Isn't travel glamorous?

I find that I don't generally write about travel unless it is to rant about terrible service or whine about buses. I am not alone; my friend ATK recently wrote a searing piece on the Frankfurt airport. But even though my trip home from Nicaragua was obviously booked by a sadist, and there will be no small amount of whining, I'd like to also celebrate the quirky, the cute, and the kind people I crossed paths with on my journey.

In booking my flight home I had to check with my parents to see how their schedule could coordinate with picking me up from the airport. (After a full year in Nicaragua I was not traveling particularly lightly and could not have managed public transit.) My parents informed me that they were leaving on vacation the week I was planning to come home and so I would have to leave the day after my birthday. Since my birthday ushered in a new level of ancientness it seemed only appropriate to go to bed at 9PM. I am mostly kidding; my flight was at 6AM and I wanted to be slightly coherent in the morning just in case something weird happened and I needed to be able to think. For example, on my trip to El Salvador my name was spelled wrong on the ticket and that caused a teensy bit of trouble at an ungodly hour.

As on all trips leaving a country for forever, I had carefully calculated my currency so that I would have minimal cordobas going home. In fact, I had slightly less than $20 which I thought would be enough to pay for my taxi (who last time had charged me $10). However, last time wasn't at three in the morning so the taxista charged me a full $20. Evidently I hadn't slept quite enough to be coherent because instead of just negotiating him down to the cordobas that I had, I handed him a $20...which meant that I was going to have to spend a bit on earrings and chocolates in the airport.

I hauled my luggage up to the counter where a man told me that not only did I have way too many bags but also that one of my bags was over 50lbs. (Note: Nicaraguans use pounds for some reason. Just so you know. Once my physical therapist asked me what I weighed and I was all proud of myself that I could do the conversion to kilograms in my head and he completely deflated me by asking, "Oh, but what's that in pounds?") Again, at 4:00 in the morning my logic escaped me and I blurted out something like, "ugh. credit card me." First note about lovely people: the man in line in front of me helped me heft my behemoth bags on the scale despite having two children and several bags to wrangle himself. It was very sweet. Second note: the man at the ticket counter booked me an exit row seat. I think he felt sorry for me having to lay down about $300 on luggage. Especially after I plaintively remarked, "That's like a whole 'nother flight home."

After being freed from my luggage I set off to liberate myself from my $17 in cordobas. First I bought a box of chocolates. I sadly didn't have quite enough money for two. So I bought a pair of super pretty earrings. The saleswoman looked me straight in the eye, smirked and handed me my change in all coins. If there's anything worse than having $3 left to spend, it's having it in the form of 40 heavy pieces of metal. I subjected the poor snack woman to my ire by buying a water with those coins. She actually did not react poorly, probably because I was using the Bolivian tactic of telling her that she would forgive me before I did something wrong. ("Me va a disculpar pero...") I'd never used it in Nicaragua before. They tend to rely on the opposite tactic of forgiving wrongdoing with a "No biggie." (No hay falla.) I wonder what their disparate methods for diffusing small conflicts implies?

Then I went through passport control where I had the same problem I have every time: describing my profession. In Bolivia, every professional is either a licenciado or ingeniero. I decided early on to say that I was an ingeniera forestal or forester. The Nicaraguan officers ALWAYS have a problem with this. I'm not sure if it's because the concept does not translate in Nicanol (I never hear anyone use the Lic. or Ing. title there) or if they know that the forestry trade is largely controlled by the Nica government so there's no way I could be involved, or because I'm a woman. Then the discussion reveals that I work in international development (another tricky concept) for a Catholic agency but no one can ever think of a job title for that, least of all me. Generally, they resort to writing down "missionary" which drives me nuts.

On the plane in my spacious exit row I was seated next to a Nicaraguan woman and her American boyfriend. As we took off, the Nica and I started crying. Me because it has been a weird year that didn't go very well and her because this had been her first time back in Nicaragua in 18 years and she was leaving her family behind again. This created a bond between us and she and her boyfriend shared with me some of the Nica treats they were carrying back. We ate corn cakes and rosquillas and drank terrible coffee. When we got our customs form the Nica wrote out a list of food items to declare that rivaled War and Peace for length. It made me seriously rethink my shopping choices; hibiscus flowers and chia and coconut oil would go way farther than rum and coffee. I also subtly cautionws her that she may not want to admit to everything.

We parted ways upon landing because I only had one hour between flights. An hour between flights is pretty standard except when you need to go through passport control and customs like we all did. Like I mentioned before, a sadist booked my flights. So I grabbed my three four-hundred pound bags and went to the customs line. At one point I must have looked confused (or been staring at someone blankly) because another traveler ahead of me in line asked me if I was ok. As I finally neared the customs official I noticed that I was behind the couple carrying every single Nicaraguan export. They, surprisingly, breezed through. Maybe they took my advice. I, however, found it very hard to describe my job without using words like farm, agriculture, and plants. As I saw the gleam in the officer's eyes that indicated that he had finally nabbed a dirty farm-going hippie and would subject me to a first-degree inspection and quarantine I blurted out in a last-ditch effort, "It's an office job! I've never even touched a cow!" Phew. He left me with a parting admonition not to hold my passport in my mouth because "Who knows what these officers have touched." Not a cow though. They haven't touched any cows.

The next officer started a friendly conversation and for some reason asked how many languages I spoke. He then gave me further directions in French. Luckily they were appropriate to my pidgin level. It is always so nice to have a friendly interaction with airport personnel. (I'm not being facetious or sarcastic. It really is the little things that can help you bear lugging 150 pounds of luggage around for hours.)

Next I dropped off my bags and got in line for security. At one point a TSA agent was shepherding a man through the line saying that his flight left in 30 minutes. I blurted out, "But mine leaves in 20!" She left him right behind me. I made it onto my plane and was immediately confronted by a shrieking three year old. Hysterical. And this another one of those friendly interactions: one of the flight attendants whisked the screaming banshee and his grandma away to the galley and fixed him a juice and somehow calmed the kidlet down. They returned to their seat where the little one sang the alphabet song for the entire flight. My favorite part was "vee, dubble-ubble, ex, why, zeeeeee."

Somehow the flight arrived 20 minutes early which was the only reason I had time to pee and get something to eat before my next flight. Because, yes, the sadist travel agent could not get me a direct flight from Miami to NY. Also let's take a moment to kvetch about how airlines don't provide food anymore. I mean I had prepared in advance but there are only so many linseed granola bars a girl can eat...especially without peanut butter.

And that's all. I made it home to NY safely with all my luggage and I send thank you to the guy who helped me lift my bags, the desk attendant who gave me an exit seat, the Nica couple who shared their food, the woman who worried about my mental state, the French-speaking customs agent, the child-whisperer flight attendant, and all the people who didn't stare at me as I stretched in the airport.

