12/03/27
Everywhere in Nicaragua, to find a location, there is no exact address. No street number. The streets have names but no one knows them. Directions are given by landmarks: 2 blocks west of the church. 1 1/2 blocks east of the park. And it works well. I give those directions and people are able to direct me. Here in Esteli, it is different. Streets are clearly marked. Avenues are perpendicularto streets. Everything starts at the central park and progresses accordingly. And directions follow suit: 2nd street noirthwest and 3rd avenue south west. Seems somehow logical. And yet, people join me in the absence of an internal map. They too have no sense of direction. I get to a corner and ask, do I go left or straight here and I get directed to ask somewhere else. Finally at the cultural centre, they call the school for me. Someone will come and get me. Just tell me which way to go. No, sit and wait. Someone is coming.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
to esteli
12/03/25
I told myself - enough with bus travel stories. I´ve already taken so many buses and boats - they've started to blur. And yet, here recovering in Esteli, I do believe, yesterday again I passed over the line. Esteli is not far from Ometepe in kilometres but it demands many changes in bus and boat. A crowded bus to the boat. A ferry over to the mainland. Another bus. All along, I was not sure whether I would make it. I told myself, I will stop when it gets too messy or I get too tired. Maybe I will stop in Granada. Then the bus was heading to Masaya. Maybe I will stop in Masaya. And then, it was midafternoon. The bus had just dropped me off on the outskirts of Masaya with instructions to take a taxi to Tipitapa. OK. A taxi driver tries to hustle me into his taxi. I stop him and join a group of two others.Then I realize that Tipitapa is 20 k away. I am no longer nowhere near Masaya. I am dropped at a noisy intersection where people are standing waiting for the buses coming from Managua. There is garbage everywhere. People looking hot, harassed, tired and unfriendly. The buses arrive, packed. People are jumping on, squeezing on, holding on. I think, oh shit.
A well-dressed woman sees my distress and comes over to help. I say - are all the buses this full?. Yes, she says. To get a seat, I would need to go back to Managua. Or go down the road to a hotel (questionable at best) and try again in the morning. I go off to the toilet -a wet stall which doesn't flush. I pay 25 cents for the service. When I get back, she says: come quickly. Your bus is here. Someone grabs my suitcase and stows it under the bus. She tries to tell the boy - This woman has a problem. She needs a seat. But he isn't listenng. I move quickly to the front. Stick in hand, I push onto the bus. I can barely get on. I have visions of being stuck one foot off as it starts to move. Impassive faces No one is offering a seat. There are 2 peoiple sitting on the triangular engine cover next to the driver. I ask the woman if I can sit too. She moves over as much as she can. I sit on one buttock for a while. Peope have to step over me to get on and off. It is ultimately too uncomfortable and I stand. After a long while, someone gives me their seat as they are getting off. The rest of the trip is uneventful. I have a seat. It is wonderful.
We arrive at 7:30 pm. A taxi to the hotel. I wake this morning at 6:30 am. A church group is having a celebration, the music echoing outside my window. A block from my hotel is a little cantina that sells homemade yoghourt with fruit. I have bought 2 containers. I had been craving yoghourt for days. One is with papaya, the other with pineapple. Heavenly.
I told myself - enough with bus travel stories. I´ve already taken so many buses and boats - they've started to blur. And yet, here recovering in Esteli, I do believe, yesterday again I passed over the line. Esteli is not far from Ometepe in kilometres but it demands many changes in bus and boat. A crowded bus to the boat. A ferry over to the mainland. Another bus. All along, I was not sure whether I would make it. I told myself, I will stop when it gets too messy or I get too tired. Maybe I will stop in Granada. Then the bus was heading to Masaya. Maybe I will stop in Masaya. And then, it was midafternoon. The bus had just dropped me off on the outskirts of Masaya with instructions to take a taxi to Tipitapa. OK. A taxi driver tries to hustle me into his taxi. I stop him and join a group of two others.Then I realize that Tipitapa is 20 k away. I am no longer nowhere near Masaya. I am dropped at a noisy intersection where people are standing waiting for the buses coming from Managua. There is garbage everywhere. People looking hot, harassed, tired and unfriendly. The buses arrive, packed. People are jumping on, squeezing on, holding on. I think, oh shit.
