While in paradise, I had a lot of time to think. And what I thought one day was that I would really like to go to Cuba to visit my aunt. So that´s what I decided to do. Now I am skipping like a stone, heading northwards to Mexico to catch planes from Cancun.
First destination was another island, Ometepe, two volcanoes joined by lava in Lago de Nicicaragua. A beautiful place and a beautiful journey out there. I finally seem to be getting Nicaraguan scenery, the volcanoes and the dryness, and am appreciating it a lot more. I only spent two nights there, which was too short really. I swam in the green water which didn´t really make the grade after the clear water in the Carribean. I stayed in the same room as someone from Olympia, who knew a friend of mine; yes, the world really is that small.
Yesterday I journeyed long and hard to make it to Leon. I took a bus, a boat, and three more buses. I shared a bag of very cheap mangoes with a guy from Wisconsin. I now know how to eat them properly! I shall never falter again. It was very warm, and the journey from Rivas to Managua was lined with trees and it felt like summer. Managua, like most Central American capitals, is a bit of a nightmare, particularly if you just want to get out as quickly as possible. You arrive at one bus terminal, and your bus will leave from another bus terminal on the other side of the city. It is too hot, too far and too dangerous to walk. Taxis are expensive. The local bus system is a nightmare; I had to ask five people before I could figure out the number of the bus I needed to take, and then you need to find out where it leaves! And then it is packed to the gills. I could actually feel my ankles sweating. And then, I managed to get on the only bus to Leon that takes the long way around. By this time it was dark. They switched off the lights in the bus. We went down an unpaved road for a hour or so, while most people got off until I was the only one left, trying to hold on to my remaining mangoes and controlling my panic that we weren´t actually going to Leon at all.
Thankfully I am here now, slept like a log last night (although I always sleep well when traveling; all the sights and sounds of the day ease me right off). Found a great panaderia for breakfast, and also a guy I know from Honduras. He is still waiting for his green VW bus to be fixed in La Ceiba (exactly what he was doing when I last saw him four weeks ago). Maybe tomorrow I will go all the way to El Salvador to learn to surf, then Guatemala, then Mexico, moving fast now. But now I must detatch myself from the internet and go and explore Leon. And find a towel. I am ashamed to say I left mine on Little Corn, so relaxed that I forgot that a good traveler always knows where their towel is.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Island hopping: Volume I
Back on dry land Little Corn Island seems both a long way away and very very close. I will probably have forgotten half the things I wanted to say about it because it has been a long time now. During the past couple weeks I have either had spare time or access to the internet but never both at once. So I now embarking on a mammoth effort to get this up to date.
It took me a total of two nights and three days of uncomfortable travel and bad hotels to reach Little Corn Island. Although I may have sounded quite excited about Bluefields in my last post, this enthusiasm disappeared once it got dark and the seediness ceased to be illuminated by the light. Instead the seediness lurked in corners waiting to jump out and frighten me. I was very very glad not to be by myself and to be kept company by the Pole, who was in possession of a large machete (although this probably should also have made me nervous). We tied the door of the skyblue hotel room closed with rope, and I tried to sleep while ignoring the mice on the bed and the sound of business transactions being conducted in the rooms on either side.
The ferry ride to the islands was, I think, my first time at sea outside of Cook Strait. It was kind of a test of endurance for the I-don´t-get-seasick mantra. Five hours of one and a half, two metre waves (although my imagination could be inflating this). I huddled up in a ball in the half metre of space between the bench and the side of the boat, told myself I was asleep and tried to think happy thoughts. Later I found out that I had missed seeing most of the boat throw up. Locals were not exempt; appearently they had consumed large quantities of orange Fanta. I did get to witness them cleaning the boat with hoses once we got into the port.