Little Corn Island -- bring on the fishes

After the trauma of the boatride, L and I split a gigantic, delicious but very, ahem, leisurely seafood dinner at Elsa's. I am used to the somewhat lax standard of customer service that exists in the Global South and it was brought to my attention that some Nicaragua restaurants serve gringo customers more slowly than Nicas because gringos are usually on vacation and less likely to complain but I don't think either of these factors was in play during our meal. Instead, it was an exaggerated introduction to "island time" which I think of as enforced leisure, a condition I do not enjoy when hungry. However, even though I whine, it is important to note that the food at Elsa's was fabulous: ample, simple, tasty, and full of coconut and garlic.

Some of the artwork at Elsa's

Then we retired to our leaky cabin. Although water could get in, air did not. After a hot, wet night (and not in a good way) I woke up at the crack of dawn and in my escape I discovered that I couldn't keep the door closed unless I locked it. Rather than walk along the beach to leave L to discover that she had been locked in, I was a good friend and read on the front porch. After paying for the room and checking out some less leaky hotel options we ate a delicious Nica style breakfast with a Caribbean twist. A typical Nica breakfast is rice and beans, cheese, tortilla, coffee, and maybe some egg. On the caribbean side, the tortilla is replaced with coconut bread and the rice is cooked in coconut oil (instead of vegetable oil). We worried only momentarily what the sudden influx of coconut might do to our digestive systems...totally worth it.

After switching to the lovely, tranquil, and dry Casa Iguana we dove right into vacation both literally and figuratively: swimming at the Casa's private beaches, drinking unlimited hot beverages and some cold ones, and reading and napping.

The view from our cabin's porch

A few highlights:
Island tour: Although a good portion of the island caters specifically to the comparatively rich, expat tourists, it is important to note that the maids and waiters and snorkel guides and shop owners and coconut bread makers also live on the island. One day we walked the entire island to check out the docks, the school,the baseball stadium, and some of the more hoity toity beaches.

Courtesy of LCBB. See: pina coladas.

Our taxi driver had informed us that the Bluefields team (from an Atlantic coast city) were in the baseball finals against Managua so I took a moment to check out the local talent. L was afraid that we were going to get beaned and die. (We didn't.) At the beach we practiced taking photos that minimized our bellies. I didn't know that this was a thing and was distressed to learn that for over thirty years I had not been using my other assets correctly on film. (Technically though I haven't had the assets or the belly for thirty years. Maybe 18 and 5 years respectively.)

Not getting the idea of a glamour shot

Piña coladas: to perfect our bellies we stopped for piña coladas at Little Corn Beach and Bungalow. They were the best piña coladas in the entire universe, and I don't even like piña coladas. We would have drunk more but we didn't have enough money. As it stood, L had to run to the hotel to get more cash...because I'm slow and was the teensiest bit drunk. BEST. EVER.

Massages: On one rainy day, L and I decided to treat ourselves to massages at the Karma Shack to get rid of the sore spots we still had from the boat ride. One gets surprisingly tense when hanging on for dear life in a panga. Not only did I get un-tensed but the lovely Leo filled me in on all the island gossip!

Patrick: One of the things that I talked over with Leo was travel reviews. I shared that I love to read the negative reviews on travel websites. The negative reviews, to me, truly reveal the character of the visitors. My favorites are the ones that criticize for ridiculous reasons: "None of the staff in this foreign country speak English" "There was a lizard in my room" "The sand was too sandy." In Nicaragua, I was lucky to live in a sweet two bedroom condo in a gated community...and I still had lizards in my house and scorpions in the laundry room and ants everywhere, and even sometimes cockroach visitors. So I was almost comforted to have a single "visitor" in our cabana who I named Patrick.

Ferguson: Since the island is so small we ran into our friend Rizdale everywhere. At first he introduced himself to us each time but eventually he figured out which of the blonde chicks we were. Although we recognized him at each appearance, we had some trouble remembering his name. I had recently read The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain in which he highlights the particular idiocy of Americans in foreign countries. A truly delightful satire, the characters decide to call every guide they hire by the same name: Ferguson. L, however, settled on the name Darwin.

Fishy fishy: Rizdale/Darwin invited us several times to go snorkeling and we jumped at the chance on the only sunny day of our trip. Evidently there is some competition between snorkel guides and they often stoop to poaching customers, particularly Rizdale's, so he was nervous that we would abandon him. Despite an attempt by a portly Ferguson we met up with Rizdale and some of the large ankled tourists and set out. We saw lobsters, coral, big fishes, little fishes, and stingrays. It was surprisingly wavy and the canckle ladies kept kicking me and I must have looked distressed because Rizdale swam with me for much of the outing, holding my hand and pointing to the exotic fauna. We saw three sharks! In the true spirit of competition, Rizdale inflated the number and size of the sharks that we had seen to every group that we encountered.

Our meeting place with Darwin

Post-snorkel, and post-dinner we gathered our courage and boarded the panga back to Big Corn. It was pretty painless except for one woman who fell out of the boat when disembarking. In the airport I wound up sitting next to a slightly drunk 50 year old expat who hinted very strongly that he would be willing to have some sort of friends with benefits relationship with me. He redeemed himself slightly when he said that he didn't think I could be older than 20 but ruined it all again when he voiced suspicion that I was a lesbian, citing that I was checking out some ladies. Honestly, I was looking at everyone trying to convey with my eyes that I needed to be rescued.

Vacation ended with a suspiciously cheap taxi ride home from the airport... it was inexpensive because we dropped off three other passengers before making it into Managua proper. I'm pretty sure the taxi ride took the same amount as the boat and flight home. And so ended my last vacation as an expat in Nicaragua.

Little Corn Island - "Terrifying boat rides, heavenly snorkeling, awesome storm, fishy fishy*"

When I was considering writing a post about my vacation to Little Corn Island I hesitated because I didn't think that it was a particularly interesting or outlandish trip. This just shows you that I've spent too much time in Latin America.

As my last week in Nicaragua snuck up on me I realized that I had three big trips that I wanted to go on: Somoto Canyon, Corn Island, and Rio San Juan. At first, I settled on Rio San Juan but the logistics were a little daunting, especially given my travel buddy's (L's) limited time frame. So L, who you may remember from our Matagalpa adventures, just went ahead and bought plane tickets to Corn Island. These are the types of friends you need: the kind that call and say, "Hey I just bought us tickets to a tropical island. Will you handle hotel reservations?"