A well-dressed woman sees my distress and comes over to help. I say - are all the buses this full?. Yes, she says. To get a seat, I would need to go back to Managua. Or go down the road to a hotel (questionable at best) and try again in the morning. I go off to the toilet -a wet stall which doesn't flush. I pay 25 cents for the service. When I get back, she says: come quickly. Your bus is here. Someone grabs my suitcase and stows it under the bus. She tries to tell the boy - This woman has a problem. She needs a seat. But he isn't listenng. I move quickly to the front. Stick in hand, I push onto the bus. I can barely get on. I have visions of being stuck one foot off as it starts to move. Impassive faces No one is offering a seat. There are 2 peoiple sitting on the triangular engine cover next to the driver. I ask the woman if I can sit too. She moves over as much as she can. I sit on one buttock for a while. Peope have to step over me to get on and off. It is ultimately too uncomfortable and I stand. After a long while, someone gives me their seat as they are getting off. The rest of the trip is uneventful. I have a seat. It is wonderful.
We arrive at 7:30 pm. A taxi to the hotel. I wake this morning at 6:30 am. A church group is having a celebration, the music echoing outside my window. A block from my hotel is a little cantina that sells homemade yoghourt with fruit. I have bought 2 containers. I had been craving yoghourt for days. One is with papaya, the other with pineapple. Heavenly.
socialism
12/03/24
A man sits down beside me at the bottom of the hill. I am waiting for the bus. He has just carried down a big bag of produce for a woman. She has been visiting his farm and heading back with her 2 children to the town. He is so happy that I understand Spanish. He wants to explain to me the injustice he feels has been done. He tells me that he had lived in Managua for 20 years but had come 30 years ago to work on the coffee plantations on the island. Then the revolution and the land was nationalized. The plantation owners went home, he said, and the land divided up and given to party members. Those who had paid for their cards, he said. He hadn´t paid so he had to buy his land from another. And work it to survive. Now there is no money. Only working to survive.
Another man, the other day, told me that he had received a portion of land. He has built a hostel on it and his family works hard on it. Nonetheless, he too is not happy with the government. They gave us land, he says. But nothing else. It is true, the roads are beyond belief. The electricity service is pretty off and on. "What about health care?" I say. "Drugs are free." Free for you, he says. We get prescriptions and have to buy them ourselves at the pharmacy.
And yet, I must say, the general feeling is one of great contentment and stability. People are very famiy oriented and appear happy enough.
A man sits down beside me at the bottom of the hill. I am waiting for the bus. He has just carried down a big bag of produce for a woman. She has been visiting his farm and heading back with her 2 children to the town. He is so happy that I understand Spanish. He wants to explain to me the injustice he feels has been done. He tells me that he had lived in Managua for 20 years but had come 30 years ago to work on the coffee plantations on the island. Then the revolution and the land was nationalized. The plantation owners went home, he said, and the land divided up and given to party members. Those who had paid for their cards, he said. He hadn´t paid so he had to buy his land from another. And work it to survive. Now there is no money. Only working to survive.
Another man, the other day, told me that he had received a portion of land. He has built a hostel on it and his family works hard on it. Nonetheless, he too is not happy with the government. They gave us land, he says. But nothing else. It is true, the roads are beyond belief. The electricity service is pretty off and on. "What about health care?" I say. "Drugs are free." Free for you, he says. We get prescriptions and have to buy them ourselves at the pharmacy.
And yet, I must say, the general feeling is one of great contentment and stability. People are very famiy oriented and appear happy enough.
giggling
12/03/23
It is not as hot today. I am sitting on my verandah. I hear giggling in the room vacated by the American. Two of the cleaning staff have been in there a long time now. The door closed. Finally they emerge. "Did you have a sleep?" I ask. Yes, they say giggling. They are both about 5 months pregnant. The one who is 26, it is her first. The other is 30 and it is her 5th. Her oldest son is 17. Yes, she was 13 when she had him.I say: "You started so young. You must have worked hard." referring to childrearing. Yes, she says, I worked in the fields in the rice and the corn. They finish off the room and take their things and leave. Giggling.
It is not as hot today. I am sitting on my verandah. I hear giggling in the room vacated by the American. Two of the cleaning staff have been in there a long time now. The door closed. Finally they emerge. "Did you have a sleep?" I ask. Yes, they say giggling. They are both about 5 months pregnant. The one who is 26, it is her first. The other is 30 and it is her 5th. Her oldest son is 17. Yes, she was 13 when she had him.I say: "You started so young. You must have worked hard." referring to childrearing. Yes, she says, I worked in the fields in the rice and the corn. They finish off the room and take their things and leave. Giggling.
crippled divers
12/03/23
An American man sits down on a hammock near me and begins to chat. The light flickers and goes out. Another power outage. The stars shine very brightly. There are no mosquitos.
