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

Dusty Roads, Nicaraguan Sun, And Australian Surf Chicas

"Chica blanca!! Chica blanca!!"

"Amigos!! Quieras un taxi, la buse es 4 horas!"

After we lugged our backpacks, surfboards and food for a week through the city of Rivas, the last thing I wanted to encounter were taxi drivers. Since we stood out in the crowd like peacocks, the taxi drivers swarmed us like flies at the bus terminal.

Rivas open air market

Rivas, a city where horse drawn wagons are still used and wheelbarrows still have wooden wheels.

The bus terminal in Rivas seems to be a hub for many of the other places in Nicaragua. Looking at the old U.S. International school buses painted brightly, covered in a thin layer of dust and outfitted with safari roof racks, they don the bus routes in fancy calligraphy. Managua. San Jaun. Grenada.

Since the bus terminal is a main hub, the Rivas open air market spills into the terminal along with street vendors selling toys, jewelry and baked goods. As the taxi drivers hound us, it seems that everyone with in eyesight is enjoying the circus taking place. Some of the street vendors take a break to watch and sit around us. Sitting down, one of the street vendors looks at me and gave me a look as if to say "I'm sorry."

The taxi drivers giving up on us, eventually left to find another potential prospect. After about fifteen minutes of waiting a man comes over and helps us get to our bus. Walking over we hand the bus attendant our luggage and he throws our backpacks and boards onto the roof racks with a loud thud. 

Chet looking at me says, "how much you want to bet our boards are going to be damaged?"

"I don't even want to think about it."

Climbing into the crowded bus, we were lucky enough to get seats. Squeezing into the well worn green vinyl seats, I try to make myself comfortable as my knees dig into the seat in front of me. I considered myself lucky as many of the seats had three to a seat. As the bus filled up, it was standing room only - it was more tightly packed than a dance club.

While the bus was waiting to depart, vendors flooded into the bus to try and sell their goods to last minute buyers. Since the bus was so tightly packed money and goods were fire lined back and forth between buyers and sellers. 

Fully loaded with people and goods, the bus stirred to life as we putted out of the terminal. Packed with buses trying to both leave and enter the terminal, we snaked our way along out to the main road. 

Hitting a pot hole caused the bus to rock making it clip the bus next to us. As if it were a common occurrence our bus continued on it's way only to stop for more people. More and more packed, the more and more sweaty everyone became. 

A long hour and a half down the gravel road, the bus stops as the glass Coca Cola bottles beneath our feet continue to clatter across the floor. The people around us murmur that this our destination. Funneling out of the bus, the attendant that has been sitting on the roof unloads our boards and bags. The bus driver with his gold fillings, white t-bucket hot rod shirt and gold chained necklace fixed with a cross pendant points to our next vehicle coming down the dusty road.

A van so sad looking that it looks as if it were going to lose parts with every pothole that it hit. Loading our luggage onto the racks, I pause to admire our chariot. No license plate, side panels so warped outwards the back hatch doesn't close, the tires are billowing off the rims from the weight of everything on and in the vehicle. 

Our golden chariot

Strolling around to look at the other side, there are 15 people in the van the size of a dodge caravan. Not seeing any room, Chet pokes his head out from inside and says, "there might be room on the roof..."

Looking up at the five people on the roof with all of the luggage, I look back and say "I guess so."

Climbing up the makeshift ladder, I sit down on a rice sack and make myself comfortable. The engine emitting crying noises drags us down the road while black smoke rich with the smell of oil is spewing out of the exhaust pipe. 

Lurching to a stop, we are told to hop off and we are handed our luggage. The van taking off at a snails pace down the road leaves us wondering where we are supposed to go. Finding a sign, someone says "it says down that way."

I ask Chet with a sly smile, "you want to carry the boards this time."

He gives me a look that says no but I guess so.

Lots of weight, hot, and dusty

With everything on our backs or under our arms, we begin walking down the hot dusty road. Too hot to continue on, we pause underneath a tree with the little shade it has to offer. 

"Where is this place."

"I don't know."

"I guess let's continue on, we'll find out."

Picking up our stuff we turn around and see an old Jeep wagon pull up. Dusty, rusty, velvet interior, cattle guard on the front, Mexico plates, surfboards in the back, and two blond women in the front.

Through their Australian accents, "You guys need a ride or something."

"Yeah, that would be awesome! You guys are heroes!"

"Throw your stuff in the back! There's two seats in the back and one in the front."

Chet and Karen hopping in the back seats, one of the girls moves to the jump seat as I hop in the front next to them. 

The one in the jump seat says to me, "sorry my seats a bit sweaty."

"Doesn't matter to me and beats walking, you guys come from Mexico?"

"Yeah, we bought our Jeep in Puerto and have been driving down Central America the last seven months!"

"No way, you guys are hardcore."

Pulling up to our destination we unload our stuff in front of the hostel. Sitting down in the shade, I look their Jeep over.

"Have you guys had any car troubles driving down here."

"No not at all, we ran out of petrol one time so we went surfing and waited for someone to show up."

"How did you guys go about licensing?"

"Someone at the border foraged some stuff in Mexico and wrote us a letter. We haven't had any trouble at all with the border crossings."

As I continued to check their rig out, they headed inside the hostel. Glad to finally be at our destination after two days of travel, I took a seat back in the shade and relaxed.

Here are some more photos over the last few days.

No more room on the bus, find a comfy seat on the floor instead

Nicaragua and Costa Rica border

Chet and Karen enjoying some fried plantain snacks at the border

Rivas cathedral

Get ripped in Nicaragua

Who doesn't like puppies?

A typical Central American dish - Gallo Pinto

The beach at Popoyo

A Popoyo sunset