today and am finally staying in a sweet little room looking out on the mountains. Above me on the roof, there is a sheltered area with 2 hammocks, some tables and chairs and a compact little kitchen available for guests. So far, I am here alone this evening. Earlier an American showed up with a gaggle of young children. She offered them all homemade popsicles. They gave me a green one which was quite awful. Now it is night. I have eaten my supper and am hanging in a hammock.The children in the street have gone for supper. It is quiet for the moment. The sky is dark wiht no stars. It did not rain today. Nor did the sun shine. I imagine that with either distance or time passing, it will shine again.

Heading to Honduras

12/02/01

It rained hard during the night and the sky is threatening this morning. I wait in the bus station. A man comes over to say hello. I had spoken to him at the Guatemala bus station. It appears that he is a bus inspector and travels throughout the country. He was in Puerto Barrios last night and is heading back to the capital tonight. He is tall for a Guatemalan and has a gold-toothed smile. He tells me that the rain is unusual for this time of year and that even in the capital, there has been rain. A cold front, he says.

The bus arrives a few minutes late. I had been told it was a 4 1/2 hour journey. The guard in the station says 5 1/2 hours. The conductor says 6.

We are driving out of the rain. I can see some blue sky. The landscape is beautfiful. Green hills spotted with banana plants, palms and fruit trees. Terraced farms. Grazing cows. At each village we stop, the vendors pile on. I have 3 1/2 pesos burning a hole in my pocket. I can´t change coins at the border so am trying to get rid of them. The cut fruit costs more so I buy a pink ice cream with some red sauce on top. The sellers of magic potions have arrived. One pill that cures stomach, liver and kidney problems, bad breath, lines under the eyes. I would love to check out the ingredients but don´t want to the the man hope of a sale.

The terrain has shifted. Mountains in the distance. Brown and dark green. I am semi-dozing when the bus arrives in Chiquimila. It stops briefly at the station and then again and again at brief reprieves. Then everyone is getting out. The conductor tells me there is something wrong with the bus but I suspect that it is more a matter of saving on gas. There are perhaps 6 people left in the bus. We are transferring to a minibus. More people pile in. My suitcase is taken from its nice dry and safe spot inside to the top of this minivan. We meander into every little village picking up, dropping off. Standing room only. The sky is threatening again. At one stop, I ask to bring my bag inside. The conductor is not pleased but he accedes. We get to the border finally. It is 4 :20. Over 7 hours of travel. Luckily the border crossing is simple. The minivan on the other side leaves soon after and it is a short ride to Copan Ruinas.

aguas calientes

12/01/31

I left Hotel Kangourou this morning. (I will miss the comfortable bed.) Gary, the Aussie owner, had given me detailed instructions on how to get to the waterfall and then on to the canyon. The colectivo dropped me at the entrance and I walked in. A man met met and I paid the entrance fee then I walked along the path. A young couple who had come over on the boat from the hotel with me were just coming back. He had tried to climb up the muddy cliff and had lost a rubber thong to the current below. He was now walking barefoot.

The guide, an Indian who told me with great pride that he is 60, took me down to the water´s edge. Across the way - a beautiful waterfall. I showed him how to use my camera and asked him to take a few photos of me in the water. He showed me where I could climb to get to the "sauna" but it looked too slippery to do alone. I made my way over the rocks into the water. Cold. I swam over to the wateralls. Pockets of warm water as I approached. Treading water under the falls - it was definitely hot water cascading over me.

When I came out, I looked at the pictures he had taken. There I am - a tiny figure in the water. I asked him to turn away while I changed. A few minutes later, more tourists started coming. Time to go.

The canyon was further down the main road. I did not have long to wait for the bus. Again, I got dropped off on the side of the road. Some boys were waiting on bicycles. They brought me down to the river and we negotiated a price. A young boy, aged 13 he said, paddled me thru a beautiful canyon with trees and rocks towering above us, the water a muddy brown. We got to a series of boulders. He said it was too dangerous to go further. There were rapids ahead. It started to rain and we retraced our steps.