Corn Island is actually two islands (Big and Little Corn) off the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua. The Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua, and in fact of much of Central America, was under British rule until the very late 1800s. Home to many indigenous groups and a haven for shipwrecked sailors and escaped Caribbean slaves, the area has evolved into an interesting amalgam of cultures and languages, a mixture that caused L and I a teensy bit of politically correct angst. Do we say "Buenas"? Or "Hello"? Or do we try to learn some Garifuna or Miskito? Should we racially profile or let someone else say "Hey there" first?**


But I get ahead of myself. Not only are the islands politically isolated but they are geographically remote. Arriving over land requires a 12 hour bus ride and an 8 hour boat ride, that was described to me as "only worth it so that you can say you've done it." So L and I found ourselves in the La Costena airport terminal. We had been told by the check-in guy that we couldn't go through security for another twenty minutes so we were leaning up against a wall near the check-in desk where it was sort-of air conditioned (instead of outside in the scorching heat with the other tourists) when a woman came up and asked why we didn't go through security. She said, with an unspoken "you idiots"  that there were seats and beer on the other side. So we went through to find seats and beer and some surprisingly thick-legged young tourists. (I am not trying to be mean. I have never seen such a concentration of cankles. It was fascinating!) An hour flight later we found ourselves sitting in a seaside restaurant on big Corn Island eating conch and waiting for our panga (motor boat) to Little Corn.

See the boat with all the people? That's the kind we took

I had read somewhere that the seats in the back of the boat were ideal for those who are prone to seasickness so L and I snagged seats in the way back row behind the driver. I'm not sure if you've ever been on a Latin American bus where they pack thousands of people on and just when you think someone will fall out of a window they add a few more people but evidently panga travel relies on the same basic principle. In the back row with us were two women with children, two men sitting on the edge of the boat, two huge barrels of gas, several packages,the driver and his two assistants. Just when I thought we were ready to go a 50 year old woman got on and stood behind the driver, hugging him for balance. And while the back wasn't too seasicky, my source failed to mention an important caveat: the wetness factor.

Every single wave that hit the boat doused us in salty wet goodness. And there were some big ass waves slapping us down. At one point there was a fish in the boat. The guys sitting on the side of the boat (and pretty much sitting on us) didn't seem too concerned and broke open a six pack. Later, L confessed that it was their nonchalance that convinced her that maybe this was normal and we would in fact survive. We arrived and dragged our sopping wet selves onto the dock where I noticed that no one who sat in front of the driver was wet at all. Lesson learned.

The view from the dock

On the dock several of the hotel proprietors were meeting their customers. While I am a spectacular person and a spiffy dresser I had sort of failed at holding up my end of the making hotel reservations bargain. So I latched onto this man who said that he could guide us to the other side of the island. He pointed out all of his relatives' hotels and restaurants and left us at a grouping of rasta-painted huts where he implored us to remember him if we wanted to go snorkeling. "My name is Rizdale. My mom is right next door. You want to snorkel you ask for Rizdale***."

And so began a rainy few days of stuffing ourselves on seafood, swimming, napping, and wandering around the tiny island. I'll get to it in a separate post...don't want to tax your brains with all the reading

*A direct quote from L
**If you want a prettier description read the damn Washington Post
***Not this guy

Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life

EDIT: My classmate saw that I had linked to her page and enacted a Facebook war. I had taken this post down to avoid her ire and because I generally don't write snark but I think I'm ok with her fiery wrath.

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A classmate of mine from elementary school has just started a blog detailing her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life*. Consumed with jealously that she’s getting so many hits despite completely uninteresting stories with an undeniably bitchy tone, I have decided to illuminate my readers on my own dating horror stories.

This is not the first time that I’ve delved into this realm. Please allow me a moment of shameless self-promotion to point you to my James Bond versus Indiana Jones dateability ranking, a discussion of the term “winter boyfriend,” and my short-lived blog where I faked Missed Connections and wrote about the hilarity that ensued.

So here's my story: In the interest of personal safety women do not typically reveal specifically where they live or work on dates. Makes sense. A first date is still a potentially crazy person who you don’t want showing up at the office or your apartment. Keep this in mind.

When I lived in NY I belonged to OKCupid**, a free online dating service that attracts people who are slightly less desperate than eHarmony users. The fact that I wear glasses and use full sentences generally weeds out some of the less savory characters. But then came Ediz***. He was Turkish, self-employed, living in Astoria and working in midtown. We met for Tuesday happy hour at a lounge in my neighborhood. Lounges are at best a little creepy but this one was creepier than most. Let me elaborate: The seating was the saggy type of sofa where you have no choice but to basically sit on the person you’re with. All of the cocktails had names like “tie me to the bedpost” or “jealous bitch” or “sex on the sofa.” The lighting was provided by colored bulbs and scented candles. And the bartender inappropriately suggested that my date get me drunk to take advantage of me.

So I maintained my distance from the man who thought this might be somehow romantic or classy. I sat far from him and mentioned several times that since it was a Tuesday I would have to leave early for work, in an undisclosed location. But then Ediz said…

“You work in Central Park right? I’ve seen you around. And then I recognized you on OKCupid”

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

Evidently Ediz was a pedicabber in Central Park and had seen me driving around in my sweet Parks Department Prius. Now my baseline state is road-ragey and I had a particular grudge against pedicabbers so I immediately wondered if I had run over a friend of his and he was enacting revenge.

I don’t recall much of the date except for his endless efforts to get me to drink more. He was really putting the pressure on and I was continuously and obviously resisting, avoiding, and literally drawing away from him. I even moved to an entirely different couch.

When I was finally able to leave he offered to walk me home. “No thanks” I said, “It’s not far.” He said he really wanted to see where I lived. I politely refused again. It was a surprisingly prolonged discussion. It seems that men aren’t really aware of the “don’t let a potential stalker know where you live” rule. Although I suppose you couldn’t be a potential stalker if you didn’t force the issue.

And despite all indications that I had no interest in him, Ediz tried to kiss me. I pulled some serious Matrix-level shit to avoid that. I am not joking. I had no idea I was that flexible.

Just. like. this.

Before you tell me that I overreacted and I didn’t give this guy a chance… my gut was right. He called and texted and emailed me incessantly for months. I was so so very glad that he also didn’t know where I lived because I have no doubt that he would have showed up on my doorstep. We have rules for a reason people.

And next I tell you about the time I invited a guy back to my place to “look at my new hockey skates.”

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*It’s only fair to

link to it but don’t click on the link because I can’t bear for her to have more viewers.

**Ok I still belong to OkCupid, even though there are all of 5 people who live in Managua

***Name changed to protect the no good, horrible dates. Ediz is a real Turkish name which means "high" which cracks me up for some reason. Yes I Googled

Turkish names. This is nothing if not a well-researched piece. 

shake, rattle and escape to Matagalpa

As an East Coast kid, I haven't really dealt with earthquakes much. During the great DC Earthquake of August 2011 I fell off my bike but I did not attribute it to any sort of geological reshuffling.