One very bumpy panga ride later we were in paradise. I was there for ten days, lying on the beaches under coconut palms and snorkeling in the turquoise water. Oh, the Carribean! Little Corn Island has no cars, and it sounds odd, but I didn´t realise until I was there that this meant there wouldn´t be any roads. The island was traversed by paths, only one paved, the others dirt and very narrow. Maybe it was this that reminded me of childhood, trotting around in Paekakariki. It felt like I was playing at living. Or maybe it was that the island was so perfect, like a fairytale, and that when you´re young you have no doubt that places like that exist. It´s just when you get older that you get jaded and cynical and decide that all the best places have been usurped by tourism and four-star hotels and older blondes with too much tan and bad dye jobs. Little Corn has been saved, and I think it´s due to its size. It´s so much effort to get there that only really dedicated backpackers make the journey. You can fly if you have the money, but nobody with money is going to enjoy an island where there´s only electricity after 4pm and a dodgy water supply.
While I was there I. Wished you were. Swam in the sea and couldn´t believe how beautiful it was. Got very sunburnt on my first day, am still peeling. Started to think that my blood was becoming saline and that there was salt encrusted on my bones. I didn´t comb my hair for days, and started to feel like a genuine shipwrecked soul. I collected shells on the beach and started to make jewellery, feeling like I was a kid again, out beachcombing. I walked for ages every day along the dirt paths in between shrubby trees and bitter lemons, ate coconut bread and lots of potato omelettes, enjoyed cooking for myself, got up early. Read a Tom Robbins book, visited my friends on the north side, panted in the heat. And snorkelled!
I´d never really seen coral before, or fish like this. And now I am in love. I was a little bit nervous to start with, and the first time I tried to go out by myself, the first thing I saw was a giant eagle ray floating along. Oh gosh! I got out quickly. But then I went with others, and got used to it. I went on a boat in the deeper water, and saw nurse sharks, black with round noses and meancing in a kind of friendly way, and schools of bright blue fish. And in the shallower water, the coral up close; brain and stag and others, bright and living and a perfect backdrop for the fishes. And what fishes! My favourites were the painted lady fish, which I named because it looked like an older women done up in blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick for a night at the theatre. And the crazy triangle fish, not a normal fish shape at all, like a 3d fish experiment. And the black fishes with glowing blue specks! The last day I went by myself, closer into shore. I saw a turtle! But he didn´t hang around for long; several barracuda, the only fish that still make me nervous; lots of hunks of coral filled with fish playing in the corners; three cuttlefish! They look so odd, like bizarre squid, not really fish at all, tentacles coming out of their mouths. These ones could have been a family, one big, one medium, one small. They gave me a wise look out of their eye. And I saw three seperate eagle rays, not scary anymore, just beautiful, flapping along the bottom of the sea with their backs all spotted with white, funny heads and long long whip-like tails. Oh yes, snorkeling was great, like flying over an alien world, just a breath away from real life.
I had to leave the island, I could tell. I did consider staying there for a long time, but there wasn´t any chocolate. I couldn´t live without chocolate. There was property for sale as well; if I had any kind of capital I would have considered buying it, setting up a hostel maybe, and spending some months of the year there, the rest in an urban area. Possibly some day. Oh, Little Corn Island.
It took me a total of two nights and three days of uncomfortable travel and bad hotels to reach Little Corn Island. Although I may have sounded quite excited about Bluefields in my last post, this enthusiasm disappeared once it got dark and the seediness ceased to be illuminated by the light. Instead the seediness lurked in corners waiting to jump out and frighten me. I was very very glad not to be by myself and to be kept company by the Pole, who was in possession of a large machete (although this probably should also have made me nervous). We tied the door of the skyblue hotel room closed with rope, and I tried to sleep while ignoring the mice on the bed and the sound of business transactions being conducted in the rooms on either side.