He tells me he has been coming to Nicaragua now for 15 years. He initially came with a church group but he quickly got disillusioned and continued on his own. He records the names of lobster divers who have been left paralysed by faulty ascents from their deep dives. The government has promised to help. NGOs come down with fancy hyperbaric chambers and dive instructors. But the damage continues. The divers still dive poorly. He says it is ignorance but also machismo and that youthful sense of immortality. "It won´t happen to me." And the indifference of the boat captains. He has gone into the small villages up above the port town to collect his names. The divers are young Mesquito men as young as 16. Never over 30
Now he is hanging out waiting to do dental work.
An American man sits down on a hammock near me and begins to chat. The light flickers and goes out. Another power outage. The stars shine very brightly. There are no mosquitos.
He tells me he has been coming to Nicaragua now for 15 years. He initially came with a church group but he quickly got disillusioned and continued on his own. He records the names of lobster divers who have been left paralysed by faulty ascents from their deep dives. The government has promised to help. NGOs come down with fancy hyperbaric chambers and dive instructors. But the damage continues. The divers still dive poorly. He says it is ignorance but also machismo and that youthful sense of immortality. "It won´t happen to me." And the indifference of the boat captains. He has gone into the small villages up above the port town to collect his names. The divers are young Mesquito men as young as 16. Never over 30
Now he is hanging out waiting to do dental work.
paradise without purpose
12/03/21
It is the first day of spring. Back home there have been record breaking warm days. An earthquake in Mexico yesterday.
I have spent so much time and so many years searching for the perfect spot. I have been in many places - like here - where it is just so beautiful, achingly beautiful. But I never seem to plan for what to do once I get here. The initial aha and then what? I finally understand the 2 week vacation. Just enough and then you go home. My insistance on extending the experience -wanting to live it "forever", catches me up every time. There are only so many books to read. Only so many conversations to be had. Now that walking is such a challenge, this is all that is left for me. The "goal" of being present in every moment - I have not mastered it despite all my good intentions. To be honest, I am bored. I hate to admit it. It is so ungrateful. But if I want to look at all this clearly and honestly, I must face it. There is only so much hanging around I can do.
So it is time to rethink this solitary winter wandering. I have always wanted to be passionate about something. I am envious of those who have a passion for something - a beloved hobby, a musical bent, a creative urge. My work has given me satisfaction but that too will have its limits soon. Hmm.
It is the first day of spring. Back home there have been record breaking warm days. An earthquake in Mexico yesterday.
I have spent so much time and so many years searching for the perfect spot. I have been in many places - like here - where it is just so beautiful, achingly beautiful. But I never seem to plan for what to do once I get here. The initial aha and then what? I finally understand the 2 week vacation. Just enough and then you go home. My insistance on extending the experience -wanting to live it "forever", catches me up every time. There are only so many books to read. Only so many conversations to be had. Now that walking is such a challenge, this is all that is left for me. The "goal" of being present in every moment - I have not mastered it despite all my good intentions. To be honest, I am bored. I hate to admit it. It is so ungrateful. But if I want to look at all this clearly and honestly, I must face it. There is only so much hanging around I can do.
So it is time to rethink this solitary winter wandering. I have always wanted to be passionate about something. I am envious of those who have a passion for something - a beloved hobby, a musical bent, a creative urge. My work has given me satisfaction but that too will have its limits soon. Hmm.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
ometepe
12/03/20
I have finally come to a stop. I am staying at Monkey Island hostel. Under Maderas Volcano facing the water of Lake Nicaragua. There is a sandy beach down below. Around me are fruit trees and flowers. The wind is blowing. I can choose between the rocking chair and the hammock. Sometimes a bar in the distance sends out a song. Then there is quiet again. The electricity is spotty. It can go off for a day at a time. When it comes on, people charge their phones and laptops. I charge my ereader.
