The Hidden World Behind The Iron Door

Trying to be as silent as a mouse, I crawl off my bunk bed and attempt to climb down the ladder. Feeling around with my feet in the dark, I step on the first rung of the ladder only to find my bunk mate's towel. Taking the next step I find the toes of my bunk mate's foot which shifts away in their sleep. 

Successfully making it to the ground in the dark, I find my way out of the doorway and to the bathroom down the corridor. Peering around on my late night walk, night owls sit and quietly chat to each other. Others, are merely glowing silhouettes as their faces stare deep into the screens of their handheld devices. Silently making it back onto my bunk, I lay on my back and listen to the ceiling fans. From years of never being turned off, the bearings have worn thin which emit the sounds and rhythms of an old train leaving the station. These are the sounds I fall asleep too.

Chet, Karen, and I are staying at a hostel in Granada Nicaragua called Oasis, and by daylight, it's a whole different world. Stepping off the colorful, colonial streets of Granada, most wouldn't even know of the world behind the iron gates. Like Diagon Alley, it's hidden from everyone's realm except those who travel.

Opening the iron gates, the busy street dissipates behind as the chess tiled floor opens up to deck chairs, hammocks, and high open ceilings with colonial archways. Sitting in the chairs are people of all ages from all over the world. Germany, Britain Africa, Australia, New Zealand, USA, and Canada to name a few countries. The walls are covered in murals - some abstract, some spray painted, some realistic. Different doors open up to different rooms. Many of them are dorms with ten beds such as where I sleep. It's more of a multi storied hotel with a hostel setting.

Walking back out onto the street, the iron door closes with a clang and a snap of the latch. With no sign hanging above the door, it blends in with the buildings around it once again closing it off to everyone but those who know it's whereabouts. 

Since my last post on Ometepe, I have a few more photos from to add. Also included are some photos from the Granada area. 

The highest lake in Central America atop Maderas Volcano

Sunset over the active volcano Concepción

Ojo de Agua - a refreshing pool/bath house

Tranquility

Heavy traffic

Just in case the volcano blows, head to the other side of the island...

Lake Nicaragua and volcano Maderas

Police pulled us over in this Tut Tut. The fin kept us straight at high speeds.

The majestic Granada Cathedral

All of the horse drawn carriages are sponsored by the cell phone company Movistar

The shaved ice man insisted that we all take a picture with him. It was all smiles until he told us the price of his shaved ice...

Chet's beyond excited for Easter

Punctuation Saved Lives But Pronunciation Avoids Misinformation

"Let's eat Grandma!"

"Let's eat, Grandma!"

Punctuation may help to save lives like in the case above, but correct word pronunciation helps to avoid misinformation. 

Walking down an uneven sidewalk in San Juan del Sur. A man in Sperry boat shoes, shorts, and a half unbuttoned shirt yells out to us.

"Hey! Zzwe have a private boat tour to a beach for twenty-five dollars!"

Accustomed to the taxi drivers and street vendors trying to vie for our attention, we usually try to avoid conversations with them. One look, or a hint of interest sets the hook. This will cause them to swarm like a school of fish around us, or they will follow us down the street. It's a relentless every day occurrence. It's part of how people operate business around Central America. 

So when the man in Sperrys gets our attention, the hook was set. Walking out of the building with a step that suggested salesman, he began selling us his boat tour. Listening to his thick accent I presume (maybe falsely) that he is originally from France. 

"Our boat tour is excellent! Much better zen going to Maderas beach with all of zee other tourists. Zzwe take a boat with a few other guests and go to a private beach!"

Determined to give us his sales pitch, he doesn't let us ask any questions.

"Along with zee tour, it includes beer, rum, and cocktails! Zzwe have a big bonfire on zee beach. Zee guests go and collect zee wood, while zzwe prepare a fresh dinner made with fresh feesh. It's zverry good and zzer is no one on zee beach."