The ferry ride to the islands was, I think, my first time at sea outside of Cook Strait. It was kind of a test of endurance for the I-don´t-get-seasick mantra. Five hours of one and a half, two metre waves (although my imagination could be inflating this). I huddled up in a ball in the half metre of space between the bench and the side of the boat, told myself I was asleep and tried to think happy thoughts. Later I found out that I had missed seeing most of the boat throw up. Locals were not exempt; appearently they had consumed large quantities of orange Fanta. I did get to witness them cleaning the boat with hoses once we got into the port.
One very bumpy panga ride later we were in paradise. I was there for ten days, lying on the beaches under coconut palms and snorkeling in the turquoise water. Oh, the Carribean! Little Corn Island has no cars, and it sounds odd, but I didn´t realise until I was there that this meant there wouldn´t be any roads. The island was traversed by paths, only one paved, the others dirt and very narrow. Maybe it was this that reminded me of childhood, trotting around in Paekakariki. It felt like I was playing at living. Or maybe it was that the island was so perfect, like a fairytale, and that when you´re young you have no doubt that places like that exist. It´s just when you get older that you get jaded and cynical and decide that all the best places have been usurped by tourism and four-star hotels and older blondes with too much tan and bad dye jobs. Little Corn has been saved, and I think it´s due to its size. It´s so much effort to get there that only really dedicated backpackers make the journey. You can fly if you have the money, but nobody with money is going to enjoy an island where there´s only electricity after 4pm and a dodgy water supply.
While I was there I. Wished you were. Swam in the sea and couldn´t believe how beautiful it was. Got very sunburnt on my first day, am still peeling. Started to think that my blood was becoming saline and that there was salt encrusted on my bones. I didn´t comb my hair for days, and started to feel like a genuine shipwrecked soul. I collected shells on the beach and started to make jewellery, feeling like I was a kid again, out beachcombing. I walked for ages every day along the dirt paths in between shrubby trees and bitter lemons, ate coconut bread and lots of potato omelettes, enjoyed cooking for myself, got up early. Read a Tom Robbins book, visited my friends on the north side, panted in the heat. And snorkelled!
I´d never really seen coral before, or fish like this. And now I am in love. I was a little bit nervous to start with, and the first time I tried to go out by myself, the first thing I saw was a giant eagle ray floating along. Oh gosh! I got out quickly. But then I went with others, and got used to it. I went on a boat in the deeper water, and saw nurse sharks, black with round noses and meancing in a kind of friendly way, and schools of bright blue fish. And in the shallower water, the coral up close; brain and stag and others, bright and living and a perfect backdrop for the fishes. And what fishes! My favourites were the painted lady fish, which I named because it looked like an older women done up in blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick for a night at the theatre. And the crazy triangle fish, not a normal fish shape at all, like a 3d fish experiment. And the black fishes with glowing blue specks! The last day I went by myself, closer into shore. I saw a turtle! But he didn´t hang around for long; several barracuda, the only fish that still make me nervous; lots of hunks of coral filled with fish playing in the corners; three cuttlefish! They look so odd, like bizarre squid, not really fish at all, tentacles coming out of their mouths. These ones could have been a family, one big, one medium, one small. They gave me a wise look out of their eye. And I saw three seperate eagle rays, not scary anymore, just beautiful, flapping along the bottom of the sea with their backs all spotted with white, funny heads and long long whip-like tails. Oh yes, snorkeling was great, like flying over an alien world, just a breath away from real life.
I had to leave the island, I could tell. I did consider staying there for a long time, but there wasn´t any chocolate. I couldn´t live without chocolate. There was property for sale as well; if I had any kind of capital I would have considered buying it, setting up a hostel maybe, and spending some months of the year there, the rest in an urban area. Possibly some day. Oh, Little Corn Island.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A quick one, before I´m gone
Actually there will be internet on this island, so what am I complaining about? The electricity, however, might be dodgy. There are no cars. There is a coral reef; my first coral reef! And palm trees, though really I have seen so many of those since last July. But maybe some of these will have coconuts on them, which can be taken down and turned into piña coladas. Yum.