I went to the service for the American volunteer. The whole island was in attendance. (except for a few boys playing soccer in a field.) People came from other islands and from the mainland The coffin was brought down from her home and we all filed into the church. The church was painted in naif figures of birds and animals on a white background. The outside , bright coloured panels. People got up to speak about Carolina. There were always 4 people standing by the coffin, one at each corner, keeping guard. Men and women, young and old would stand up to replace the 4 at regular intervals, one at a time. It was quiet and respectful. The husband sat near the front and greeted each coffin guard as they sat down.
I left the next day. It was either then or wait 4 days as the ferry goes only twice a week. I had dreaded the 11 hour journey but it was a beautiful ride. We sat on the outside deck on lounge chairs, watching the sun set, and the stars. The seagulls following the wake of the boat. At 10, I went inside to lie on a padded bench. At 12:30 am, the intercom woke me up. Time to disembark. A minibus was waiting at the dock. It dropped us off at our chosen hotel.
I was here last year but did not come this far. The island is shaped like a figure 8 with a volcano in each circle. Last year, I got as far as the isthmus. This year, I came further onto the 2nd circle. After the isthmus, the road deteriorates impressively. It takes an hour to do several kilometres.
I have finally come to a stop. I am staying at Monkey Island hostel. Under Maderas Volcano facing the water of Lake Nicaragua. There is a sandy beach down below. Around me are fruit trees and flowers. The wind is blowing. I can choose between the rocking chair and the hammock. Sometimes a bar in the distance sends out a song. Then there is quiet again. The electricity is spotty. It can go off for a day at a time. When it comes on, people charge their phones and laptops. I charge my ereader.
I went to the service for the American volunteer. The whole island was in attendance. (except for a few boys playing soccer in a field.) People came from other islands and from the mainland The coffin was brought down from her home and we all filed into the church. The church was painted in naif figures of birds and animals on a white background. The outside , bright coloured panels. People got up to speak about Carolina. There were always 4 people standing by the coffin, one at each corner, keeping guard. Men and women, young and old would stand up to replace the 4 at regular intervals, one at a time. It was quiet and respectful. The husband sat near the front and greeted each coffin guard as they sat down.
I left the next day. It was either then or wait 4 days as the ferry goes only twice a week. I had dreaded the 11 hour journey but it was a beautiful ride. We sat on the outside deck on lounge chairs, watching the sun set, and the stars. The seagulls following the wake of the boat. At 10, I went inside to lie on a padded bench. At 12:30 am, the intercom woke me up. Time to disembark. A minibus was waiting at the dock. It dropped us off at our chosen hotel.
I was here last year but did not come this far. The island is shaped like a figure 8 with a volcano in each circle. Last year, I got as far as the isthmus. This year, I came further onto the 2nd circle. After the isthmus, the road deteriorates impressively. It takes an hour to do several kilometres.
Friday, March 16, 2012
isla de solentiname
12/03/15
Today is my fathers's birthday. He would be 98 today.
It continues to rain. Abnorman weather conditions. Like the rest of the world. I have recovered from my slump. I have been able to breathe at night for the past couple of nights and my sinuses are starting tyo recover. My thoughts have started to clear as well. I notice there are alot of peopple here with stuffed noses. The rain has stopped. It doesn't seem to rain as long as in El Castillo where it poured the day I was there.
I am on an island in the archipelago Solentiname. There are many islands. This one has about 400 inhabitants. The biggest island. A slow boat ride from San Carlos on the coast. I am staying in a little bungalow behind the house and little store of the owners. It is quiet and serene. On a tree covered hill. The water is visible in the distance. I can hear the grackles and other birds. My view is of fruit trees and the main path in front. A pig wanders by. A hen with her chicks.
The dueña tells me that an American volunteer has just suddenly died of a heart attack. She had been living here with her husband part of the year for the past 5 years working with a local NGO doing education. She was 53. The death was announced just as I came to the island. Perhaps that accounts for the incredible stillness when I arrived. She will be buried here later today. She had no history of heart disease.
All the ideas, projects, worries, aspirations - gone in a flash. Food for thought.
Today is my fathers's birthday. He would be 98 today.
It continues to rain. Abnorman weather conditions. Like the rest of the world. I have recovered from my slump. I have been able to breathe at night for the past couple of nights and my sinuses are starting tyo recover. My thoughts have started to clear as well. I notice there are alot of peopple here with stuffed noses. The rain has stopped. It doesn't seem to rain as long as in El Castillo where it poured the day I was there.