He's talking so fast all Chet and I can do is nod our heads and mumble uhh-huhh. Karen has lost interest and walks a few feet away. 

The salesman in Sperrys continuing on and says, "Zzwe have zee bonfire as long as you want. Zzwe come back at sunset, seven pm, midnight, you choose. Last night zzwe had some Jamaicans and zzwe partied until midnight! You choose your fun!"

The salesman sensing that Chet and I have lost interest ups his sales pitch. 

"Remember zer is nobody else on zee beach. Just us! It's not like Maderas beach."

Leaning in close to us to regain our attention, he says, "and do you like sloots?"

He pauses to let us soak in what he just said before continuing on ecstatically. 

"Zair are sloots all over the beach! Zair are sloots everywhere!! You will see sloots all night! All around you!"

At this point all I'm saying to myself is "why is this guy being so derogatory towards women? And It's kind of rude saying this right in front of Karen. And yeah I like women but why does he have to call them sluts. And I thought there wasn't anyone on this beach." Chet and I give each other a look. 

Hitting the pinnacle of his speech, the salesman in Sperrys valiantly continues on like a knight unwilling to retreat. 

"You will have never seen so many sloots before! Zay are all right on the beach! Right in zee trees above you!! It's amazing!!"

At this point, Chet and I begin to realize that he isn't talking about sluts but he's talking about sloths. 

Finishing up his speech and seeing that he has lost our interest says, "all of zis for twenty-five dollars! Just let me know as soon as possible. I'll be right here."

So correct punctuation saves lives but correct pronunciation may save a sales pitch.

This morning we are hiking a volcano on Ometepe but here are some photos from the last few days. 

Hikes outside of San Juan del Sur

Views from above

An abandoned lighthouse

Sunsets

Bike taxi

"You want to ride?" Hopping on the bike, he probably had some second thoughts as I swerved a little out of control and almost hit the curb. I found out that the taxi bikes are hard to control with so much weight. "You are the first gringo to ride my bike..."

Nicaragua's biggest lake. The waves are almost surfable. 

Sunsets on the volcano

That One Time The Police Stopped Us Twice In Nicaragua

Walking the gravel path to the front gate, our taxi driver is waiting for us. The driver seeing us steps out of the car and introduces himself as Alex. Shaking his hand, he's clean cut and sharply dressed in black leather shoes, tight denim jeans, a pink polo, and large white sunglasses. Opening the trunk for us we put our dirty backpacks in his immaculate black trunk. 

"How do we get the boards on the car since there aren't racks?"

"I guess we just strap them to the roof the best we can."

"Lets do three straps just in case."

Putting the boards on the car, they immediately want to blow away due to the incessant strong winds. Karen handing us the straps, we begin strapping the boards to the car as best we can. Synching them tight, Chet grabs them and wiggles them around.

"They still aren't very secure."

"It's the best we are going to do. Besides, I don't think we are going to be going very fast since we're on a dirt road."

Looking at the boards I'm more worried that the case is going to break than about the boards flying off. We have shoved two boards into a bag that is supposed to hold one board snuggly. The seams are splitting and the material is tearing. The bag is fraying like an old burlap sack.

Stepping into the front seat, it's the nicest vehicle I've been in for at least six months. Unlike a majority of the other vehicles in Central America, there isn't one spec of dirt on the shiny white exterior. Tinted windows and air conditioning so cold I have goosebumps - I tell myself this is a luxury.

Making several attempts to turn around on the one lane road, our three point turn increases in number to a five point turn. Dodging a few potholes we make it to the main road. 

Alex says in Spanish, "where to?"

"Rivas."

"San Jaun del Sur is only a little bit more money and it's better and faster than taking the bus."

Chet, Karen, and I confer with one another for a minute.

"Okay, take us to San Jaun."