I last wrote in Granada, where I spent a couple of days both hating the city and thinking it was stunningly beautiful. Another reason to distrust Lonely Planet (my dissection of that guidebook will form an entire post when I finish my trip) which seems to think Granada is the best thing since... Prague, or something. Clean streets, tourist restaurants galore, white people, lots of people asking for money. Not good. But beautiful, with the blue volcano in the background, seen down cobbled streets in late afternoon light, lined with orange, blue, bright pink houses. The churches of the city, some freshly painted, some in crumbling states of disrepair, domes seen above the skyline. The old market, a gorgeous grey stone with turrents and two twisted dead trees in front, overun with stalls and people and noise. On Friday evening, a men carrying a life-size statue of Jesus from a cathedral down the street, a brass band playing and everyone crowding around with bowed heads. Like a funeral. I think I´m being to get Catholicism.
But I had to get out, I didn´t quite get Granada. Still don´t understand that particular backpacker scene you find in the bigger spots. So headed first to small village, Catarina. Was sort of ill. Looked at lookout, at crater lake and volcano. It was very windy and a little bleak, and dusty and brown. Went onto Masaya, a downhome practical kind of place with a tourist market where I bought a hammock. Now I can sleep anywhere! Next day, up to Laguna de Apoyo, the aforementioned crater lake, a lot nicer on a better day from close up. The drive down in the bus is fantastic; a "two way" street worthy of Devon Street in Wellington (ie. a goat track), with views of the lake through the trees and the surrounding hills. Hill? Odd, being in a crater. Every way is up. On the way down, the bus toots its horn, so that cars coming up have a chance to get out of the way. It doesn´t really go any slower though.
Being in the lake was lovely, a layer of beautifully warm water floating on cold. Very mysterious, how that lake came about. Where does the water come from? Where does it go? I heard tell that the lake has healing waters. Maybe it was that, or positive thinking, but my red bumps have nearly disappeared. Still unsure what actually caused them. Slept in an expensive dorm, noisy, and nearly panicked when I heard the bus horn early the next morning. Grabbed my stuff in a very undignifed way, found the gate locked; thankfully, it was the bus on the way down, not on the way up the hill. Looong day of travel yesterday. Oddness at the Managua bus station, four guys all telling me different things in Spanish about which bus to get on; normally it´s realtively straightforward. Made it to El Rama, a sketchy but seemingly friendly port town and the end of the road. Slept in a fairly dodgy cheap hotel, had deadlock. Heard people doing things all through the night; what was anyone doing up at three in the morning? Why was the town not deserted when I had to catch the boat at five thirty? I guess they can´t sleep for the dodginess.
Am now in Bluefields, even sketchier town. Have however found Polish guy to beat anyone off. Have already noticed difference walking down street. For all its badness, I like it. The path from the dock winds through overhanging houses, wet stones, rubbish and weird smells. The hotel has narrown wooden corridors painted a bright shade of sky blue. It´s lovely to hear Creole again, and be near the sea. I think I was missing it, inland. On the bus I kept imagining it would pop up behind the next hill, like it did in the car when I was a child. And tomorrow, I go in a boat. A boat! To an island!
I last wrote in Granada, where I spent a couple of days both hating the city and thinking it was stunningly beautiful. Another reason to distrust Lonely Planet (my dissection of that guidebook will form an entire post when I finish my trip) which seems to think Granada is the best thing since... Prague, or something. Clean streets, tourist restaurants galore, white people, lots of people asking for money. Not good. But beautiful, with the blue volcano in the background, seen down cobbled streets in late afternoon light, lined with orange, blue, bright pink houses. The churches of the city, some freshly painted, some in crumbling states of disrepair, domes seen above the skyline. The old market, a gorgeous grey stone with turrents and two twisted dead trees in front, overun with stalls and people and noise. On Friday evening, a men carrying a life-size statue of Jesus from a cathedral down the street, a brass band playing and everyone crowding around with bowed heads. Like a funeral. I think I´m being to get Catholicism.