I am on an island in the archipelago Solentiname. There are many islands. This one has about 400 inhabitants. The biggest island. A slow boat ride from San Carlos on the coast. I am staying in a little bungalow behind the house and little store of the owners. It is quiet and serene. On a tree covered hill. The water is visible in the distance. I can hear the grackles and other birds. My view is of fruit trees and the main path in front. A pig wanders by. A hen with her chicks.
The dueña tells me that an American volunteer has just suddenly died of a heart attack. She had been living here with her husband part of the year for the past 5 years working with a local NGO doing education. She was 53. The death was announced just as I came to the island. Perhaps that accounts for the incredible stillness when I arrived. She will be buried here later today. She had no history of heart disease.
All the ideas, projects, worries, aspirations - gone in a flash. Food for thought.
the beginning of the end
12/03/09
What is a journey if not for self-reflection? Sometimes the edge needs to be pushed beyond the comfort zone to make for clarity. Well, I am definitely beyond my comfort zone. The experience has gone from pleasant holiday to something to endure. A test of equanimity. I had thought that the night several nights ago was the bottom. But last night was a step further down.
When I had booked my room, I was so pleased. It was so cute. Looking onto the water. So many quaint touches: the canopy mosquito net, the bamboo hanging curtain for a bathroom door. I settled in for a comfortable night. Then the disco started down the road, celebrating International Woman's Day. My sinuses blocked up and I couldn't breathe. At all. I was forced to keep my mouth open, tense jaw, dry mouth. I had eaten a candy bar and was wired so I read my book to pass the time till I got sleepy. Then the man in the next room started to snore seriously. The classic log sawing. It was a long night. Somewere in the middle of it, I started to recognize all the opportunities I had missed: Why didn't I buy that menthol cream from the young man at the dock? Why didn't I ask the nurse for an antihistamine? It was crystal clear to me that my pride was my blind spot. That my righteousness, my incredibly stiff perfectionism was holding me back. Was actually causing me harm. Here I am, quite sick, spewing massive amounts of green snot for the past 3 days. I see a nurse about my aching ear and don't think to ask for drugs. This insistance on purity, on the natural way - where has it gotten me? Being so fixed on being good, doing the right thing. Here I am: sick as a dog, an aching hip, ear, nose. This perfectionism has not made me perfect. Just stiff. Despite believing philosophically in accepting what is, I continue to crave comfort and well being.
And so. a long sleepless night. An ongoing humbling journey. My self image of strong and capable has been eroded. How can I care for others when I can't care for me?
It is the next day. I sit in the boat. I am in the very last seat. Seems fitting. It is a dark grey day. The spray comes up past my window. The locals look with fascination at the Costa Rican side of the river. They are building a highway on that side. All the trees have been cut down. The Nicaraguan side is still pristine tropical jungle. It starts to rain. I put on my rain jacket to keep dry from the spray. The boat slows to negotiate some rapids. The music is blaring. Then it speeds up. The music fades away.
What is a journey if not for self-reflection? Sometimes the edge needs to be pushed beyond the comfort zone to make for clarity. Well, I am definitely beyond my comfort zone. The experience has gone from pleasant holiday to something to endure. A test of equanimity. I had thought that the night several nights ago was the bottom. But last night was a step further down.
When I had booked my room, I was so pleased. It was so cute. Looking onto the water. So many quaint touches: the canopy mosquito net, the bamboo hanging curtain for a bathroom door. I settled in for a comfortable night. Then the disco started down the road, celebrating International Woman's Day. My sinuses blocked up and I couldn't breathe. At all. I was forced to keep my mouth open, tense jaw, dry mouth. I had eaten a candy bar and was wired so I read my book to pass the time till I got sleepy. Then the man in the next room started to snore seriously. The classic log sawing. It was a long night. Somewere in the middle of it, I started to recognize all the opportunities I had missed: Why didn't I buy that menthol cream from the young man at the dock? Why didn't I ask the nurse for an antihistamine? It was crystal clear to me that my pride was my blind spot. That my righteousness, my incredibly stiff perfectionism was holding me back. Was actually causing me harm. Here I am, quite sick, spewing massive amounts of green snot for the past 3 days. I see a nurse about my aching ear and don't think to ask for drugs. This insistance on purity, on the natural way - where has it gotten me? Being so fixed on being good, doing the right thing. Here I am: sick as a dog, an aching hip, ear, nose. This perfectionism has not made me perfect. Just stiff. Despite believing philosophically in accepting what is, I continue to crave comfort and well being.