Unlike the other vehicles we've taken to get to Popoyo, we are making some headway. The car is actually moving fast enough that I'm worried a tire might pop on the large chunks of rock in the road. Hitting the speed of about 25kmph, the surfboard straps start buzzing. Alex gives me an annoyed expression and stops in the middle of the road. 

Opening the car door my goosebumps turn to sweat. My sunglasses become fogged over from the temperature difference. Readjusting the straps, we hop back in the car. Alex testing out the straps by accelerating the car seems satisfied. Making himself comfortable he puts his music on through the car stereo. The car stereo screen reads hip-hop and I can just make out the lyrics through the speakers - American rap music.

I turn around and give Karen a look saying "do you hear this, American hip-hop!" Hearing Coolio's famous and morbid rap song "Gangsta's Paradise" playing, I tell Alex "me gusta (I like)" since the three of us know the song. In doing so, he turns it up. Turning back to look at Karen, she shoots me a look of "why did you do that."

Through the stereo we hear bass and the lyrics. 

"Been spending most their lives, living in the Gangsta's paradise. Keep spending most our lives, living in the Gangsta's paradise..."

Passing signs that say 25kmph, I look at the speedometer that says 50kmph. We only slow down for potholes and to avoid rear ending motorcyclists. Passing the bus stop, gringos sit in the sun and stare at us while we leave them behind with a dust cloud. Thirty minutes later, the dirt road turns into miles of brick pavers. I lose track of the time as I daydream about why a road crew would lay brick patio pavers down instead of asphalt.

Speeding up and over a hill, located at the bottom is an orange cone in the middle of the road. A speed trap and a checkpoint. Caught red handed, the police officer waves us down. Pulling over to the side of the road, the officer has parked his motorcycle under the only tree with shade around. The motorcycle is an unmarked bike, nothing about it says police. Peering through Alex's rolled down window, the officer asks for what I presume is the license and registration. Alex fumbling around for the papers successfully finds one but not the other. Alex takes his wallet out and begins fingering through the large wad of red, yellow, and green bills. The officer continues to wave other traffic through and takes out his phone to text. Alex hops out of the car and opens the trunk to search for something. The officer board with texting walks over to Alex. Alex hands him a few bills from his wallet and hops back in the car. 

"Lo siento. Dinero. Dinero. Dinero (I'm sorry. Money. Money. Money)."

Leaning his seat back to make himself comfortable, he turns the music back on and we're speeding down the road again. Ten minutes later we come around a corner and a hundred yards ahead we see the familiar orange cones with two officers.

Alex looks at me and says sadly, "Es no mí dia (it's not my day)."

The officer waves us to the side of the road. Alex rolls down the window and shakes the officer's hand with a few bills in his hand. The officer waves us through like an air traffic controller and we are on our way back to San Juan. Staring out the window we pass some wooden carts pulled by ox. Spacing out, I laugh to myself about how Coolio's song seems to be the motif of our taxi ride.

"Been spending most their lives, living in the Gangsta's paradise. Keep spending most our lives, living in the Gangsta's paradise. Power and money, money and power..."

After the second checkpoint, we made it to San Juan del Sur without a problem. Chet having lived here for several months when he was younger doesn't recognize anything. A small village is now an upscale tourist town similar to Sayulita Meixo. Fully built up, it's eerily empty but is gearing up for holidays like Semana Santa. Here are some photos from the last few days. 

Chet walking the streets trying to find his old house

Our playful Dalmatian 

We decided to try and sell our boards with no luck sitting on the street 

"I can give you $300 for the surfboards and two chia lemonades," said the surf shop owner. Chet's response, "will you include food too?" It was a deal. 