My first earthquake in Nicaragua was a pretty mild, middle of the night situation. Generally at 0-dark-30 my most intelligent thoughts range somewhere around "faummmmmmphhhrggggouifwau" but in this case I somehow came to a conclusion that there was monster under my bed shaking it. I rolled over and went back to sleep. My second earthquake happened one hungover morning during a conference. Similarly, my most intelligent hangover thoughts range somewhere around "dhaummmmmmphhhrggggouifgh." This time, however, the Nica gentleman sitting next to me grabbed my arm and yelled "Was that an earthquake!?" It turns out that he too was an East Coast (of Nicaragua) kid. So we all walked out of the big cement building that might fall on us to stand in the sun right next to the big cement building that might fall on us.

Here I think it might be helpful to explain the different gradations of earthquakes. The English language doesn't really distinguish much between little tiny earthquakes and big destructive ones. Spanish is more specific: a temblor or sismo versus a terremoto. This is only important if, while living in a city that was destroyed in a giant earthquake, you tell your coworkers that you dreamt there was a terremoto and they begin to fear your wrath or predictive abilities.... when you really dreamt that like a couple of lawn chairs fell over in a giant field. The intensity of an earthquake is in fact determined by their strength on the Richter scale (a 3 is like a truck driving by), their depth, their proximity, and their duration. The two temblores I had experienced were pretty deep, pretty close 4s lasting about 5 seconds or less.

The fault lines under Managua. Scary no?

About two weeks letter I was chilling in French class (yes I'm learning French in a Spanish speaking country) when there was some significant shaking and all the lights went out. It was a pretty shallow, pretty close 6 lasting about 6 seconds. People in Managua are trained to run out of the building as soon as an earthquake happens. If you live in a place with pretty sturdy infrastructure this wouldn't be your first move, but we all went outside until everyone was accounted for and told to go home. Recognizing that a post-earthquake commute with no electricity would be difficult to say the least, I hunkered down, took a potty break, ate some oreos, and waited until the lights came back on. It still took me two hours to get home.

For the next week the earth shook from time to time, including two other 6s resulting in a sleep-deprived, antsy, and nauseated Lenni (earthquake motion sickness is a thing. really.) I was not alone in this condition. My boss called me to say that she was leaving town with her family and that I should either come with her or sleep at her one-story house instead of in my two-story deathtrap. I thought she was overreacting but after a night that just felt full of bad mojo (even though nothing shook) my friend L and I decided to kick out my couchsurfer (Sorry Ludwig!) and escape to Matagalpa.

In case you care, we had planned this trip earlier because during Semana Santa (Holy Week) everyone and their mother goes to the beach and we, being contrary, decided to head for the hills. We just left earlier than planned.

Anyhoo, Matagalpa is a town in the "highlands" where it is cool, walkable, and geologically stable. Because of the holiday everything was closed but L and I were really only there to read, sleep, and eat without shaking. We stayed in town at La Buena Onda for two nights and somehow lucked into the coolest roomies ever: an Irish volunteer, an American Fulbright scholar, and a Canadian long-term backpacker who all, like us, had decided to escape earthquakes and crazy beach tourists.

We rolled in a pack for a day having lengthy political and philisophical discussions and then headed up to Selva Negra where L and I had reservations for another two nights. Selva Negra is a coffee farm run by some 3rd generation German immigrants. It has lots of hiking trails, farm tours, and a restaurant serving up German beer, homemade cheese, and organic veggies. It was fabu. Again we didn't do much besides read, eat, sleep, and hike so I'll just share some pictures after this one story.

One evening it was pretty cold and I asked the waiter if he knew how to make a hot toddy. He said no, even after I explained the ingredients, and so I ordered a tea with lemon. Only after finishing the tea did I realize that I could have just ordered the tea and a whisky and made the darn thing myself.

All pictures courtesy of the lovely L. You steal them you die.

We're still not sure what this is. A Coffee dryer? But doesn't it look pretty?

The chapel on the grounds

Visitors from all over the world...including New Haven!

I have an interlude with a tree

The view of Matagalpa from the ridge

San Juan del Sur - lobstahs and all

I wrote this in March. Sorry about that.

I realize I have only lived in Nicaragua for six months but as an expatriate I often resent being treated as a moneybags or, worse, a gringa backpacker. Both of these stereotypes are in force in the beach town San Juan del Sur but I braved them to spend some time with a Peace Corps buddy down to do a practicum for her Master's program.


Some of the fun in any new place is figuring out transportation. In Managua I drive or use a taxi driver from a nearby hotel. "O" charges more than a normal taxi but he knows where I live (which, if you've ever given directions in Managua generally or to my house specifically, is super important) and he's friendly and super reliable. So I called him on Friday night to so that I could catch the one and only Saturday express bus to SJDS at 9:30. Even though O called me at 7:30AM to confirm he showed up late due to some location confusion and I missed the express bus. Instead, I had to take an express to Rivas and figure out the last leg when I arrived. (I still adore O. On one recent trip to the airport he answered all my nerdy questions about city government and neighborhood borders and Managuan history. In this instance, he made sure I had only the money necessary for the bus at the ready so that I could safely stow my wallet.)

Express is a bit of an exaggeration. Although it had no designated stops people still got off (and on) at random locations along the route. The getting on was particularly amusing. The bus had an attendant who would jump off, rustle up some people - usually backpackers - and basically push them running onto the bus as it sped up again. Several times I saw him actually grab a future passenger's ass for more purchase. I imagine this would be particularly disconcerting to unsuspecting tourists who are unfamiliar with Nicaragua's bus routes and rather lax ideas toward personal space. But I also imagine that if you turned around and slapped him you would miss your bus. Anyhoo, after about the fourth stop I looked at my Nica seat mate - a complete stranger - and we said at the exact same time "This is express?"

For some reason I was the only one to get off at the crossroads to San Juan del Sur instead of the Rivas bus station. I wasn't too pleased with this development because it meant that I had no leverage to bargain for a taxi. I was alone and stuck and the taxistas told me that there were NO collectivos (or mini buses) to get the rest of the way.  I did bargain them down $3 and hopped in a taxi with a guy with a twitch. That's really all I remember about him.

I arrived to San Juan del Sur, a party town/tourist trap on the Pacific coat at about lunch time. After dropping off my stuff at the hostel and seeing a text from my friend L that said "leave for Romanso at 10" I decided to get lunch and figure out what Romanso was and how to get there. At lunch I was sitting next to a couple of tourists from Germany and the Netherlands and after interrupting their conversation several times I asked to join them. They very much enjoyed their food while I thought that for an arm and a leg it relied too much on dressing. After the meal, the Dutch woman gave out toothpicks which I turned down politely. I am not a toothpick person and who knows where they were stowed in her bag*.