And so. a long sleepless night. An ongoing humbling journey. My self image of strong and capable has been eroded. How can I care for others when I can't care for me?
It is the next day. I sit in the boat. I am in the very last seat. Seems fitting. It is a dark grey day. The spray comes up past my window. The locals look with fascination at the Costa Rican side of the river. They are building a highway on that side. All the trees have been cut down. The Nicaraguan side is still pristine tropical jungle. It starts to rain. I put on my rain jacket to keep dry from the spray. The boat slows to negotiate some rapids. The music is blaring. Then it speeds up. The music fades away.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
rough night
12/03/06
What a night! I had tripped on a metal rod in the darkness and jolted my hip. My sinuses swole up and I couldn´t breathe. My mosquito ear was aching. The mosquitoes were brutal and it was one of those mosquito nets that fits tightly on the bed. Great to keep them out. Very hard to get in and out. And I would wake almost every 1 -2 hours with a full bladder. Finally on one of my bathroom trips, I stubbed my toe on the uneven floor. Lying in bed on the very comfortable bed, my awareness would jump from painful area to painful area. Really quite absurd.
Now it is morning. The monkeys are howling in the distance.
What a night! I had tripped on a metal rod in the darkness and jolted my hip. My sinuses swole up and I couldn´t breathe. My mosquito ear was aching. The mosquitoes were brutal and it was one of those mosquito nets that fits tightly on the bed. Great to keep them out. Very hard to get in and out. And I would wake almost every 1 -2 hours with a full bladder. Finally on one of my bathroom trips, I stubbed my toe on the uneven floor. Lying in bed on the very comfortable bed, my awareness would jump from painful area to painful area. Really quite absurd.
Now it is morning. The monkeys are howling in the distance.
grand river lodge
12/03/05
There are 12 thatch huts. Each has a basic raised wood structure with a porch and a concrete room in the back for toilet and shower. The back wall of the bathroom is only 7 feet high. There is an open space to the roof letting in light, wind and rain from the hills.In the room are 2 beds, a single and a double with decent new mattresses. Electricity from 8 am to 2 am but no fan. She will bring a mosquito net for me.
There is an older French man staying here. He has been here for 3 days now. He is happy to speak French with me as his Spanish is poor and his English is non-existent. He was traveling with a French couple until they came to Ometepe last week and said they were not going further. They had been traveling together for 5 months and so it was a bit of a shock for him to find himself suddenly alone. He has no guide book and no language skills. Must be interesting.
The owner, Marvin, arrives with an older American man. Marvin is 30 years old and very talkative. He speaks English, French, Italian and German besides his Spanish. He tells me he has been working on the cruise ships for the past 10 years and slowly building this place over the past 2. He only offically opened 5 months ago and is not known yet. The American is a Catholic priest that Marvin knows from the cruise ship. He was the ship chaplain for 8 years. He is now 83 years old. Marvin finally convinced him to visit Nicaragua and he is here for a week. He seems a bit overwhelmed.
Marvin takes us around to see his fruit trees. He gives us unripe guavas to eat. Frather Frank has never seen a banana tree before. M shows us the cocoa, the mangos , the papayas. He gives us coconuts to drink.
I am sitting in the shade beside one of the huts, the wind blowing on my back. Lunch was a nice fresh fish with the classic rice and beans, plantain chips and salad. Then M suggested hot water in the ear to help remove the mosquito. He wanted to put the water in the opposite ear. I guess he figured there was a direct connection between the 2 and that pouring in one ear would push out the mosquito from the other.
There are 12 thatch huts. Each has a basic raised wood structure with a porch and a concrete room in the back for toilet and shower. The back wall of the bathroom is only 7 feet high. There is an open space to the roof letting in light, wind and rain from the hills.In the room are 2 beds, a single and a double with decent new mattresses. Electricity from 8 am to 2 am but no fan. She will bring a mosquito net for me.
There is an older French man staying here. He has been here for 3 days now. He is happy to speak French with me as his Spanish is poor and his English is non-existent. He was traveling with a French couple until they came to Ometepe last week and said they were not going further. They had been traveling together for 5 months and so it was a bit of a shock for him to find himself suddenly alone. He has no guide book and no language skills. Must be interesting.