An old shack at the wharf

Chet preparing mango for a salsa

Karen dicing cilantro

Mango Salsa

Roasted bell peppers

Mayo, lemon, and roasted bell pepper sauce

Fresh Mahi Mahi fish tacos with homemade tortillas


Iv'e been planning on starting a new type of post called "Characters" documenting the people that I meet. I believe that with anywhere you go, and with anything you do, the surrounding people or "characters" dictate an experience just as much as the surrounding environment. Naturally since I've been traveling with Karen and Chet I would start with them. I'm still thinking about how to go about writing it so it may take some time. Anyways, I want to include their perspective on traveling too - Chet and Karen's blog.

The Voyage for Propane and Offshore Winds Gone Bad

Hitting the kick starter several times with his foot, it was hard to hear the engine turn over in the roar of the wind gusting around 30 mph. Standing almost a foot smaller than me, the 200cc motorcycle even looked small for him. With his backpack resting on his chest, I hopped onto the back grabbing the seat handle with my right hand. Looking down I found the exhaust pipe to make sure I didn't burn my leg. My hiking boots rested near the exhaust, it was the first time I've really been thankful for lugging them around during the last six months. Picking up the empty propane take in my left hand, I did my best to place it in my lap without being too uncomfortable. I heard the the property manager's muffled voice through the wind.

"Are you ready? It's a little bit of a mission?"

"Yeah I guess so."

"It's a good thing that you ran out of propane for the stove today, cause if you ran out tomorrow they would have been closed."

"Yeah good thing."

The motorcycle bogging from the weight had a hard time pulling us up the gradual slopes of the washboard road. Seems to be the standard for most transportation in Nicaragua.

Making it to a flat section of road, we picked up a little speed. Headed directly into the wind, each gust felt like someone pressed the on button to a wind tunnel. During each gust, we leaned into the wind to try and counter balance the motorcycle. I gripped the propane tank and the motorcycle seat harder. 

Weaving around potholes, I heard a honk from behind and a second later, a motorcycle passed us. All that was left behind was a thick trail of dust and sand that we rode through. Coming from the other direction I'm bewildered by the family of four on another motorcycle. Two toddlers sitting on the gas tank, the husband driving and the mom on the back carrying an ice chest under one arm and a canvas bag under the other. The only person with a helmet was the man. 

While I think it's crazy and dangerous for the family of four to be on the motorcycle, I'm sure it was amusing for them and everyone else to see two gringos riding too small of a motorcycle. Let alone the biggest gringo riding on the back holding a propane tank.

My left side tired from holding the propane tank was beginning to shake like a faked smile held too long. Making it to the hardware store, I plopped the propane tank down, I hopped off as one of the attendants looked at us and laughs. The other attendant grabbed the propane tank and hands us a new one.

"It's kind of a mission huh."

"Yeah that wind is horrible."

"Yeah it's like this here a lot. This is the worst I've seen it for a year. At least they just grated the roads. And good thing it's not a muddy mess yet."

The property manager hopping onto the bike kicks the starter like a cowboy spurring a horse. As the engine kicked to life I hopped onto the back once again. Picking up the full propane tank, I mentally let out a groan as we rolled away. 

Here are some photos from the last few days. Due to the large inland lake, the Southern section of Nicaragua blows  offshore about 300 days a year. What they don't tell you is that it could blow so hard that it will white cap offshore.

Mornings with a view.

Popoyo perfection

The quiver is waiting

Since there isn't much to do in the wind, we get excited about the fruit truck that comes once a day. Karen is clearly excited

Our spoils

Prep time

Karen showing us how to make pasta from scratch

Noodles rolled and ready

Tamale pie, beans and rice

Heres whats cookin'. Recipes from thousands of miles away...

Update**

The Australian girls have now broken down three times since the last post but it wasn't their fault. Some guy was going to buy their Jeep so they went for a test drive. Popped a tire and twenty minutes later the spare. After the girls spent all day in town fixing it. They walk out the next morning to see that another tire went flat. In their words he was "driving like a madman." They saw him last pushing a motorcycle down the road that he said blew a carburetor when he was riding it. Said it wasn't his fault.

Read about getting to Popoyo and the Australian girls