It turns out Remanso, spelled with an E. is a beach about 6k out of town and the only way to get there is a $10 taxi with no guarantee that I'd find my friends. I gambled on it. The taxi driver was a little startled when I told him I didn't need a ride back. I didn't see my friends at the bar so I assumed they were in the water surfing. I went to the shore and waved and yelled a bit at people who turned out not to be my friends and then decided to just go for a swim before worrying about how to get back into town. After about a half hour I thought I saw my buddy T. It was a little awkward because she was far away and in a bikini and I wasn't sure how to stare/get closer without creeping out this potential stranger. Anyhoo she seemed to shocked to see me just roll up on the beach by myself**.

It was all pretty tranquilo. I bought a beer so that I had access to the only bathroom for miles; read a bit; swam a bit more; and fell into a hole in the ocean and cut my foot open on what felt like a rusty shopping cart***.  Post-swimming/surfing we went back to the hotel for some cocktails and appetizers before venturing out for ridiculously cheap lobster tails and beer and ice cream.

The ice cream store was an experience. Filled with loud, semi-drunk Americans who didn't speak any Spanish the scooper guy was very plainly fed up with everyone. He slopped some chocolate ice  cream on my cone in a particularly precarious manner while rolling his eyes and cursing under his breath. I had to eat it leaning way over with legs spread wide to avoid spilling it all over my dress. It was delicious despite his scorn and derision.

Post-ice cream there was some drinking and dancing. I tried to get into the spirit of drunken party beach town but I went to bed around midnight. (This is not to say that I didn't enjoy myself. Just that I went to bed early****) The next morning I met the girls for breakfast, ie two for one margaritas on the beach before heading back to Managua.

I got some very conflicting reports on how to get back to Managua and even to Rivas so I decided to take a cab from San Juan to Rivas and catch the bus there. I bargained this guy down $5 and we set off. He asked me the normal questions like "Where you from? How old are you? Are you married? Have kids?" Knowing that this interrogation was coming I decided to lie about my age to make it seem slightly more acceptable that I'm single and childless. I decided to tell the taxista that I'm 25. Then he asked me how old I thought he was. Forgetting that I had lied about my age I said "Oh. About my age I guess." He was indeed 32. When he dropped me off at Rivas I asked some of the ladies selling refresco what time the bus would arrive and they told me that it would arrive from San Juan del Sur in about 15 minutes. I had basically just paid $10 to be propositioned... and to have a little extra time to pee and buy a candy bar.

The bus showed up right on time. I've written about bus travel in Bolivia but Nica buses are considerable more tightly packed and uncomfortable. Luckily the margarita breakfasts had primed me to fall asleep pretty much when my butt hit the ridiculously uncomfortable seat. I woke up just in time for a brief conversation with an attractive man who informed me that "Getting a tan is mind over matter, you wouldn't have to look like a lobster all the time if you really believed in yourself."

I should just believe!!!

That's all folks.

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*later that afternoon my friend T pointed out some Spinach in my teeth. Dutch girl should have been less subtle.
**later that evening L drunkenly told me that one of things that she loved about me was that I could figure shit out.
***Don't worry Mom. Got a tetanus booster in September 2013.
****The current discussion with my group of girlfriends is how I want to be a little old man when I grow up. I will wear cardigans and sit in the plaza playing dominoes and drinking homemade rum before going to bed early. This isn't the first time I've expressed this in Lenni's blog.

Valentine's Day in a Nicaraguan jail

A slip of paper wedged into the door handle of the closed police station read"El taxero es numero uno." I, however, was number thirteen and jealous of the taxi driver's genius. While I stood on line in the sun, he went to buy breakfast and then sat in his cab eating while reading the newspaper and listening to classic baladas.

How did we get here you ask? I don't know about taxero numero uno but at 5PM on Valentine's Day I backed into a (different) taxi in a gas station. I was going at a glacial pace but since I was driving a tank and he a microwave there was a little damage to his car.

As the taxi driver ran around the gas station telling everyone "I honked!" I totally cried and called my office.

As far as I'm aware, in the States we would have just exchanged insurance information and maybe called the police for a report. The system in Nicaragua, I suppose, is somewhat similar. My office called the insurance guy and the transit police who both arrived on scene...after an hour or so. The insurance adjuster took a statement and several pictures. I found it telling that the taxista had already met him before, having had several previous accidents...many of them in gas stations.

The policeman who showed up was evidently the wrong cop (?) so we had to wait for a new one. The new one had forgotten most of his supplies. He needed a clean white sheet of paper and a ruler to draw a diagram of our cars and their placements relative to each other and to the pumps.

They actually measured.

In situations like this you are not to move your car post-impact so that the diagram and measurements can be absolutely accurate. As you can imagine this makes it a little hazardous when accidents happen on the highway or involve pedestrians. 

Then we got all of our documents copied in triplicate. Luckily there was a copy shop across from the gas station and I had small change. The cop kept our drivers license and would have given us a form to tell us when to come pick them up but he had forgotten them. So we had to follow him (as he drove like a freaking maniac through rush hour traffic) to the police station which was hidden in Mercado Oriental, in a neighborhood I had been repeatedly warned against entering.

(No worries Mom, the office driver met me at the gas station, did the crazy driving to the police station, and made sure I knew what was going on.)

We sat there for a while comparing accident battle scars and sharing snacks until finally we got our paperwork back with an appointment at 8AM on Monday. The driver asked the taxista to arrive at 7:30 and we headed off. My driver asked if I didn't want to take advantage of his driving and go to the grocery store. I had a friend waiting for me at my house and I was going away for the weekend (and I'm slow on the uptake) so I emphatically said that I did NOT want to go to the grocery store. It wasn't until we stopped at the grocery store did I realize that the driver needed to buy dinner because it was 7:30PM on Valentine's Day and his wife had asked him to pick up something.

Then I dropped off my driver in his neighborhood where he told me in the same breath that "no worries this neighborhood is safe" but that I couldn't drop him off anywhere but right in front of his house because he "might get assaulted and robbed."

I drove home, had a romaaaaantic dinner at the mall with a Peace Corps buddy, and had a great weekend at the beach with her and three other peeps...and then returned to face the music at the police station Monday morning.

I was naive enough to think that our 8AM appointment card meant that everyone had a distinct time to sign paperwork and get their documents back. But the driver and I arrived at 7:30 to find a line already forming outside of the transit office. Not because people were afraid of missing their appointment but because everyone who had had an accident or traffic infraction in that part of the city over the entire weekend were to arrive at 8AM.

Except for the taxi driver involved in my incident. He was not there.