The owner, Marvin, arrives with an older American man. Marvin is 30 years old and very talkative. He speaks English, French, Italian and German besides his Spanish. He tells me he has been working on the cruise ships for the past 10 years and slowly building this place over the past 2. He only offically opened 5 months ago and is not known yet. The American is a Catholic priest that Marvin knows from the cruise ship. He was the ship chaplain for 8 years. He is now 83 years old. Marvin finally convinced him to visit Nicaragua and he is here for a week. He seems a bit overwhelmed.
Marvin takes us around to see his fruit trees. He gives us unripe guavas to eat. Frather Frank has never seen a banana tree before. M shows us the cocoa, the mangos , the papayas. He gives us coconuts to drink.
I am sitting in the shade beside one of the huts, the wind blowing on my back. Lunch was a nice fresh fish with the classic rice and beans, plantain chips and salad. Then M suggested hot water in the ear to help remove the mosquito. He wanted to put the water in the opposite ear. I guess he figured there was a direct connection between the 2 and that pouring in one ear would push out the mosquito from the other.
Monday, March 12, 2012
rio san juan
12/03/05
Like the Mekong river in southeast Asia, the Rio San Juan makes a good part of the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. In the 18th century,it was slated to be part of the crossing from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But politics gave the canal to Panama. The Americans wanted more control than the Nicaraguans would give them. There is no road access to towns beyond the first short section. Beyond, it is a water culture with boats connecting all the small farms and communities. I take the local collective boat from San Carlos. Last night I suddenly started a sore throat and by morning, my nose is stuffed up. Possibly from the endless fan on my face and body. Then as I woke, a mosquito flew in my ear. Half-asleep, I pushed it further in.. It buzzed for a bit and then stopped. But did not come out. It is either travelling down to my throat or stuck at my eardrum decomposing. Given all the above, I was not in the best of shape heading out this morning.
It is a small boat with an open roof and optional plastic sides for the rain. The boat is full and moves quickly thru the water. It stops along the way. Sometimes there is a wharf. Sometimes a mudbank. I see toucans flying by, a turtle lying on a log, lots of herons, ibis. A boy waits on a bank in high rubber boots. They drop me at Grand River Lodge. A long rickety boardwalk. The boat man helps me onto the boardwalk. I roll my little suitcase, bump bump bump. I see some wooden huts with thatch roofs up on a hill and take a side boardwalk towards them. A young woman comes to meet me and carries my suitcase the rest of the way.
Like the Mekong river in southeast Asia, the Rio San Juan makes a good part of the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. In the 18th century,it was slated to be part of the crossing from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But politics gave the canal to Panama. The Americans wanted more control than the Nicaraguans would give them. There is no road access to towns beyond the first short section. Beyond, it is a water culture with boats connecting all the small farms and communities. I take the local collective boat from San Carlos. Last night I suddenly started a sore throat and by morning, my nose is stuffed up. Possibly from the endless fan on my face and body. Then as I woke, a mosquito flew in my ear. Half-asleep, I pushed it further in.. It buzzed for a bit and then stopped. But did not come out. It is either travelling down to my throat or stuck at my eardrum decomposing. Given all the above, I was not in the best of shape heading out this morning.
It is a small boat with an open roof and optional plastic sides for the rain. The boat is full and moves quickly thru the water. It stops along the way. Sometimes there is a wharf. Sometimes a mudbank. I see toucans flying by, a turtle lying on a log, lots of herons, ibis. A boy waits on a bank in high rubber boots. They drop me at Grand River Lodge. A long rickety boardwalk. The boat man helps me onto the boardwalk. I roll my little suitcase, bump bump bump. I see some wooden huts with thatch roofs up on a hill and take a side boardwalk towards them. A young woman comes to meet me and carries my suitcase the rest of the way.
bizarre moments
12/03/03
A woman gets out of a taxi.She is wearing very tight jeans as per the norm here plus 6 inch spike heels. She waits on the curb as the taxi driver hauls out 2 huge gunnysacks packed with green mangos. She stands with her mangos waiting for the chicken bus.
I am on the packed chicken bus. My suitcase is somewhere behind me. I am happy to have found a seat. A well-dressed man moves to the front and starts preaching. He starts gently but is soon shouting in a hoarse voice, gesticulating wildly with his hands. The conductor is passing, collecting the fare. He hushes him as he passes him. He can´t hear the customers. The preacher stops for a moment and then continues. No one is looking at him. People are sleeping, talking. Loud tex mex music is blaring in the background.