The office opened at 8:30 and as we walked in we were handed a number. I was lucky number 13. The 10x20ft room was packed with about 50 people (and five chairs). At least there was good ventilation. It seemed like a surprisingly friendly place as people involved in the same accident reunited, often greeting each other like long lost friends. My taxista finally arrived bearing number 45 and out of the warmness of my heart I invited him to share my number. We were called into another room where the office driver was quickly kicked out and I signed a document agreeing that the accident was my fault. The taxista was given his license back and told where to pay to get his accident report for insurance claims and was out of there like a shot. I was told that I had to pay a fine according to Ley 431 and bring the receipt back before I could pick up my license. (Looking it up later, it seems I had gotten in trouble for driving backwards in a public right of way. Which is ridiculous because it was a gas station and I was trying to change sides of the pump.)

We went back to my car where we found that one of the taillights had been popped out. The driver was so furious that he almost ran over a guy who was way too stoned to get out of the way. He was not way too stoned however not to harrass us by blowing kisses.

We drove like maniacs to the bank (which wasn't the one I thought the policewoman said to go to) but I didn't have my passport and therefore couldn't pay the bill. The driver obligingly paid for me (with my money). Then we went back to the police station where I jumped the line waving around my receipt and got my license back! YAY!

Next time "la chela es numero uno." Although I really hope there won't be a next time.

ALL the words!

Once upon a time (summer 2013) in a land far, far away (Santa Cruz, Bolivia) I commented to a friend (A) that I was thinking of signing up for an advanced Spanish class to smooth out my remaining grammatical errors. A said "Why? You know plenty of words." to which I indignantly responded, "I want to know ALL the words!"

As a good little language learner I keep a continuous list of new vocabulary. Since I just finished a notebook, I thought I would share some with you.

From the time I was reading the Safety and Security Manual:
pernocte - overnight
hostigamiento - harrassment
abolladuras - dents
fechorias - misdeeds
semovientes - livestock
escombros - debris
abrumadora - overwhelming
saque partido - take advantage

From the passion fruit report:
hito - milestone
deschupona - suckers (as in the coppice sense)

From our biannual staff meeting:
destreza - dexterity
hambruna - famine
pericia - expertise
cherepo - the loudly chirping lizard living outside my hotel room

From the painful audit that I didn't have the level of vocabulary necessary to translate for even though that was my main involvement:
cotizacion - bids, quotes
comprabantes - vouchers
delinquent account - saldo vencido (and totally not saldo delinquente which connotes little car-stealing, smoking in the bathroom accounts)

From the thousand interviews we had dealing with the milk/meat value chain:
pichinga - big container (this word only exists in Nicaragua)
arancel - tarriff
novillo - steer
pauta - pattern
ubre - udder (my favoritest new word)
pugna - conflict
potrero - paddock
errar - to brand
parida - calving
reductasa - reductaze (had to look that one up in English too)

From driving around:
marginal - service road
timon - steering wheel
desnivel - ramp
saca la lengua - to use blinker (or what you yell when someone doesn't use their indicator)
fulano - someone  you don't know (ie, The guy on the bus said...)
deacachimba - awesome (strong. not for polite company)
tuanis - awesome
chocho - awesome

This is fairly standard practice. Comparing notes with our guide at Mombacho, he totally whipped out his own vocab list. Really.

I'd have to a whole book for slang.

Introverted in Granada

This weekend I escaped to Granada. I didn't invite anyone to come with me. I just packed up and left.

On Friday I called ahead to reserve a room at Hostal El Momento (no small feat as it turns out). Went for a run. Went to the gym to work on my arms (I have seen no discernible impact). Had some housekeeper-made dinner. Watched Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights (swoon. Diego Luna). Packed some clothes and some lunch. And then puked up my guts for a good two hours.  And all I could think was "I wonder what is happening here physiologically" and "Boy, I hope I get enough sleep to leave early tomorrow bright and shiny."

The first question was answered by this fantastic website (which also informed me that the ideal vomiting position is with your head below your waist which would indicate standing and bending over into the toilet) and the second doubt was allayed when I sprang out of bed at 6:30AM. Ok, I didn't spring but lurch but I was awake and hungry and that's what counts.  After breakfast and my typical Saturday morning conversation with my 12 year old gardener (the water pump is broken again and I bought the wrong type of fertilizer and no he's not really just 12.) I headed to VOLCANO MOMBACHO! woot!

The road to the trail heads are up a big hill (Obvis. It's a volcano pues.) so my Toyota toaster wouldn't be able to make it. Instead, tourists take a truck straight out of Jurassic Park which leaves at 8, 10, and 1 and is surprisingly punctual. After paying an arm and a leg for being a foreigner ($16!) I hopped on the 10AM shuttle About halfway up the volcano the shuttle stopped and the driver didn't really explain the purpose of the stop which led to some confusion. I stepped in to ask the driver what was going on and then had to tell everyone else (Nica and tourist alike) which then led the driver to enlist me in explaining to some Americans that they had to pay for their tickets which was super awkward. Anyhoo, the idea was to allow us to explore a coffee farm, get a free cup, and hopefully drop some bills on a snack at Cafe las Flores (a chain store which I am not afraid to admit is my go-to cafe because they have really good brownies and mediocre chai and because they're Rainforest Alliance certified).

Our chariot awaits

Cafe La Flores has a coffee farm complete with nursery and processing center on the volcano

COFFEE!

On the way back onto the truck I overheard an American woman say to her companion that they had to wait for another girl who had gone to the bathroom. I decided to befriend this woman immediately because as a solo lady traveler I am always in search of a bathroom-stop-looker-outer. It turns out that E, as she was named, and her colleague A work in Managua with a friend of mine from Peace Corps! (The bathroom girl is M.) Upon arriving at the Visitor Center, we endured a short introductory talk from the guides and some significant naysaying from an older German tourist lurking about. He was dressed like a stereotypical German hiker in some pretty technical gear and grousing about how cloudy it was and how we wouldn't be able to see anything and how he'd been waiting in the lodge since 8am for it to clear up. EMA and I, embracing the fact that we were in a cloud forest and that it's supposed to be cloudy, decided to spring for a guide anyway ($12/group in Spanish. slightly higher in English) to hike the El Tigrillo trail. (For your information, the volcano has three trails; Crater Trail is 1km, Puma is 4km and closed at the moment, and Tigrillo is probably 2km. The issue is that if you come up on the 10am shuttle you're supposed to go down on the 1:30 shuttle and I think they expect you to be very slow.)

And J, our guide, was fantastic. We ate plants, stuck our hands in weird holes in the ground, made fart jokes, learned all about ants, did NOT touch the huge spiny ferns, compared our vocabulary word lists, and had some absolutely spectacular views. Take that surly German tourist!

Take THAT surly German tourist! Take it!

A view of Laguna de Apoyo, my regular weekend haunt

Even my least stunning photo is still lovely

After returning to Granada, having the myriad of hostel rules explained to me, and taking a shower, I headed out to lunch (an overpriced burrito with a free jamaica margarita) and then to explore the city.

I started with the churches.

Granada cathedral

Iglesia La Merced

While I was up in the bell tower of La Merced, I realized what time it was and that I'd have to skedaddle quickly if I didn't want to go deaf. However stairs and I are still not friends and I started down very slowly. Seeing my hesitation, a Nica yelled in a perfect Rob Schneider "You can do it!"

The view from the bell tower

Another view from La Merced

Granada is small. When climbing the bell tower of La Merced I ran into a guy who I had seen earlier (and who creepily reminded me that he had seen me earlier). I also ran into EMA at La Casa de Los Leones, a cultural center with a radio station, violin workshop, art studios, and Esperanto classes. They had just come from the bookstore which was my next stop. Books are super expensive in Nicaragua and Lucha Libro, which sells used classic paperbacks for $4, is considered cheap. (It's a fantastic shop selling a wide range of new and used. They aggressively weed out mass market crap and the inflated costs are totally justifiable. Also, cute puppy in residence.) I bought a $7 copy of Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain and retired with it to dinner. Passing by all the lovely and exciting hubub that is the Calzada, the main drag for restaurants and bars, I ducked into Cafe los Suenos which was beautiful and tranquil and served the best veggie quiche I have ever had in all my life. Their salad dressing was also fabu.

I was in bed by 10.

I had planned to go on a kayak tour of Las Isletas on Sunday morning but when I woke up I decided that I didn't really feel like sweat or exercise of any kind. Also, the photos of the tour that the guy at the hostel showed me heavily featured monkeys which did not appeal to me. Instead I wandered over to Kathy's House of Waffles for some blueberry pancakes (!) and hot chocolate. It is a popular spot and they didn't want to waste a whole table on me so I said that I could totally make friends and I was plopped down with a pleasant older Nica couple and some American Habitat volunteers. They didn't talk to me so I immersed myself in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. (To be fair, the Nica couple told me that my pancakes looked delish and the Habitat ladies commended my choice of reading material.)

Post-breakfast I checked out the San Fransisco Convent and Museum. The church next door was having service and so I listened for a while from a rocking chair in the Museum terrace.

The lovely patio at the Convent

The display of giant heads at Convento San Francisco

And then I headed home to Managua to do my laundry, sip some chai, take a nap, and finish my French homework. My anti-social weekend was just so pleasant!

Bloggity blogs

Once upon a time (5 years ago) in a land far, far away (Bolivia), 103 random Americans worked as Peace Corps volunteers until they were evacuated.  Here is a selection of their blogs:

This is twenty seven months Except it wasn't really. Jacky waxes poetic, sometimes in Guarani.

T2Bolivia Who's last post is titled appropriately: "That was 22 months," months filled with vegetables and llamas

Bolivia44 For a sweet perspective on what it's like to be a married couple in the Corps. Erika of Mark-n-Erika has a new blog too. check the sidebar.

La Gringa Allison tells us all about how she drank with international chacarera stars. You may not be jealous but you should be.

Britta's Global Eyes Fantastic photos on this one. Ok, all the blogs have fantastic photos but these are super duper fantastic.

Fun with Tom and Anna Tom and Anna also write about thru-hiking the Appalachian trail to raise money for Heifer International

Anna's Bolivian Journal A different Anna. But just as cool.

Some of us went on to do Peace Corps in other locations. Like Tammy: Peace Corps Take 2: The Gambia

And some did Peace Corps again...and then drove all over South America selling ice cream: Una Buena Crazy

And as a bonus, another married couple blog but reporting from El Salvador: Y Otros Demonios

Basically, I'm cleaning out the sidebar of my blog so that I can add the adventures of my recent cohort of warm and fuzzy development workers and their warm and fuzzy significant others.

The city of lights: not Paris but Managua

The week before Christmas all of the Nicaragua staff in our office was on forced vacation. Evidently they hoard their vacation days and we must pillage them periodically. I, however, was able to "work" from home. As the quotes indicate, it was a light workload but I thought it would be particularly disingenous to leave Managua so my days of updating our website and translating documents were peppered with adventures around my newest city home.

In general, I am not huge fans of zoos. (Except for of course the National Zoo where I volunteered for a while. Shout out to my Beaver Valley peeps!) But it's a neat way to "meet" some of the local wildlife and see what sort of public environmental education is going down. So on Tuesday I headed to the Managua zoo, which as their own website* points out, has installations that "are simple and back-to-basic due to the tight budget under which the zoo operates." This means cement cages for the stressed-out big cats. For some reason, though, the tapirs had some pretty sweet digs. It seems like the zoo is expanding and, as it does so, improving the facilities. Here's hoping the exotic animals get upgraded soon.

In the past, I've nerded my way backstage at certain zoos and museums. This time was no different but considerably more accidental. As I was walking past the water buffalo enclosure I got to watch the staff remove one of the animals and start leading/pushing it somewhere. I slowly realized that perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to be near while there while they're moving the animals, a realization brought to a conclusion when I saw that they had roped off the entrance to the part of the zoo I was in...evidently before checking if anyone was there! Anyone like me! Trapped with a ferocious water buffalo!

It's ok, I stepped over the barrier, ate some tostones, and drove home.

One note: their English language website lies about the price. It is C$100 for foreign adults. This sort of thing causes me to morph into my alter-ego and crusade for justice. Seriously. I've done this before. Why should I pay more than a national?


On Wednesday evening, I was going a little stir-crazy so I checked Via Nica to see what sort of solo activities I could do. On the schedule was a showing at the Cinemateca Nacional so I headed on down. I arrived early and the guys were just watching a dvd of Inception. I know that that movie is supposed to be mind-boggling but it's even harder to follow in your second language. Then promptly at 6, and with only one other person in the theater they put on the feature film: a short series of vignettes centering around a Managua bus route. A small crowd arrived about 2/3 of the way through so when the movie ended they just showed it again.


On Thursday evening I went to a lovely Christmas concert at the church I semi-regularly attend. It was kind of like having a stroke though because they sang all the traditional songs but in Spanish. Of course, you say. But my brain rebelled a little.

Saturday morning, two days before flying home for Christmas, I realized I had bought no gifts, except for a bottle of rum from the supermarket. (Which is actually higher quality for less money so there.) So I headed to Mercardo Huembes. I had only been there once with my driving instructor and I vaguely remembered that we made a left somewhere past a traffic circle. I found the market, parked my car and wandered the labyrinth. It's a pretty standard market selling everything from soup to nuts to books to ball gowns and it has a pretty nice artesania section. I wandered around for an hour buying earrings and bananas and then wandered around for another hour looking for my car.