But wait! He is pulling out some scissors. And silver rings. Keychains and toothbrushes. Now the people pay attention. I can´t resist. I buy a key chain. It is similar to the one I bought last year which lasted almost 8 months. Last year it was a palm tree bottle opener. This time, it is shaped like a horse with no other functions I can discern.
A woman gets out of a taxi.She is wearing very tight jeans as per the norm here plus 6 inch spike heels. She waits on the curb as the taxi driver hauls out 2 huge gunnysacks packed with green mangos. She stands with her mangos waiting for the chicken bus.
I am on the packed chicken bus. My suitcase is somewhere behind me. I am happy to have found a seat. A well-dressed man moves to the front and starts preaching. He starts gently but is soon shouting in a hoarse voice, gesticulating wildly with his hands. The conductor is passing, collecting the fare. He hushes him as he passes him. He can´t hear the customers. The preacher stops for a moment and then continues. No one is looking at him. People are sleeping, talking. Loud tex mex music is blaring in the background.
But wait! He is pulling out some scissors. And silver rings. Keychains and toothbrushes. Now the people pay attention. I can´t resist. I buy a key chain. It is similar to the one I bought last year which lasted almost 8 months. Last year it was a palm tree bottle opener. This time, it is shaped like a horse with no other functions I can discern.
juigalpa
12/03/03
I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane. I thought I would spend 2 nights here. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon is closed. The girl is in university class Friday afternoons.
So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone pilla (where they wash clothes). I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head. She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don,t bother. I am going on the bus. It will get blown out in a minute.
The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway- Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The señora gives me a good plate of beans and rice, local cheese and a little salad for $1.20. I buy tangerines, grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto to unknown territory.
I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane. I thought I would spend 2 nights here. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon is closed. The girl is in university class Friday afternoons.
So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone pilla (where they wash clothes). I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head. She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don,t bother. I am going on the bus. It will get blown out in a minute.
The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway- Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The señora gives me a good plate of beans and rice, local cheese and a little salad for $1.20. I buy tangerines, grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto to unknown territory.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
juigalpa
12/03/03
I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane. I thought I would spend 2 nights. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon, though was closed. Tthe girl is in university classes Friday afternoon. So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls. There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone basin where they wash the clothes. I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head.She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don't bother. I am going on the bus and it will all be blown out in a minute.
The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway. Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The senora gives me a great plate of beans and rice, local cheese and small salad for $1.20 I buy tangerines, a grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto unknown territory.
I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane. I thought I would spend 2 nights. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon, though was closed. Tthe girl is in university classes Friday afternoon. So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls. There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone basin where they wash the clothes. I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head.She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don't bother. I am going on the bus and it will all be blown out in a minute.
The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway. Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The senora gives me a great plate of beans and rice, local cheese and small salad for $1.20 I buy tangerines, a grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto unknown territory.
Friday, March 2, 2012
back to the mainland
12/03/01
The waves were very rough outside my window at five this morning. I went out to look at the ocean down below my balcony and remembered the ferry crossing last year. I can feel the queaziness rising. I am taking the plane, I decided. At 7 I was outside looking for a taxi to take me to the airport. Perhaps I can get on a morning flight. It is a 20 minute flight to Bluefields. No taxi passing but the dueña´s door is open. I go in. She is in her hammack, drinking coffee and watching TV. She smiles and reassures me. She always takes the ferry to Bluefields. The wind is behind pushing. It is a good day to go. You will get there quicker, she says. Take the ferry.
I take the ferry. It is a smooth ride. We ride the blue waves that turn green as we approach the mainland. The waves did not push that hard, however. Still a 5 hour journey.
The waves were very rough outside my window at five this morning. I went out to look at the ocean down below my balcony and remembered the ferry crossing last year. I can feel the queaziness rising. I am taking the plane, I decided. At 7 I was outside looking for a taxi to take me to the airport. Perhaps I can get on a morning flight. It is a 20 minute flight to Bluefields. No taxi passing but the dueña´s door is open. I go in. She is in her hammack, drinking coffee and watching TV. She smiles and reassures me. She always takes the ferry to Bluefields. The wind is behind pushing. It is a good day to go. You will get there quicker, she says. Take the ferry.
I take the ferry. It is a smooth ride. We ride the blue waves that turn green as we approach the mainland. The waves did not push that hard, however. Still a 5 hour journey.
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