On Saturday evening, I had the pleasure of hosting a couchsurfer, and literal surfer, from Venezuela. After taking in the sights at the supermarket and mall, we headed to Puerto Salvador Allende for dinner. The Port is the most recent attempt to revitalize some sort of functioning downtown. Running along the shores of Lake Managau and painted in the neon pastels (is that a contradiction?) that are the unofficial colors of Nicaragua, it hosts several restaurants, bars, and playgrounds for the kidlets. (Oxford comma!) After a surprisingly gigantic and delicious seafood meal (which had some unfortunate consequences for me. Damn garlic.) We wandered out to see the Christmas lights and full-sized Nativities that line the Avenida Bolivar up to the giant Hugo Chavez head.

The now defunct but sparkly National Cathedral.

Totally not kidding about the giant Chavez.

Two note: you may want to do this activity earlier in the evening and not at 11PM like us. Our spidey-senses were tingling.

The next morning, because the garlic was still wreaking havoc on the delicate ecosystem that is my gastrointestinal tract, we headed to Laguna de Apoyo, one of my frequent haunts. The Laguna is a crater lake about 40 minutes outside of the city. It's technically a protected area but there are a couple of little hostels where you can hang out for a day for $5. We chose the one with free coffee (but more gringos and no credit cards) instead of the one with inner tubes and more chairs (but with music blaring).

The ubiquitous tourist feet photo.

Then we headed to Granada for dinner, lamented the condition of the horses pulling carriages, and hung out at the waterfront a bit before driving back to Managua.

I may have also gone to see Hunger Games a few times that week. Could be that I also went to buy some jeans.

Now that I'm back in Managua, I would still like to check out the National Arboretum, Huellas de Acahualinca (prehistoric footprints), and the municipal trash dump because some guy on the official Managua website said that "Hundreds of 'cheles' (although not all) from NGOS visit the area to produce photos of Nicaraguans in conditions of poverty and then use them to illustrate their promotional brochures." So I have to get on that bandwagon. Of course, this blurb comes from the same guy who highlighted all of the cockfighting arenas in the city.

Ometepe (again)

The first night on Ometepe, it rained with a vengeance and the wind was howling. The cob houses have tin roofs so it sounded a bit like a freight train but my biggest worry was that all my clothes hanging on the line would blow away by morning. To assuage your concerns, nothing blew away and it was surprisingly dry in the morning. Breakfast was french toast with fruit and real syrup (!) and underwhelming tea. (Do you think if I opened a tea shop in Nica it would make money? It could be like my pizza, pancake and pastrami themed restaurant slated to open in Bolivia when I ever get back there.)

I am not at my brightest or bestest in the mornings so I ignored MK and read while chewing. He had requested that we speak only in Spanish and for some reason that always annoys me. What can I say? I'm a grinch. Despite my best efforts MK still learned some by peppering me with grammar and vocabulary questions. Persistent kid and maybe easier than talking in Spanish because he said when I got going I spoke with a funny accent that was demonstrably not American. (possible example: Este tipito en allips esta con ch'aki nomasps.) Later, I apologized to MK for ignoring him but he pointed out that I ignored him every morning. Too true, young grasshopper.

Anyhoo MK and I had considered several options for Day 2: climb Maderas, hike to the San Ramon waterfall, kayak the River Istian, swim in the lake. It was too late to climb the volcano so we decided on the waterfall. We were told that if we drove it we could do the waterfall in the morning and I could kayak in the afternoon. Off we went. The waterfall is located above the San Ramon research station, which you can drive through. I, the nerd, wanted to walk through the station on the chance of seeing what sort of stuff they were up to. Also, the ticket seller said it was 3k, about an hour walk, and $1 versus 1k, 20 minutes, and $6.

The view from one-third of the way up.

I am the slowest hiker ever and I am still trying not to re-break myself but I think our pace was pretty standard. (A couple from the hostel that I affectionately referred to as "legs" hiked way faster. That can happen when just your legs are 1m long) The first two kilometers are up a steep road. At the top I stopped and ate some snacks. (My boss once commented that I would be a good mother because I always carry food. I suppose she could be right, but the snacks are for ME.) The last "kilometer", which is where the hike starts if you drive, is a mostly uphill walk with some riverbed scrambling. Nothing technical. Some long, steep, very sweaty hours post-arrival we arrived at the waterfall. And it was almost too cold up there to dip in!



The freezing cold Cascada San Ramon.



I think it might look colder in this pic.

On the way back down we ran into tons of people who all asked how much further it was. Somewhat perversely, MK told everyone "20 minutes." One small child (aged six, tops) took this very poorly and went on a prolonged rant about how awful MK was in particular "Que bruto ese gringo!", and how horrible gringos were in general. Complaints that were fairly political and specific to Nicaragua. His parents looked mortified and tried to shush him because it was obvious that I understood and was shocked (yet a little amused).

We were going to eat at the Biological Station but MK wanted the apparently phenomenal coffee at the Finca so we went back there. In total, the trip took 5 hours. Back at the ranch I ate a late lunch and just conked out. I know, I wasted my vacation with napping and reading. But it was too windy to kayak and my ankle was a teeny bit sore *whine*.

The next day, both MK and I had chocolate for breakfast and then headed back to Charco Verde to chill at the beach before our 2pm ferry. Once again I stayed in the water while MK bronzed himself. I would have read, I suppose, but my Kindle was dead so swimming "laps" it was. We had some lunch and I availed myself of the bathroom about three times before finally taking an Immodium and setting off for the ferry.


The second-best beach at Charco Verde

More trees. Sorry.

On the ferry back, I bonded with a woman over a dog chained up in the back of a pickup. She was telling her daughters that the dog was fine which I objected to. She explained that she recognized that the dog was patently not fine (the poor thing was shivering in a puddle) but that she didn't want her daughters to get worried. I dunno, I'd rather the girls be crusaders for the abused. Then the conversation veered to the windmill farm I saw, the high costs of energy in Nicaragua, and the fact that the first lady has erected several lit-up "trees of life" all over Managua. For a poorly translated article on the topic, see here.

Just for reference: the lit tree of which we spoke.

Once we arrived in San Jorge, MK congratulated me for a good road trip. Of course we had another two hours of driving to do. Returning to the city. At the end of a holiday weekend. In the dark. It was a little hairy. Especially the hilly part behind the trucks going 30kph. And somehow we went a different way than we had come. But we did discover a whole kilometer-stretch of garden stores! And the next day MK moved out*.

Hasta luegito Ometepe!

Stay tuned for my adventures at the Managua zoo!

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*It was his last weekend in Nicaragua. I'm not THAT horrible. He also apologized for pre-emptively congratulating me because that last stretch was probably the most stressful part for everyone involved. There was a considerable amount of yelling at traffic.