But I had to get out, I didn´t quite get Granada. Still don´t understand that particular backpacker scene you find in the bigger spots. So headed first to small village, Catarina. Was sort of ill. Looked at lookout, at crater lake and volcano. It was very windy and a little bleak, and dusty and brown. Went onto Masaya, a downhome practical kind of place with a tourist market where I bought a hammock. Now I can sleep anywhere! Next day, up to Laguna de Apoyo, the aforementioned crater lake, a lot nicer on a better day from close up. The drive down in the bus is fantastic; a "two way" street worthy of Devon Street in Wellington (ie. a goat track), with views of the lake through the trees and the surrounding hills. Hill? Odd, being in a crater. Every way is up. On the way down, the bus toots its horn, so that cars coming up have a chance to get out of the way. It doesn´t really go any slower though.
Being in the lake was lovely, a layer of beautifully warm water floating on cold. Very mysterious, how that lake came about. Where does the water come from? Where does it go? I heard tell that the lake has healing waters. Maybe it was that, or positive thinking, but my red bumps have nearly disappeared. Still unsure what actually caused them. Slept in an expensive dorm, noisy, and nearly panicked when I heard the bus horn early the next morning. Grabbed my stuff in a very undignifed way, found the gate locked; thankfully, it was the bus on the way down, not on the way up the hill. Looong day of travel yesterday. Oddness at the Managua bus station, four guys all telling me different things in Spanish about which bus to get on; normally it´s realtively straightforward. Made it to El Rama, a sketchy but seemingly friendly port town and the end of the road. Slept in a fairly dodgy cheap hotel, had deadlock. Heard people doing things all through the night; what was anyone doing up at three in the morning? Why was the town not deserted when I had to catch the boat at five thirty? I guess they can´t sleep for the dodginess.
Am now in Bluefields, even sketchier town. Have however found Polish guy to beat anyone off. Have already noticed difference walking down street. For all its badness, I like it. The path from the dock winds through overhanging houses, wet stones, rubbish and weird smells. The hotel has narrown wooden corridors painted a bright shade of sky blue. It´s lovely to hear Creole again, and be near the sea. I think I was missing it, inland. On the bus I kept imagining it would pop up behind the next hill, like it did in the car when I was a child. And tomorrow, I go in a boat. A boat! To an island!
Friday, March 6, 2009
What they have today
Title inspired by what becomes a fact of life to those traveling in countries like these: just because something is on the menu, or written on the board, doesn't mean it is actually available. No hay, as they say. Like the mojito I just wanted. Instead I have a strong Cuba Libre (don't worry, I have actually been a practical teetotaller down here; am not drinking away my travel funds). I have become so used to the no-hay idea that I have started asking for things in a very hopeful/skeptical tone of voice and getting really excited when I find they have them.
Where did I last leave you? In Jinotega, that's right; that place out on the edge. It got a bit crazy there. The power cut out soon after I finished writing, so I went and hid in my very dark wooden box for a while and felt odd. It was very cold that night and the wind was loud. I had a scary dream about ghosts. It was that kind of town. In the morning, I left. I went to Matagalpa, a place only slightly more on the tourist trail. The views on the bus journey were as pretty as the guidebook promised. Lots of hills, I remember, and little fincas (farms) and people selling flowers. Matagalpa itself is not particularly beautiful. I had a feeling when I got off the bus that I've yet to shake; a feeling of traveling from ugly dirty town to ugly dirty town, and missing the clean wholesomeness of home. However.
There was both a teething puppy and a kitten in my cheap hotel, and a six year old girl who found my lack of Spanish (and everything else) hilarious. I was a bit upset because I fould the puppy trying to teeth on the kitten. I briefly considered trying to take the kitten with me in my backpack. I would give it a cool name and we would be best friends and become famous, and I would be in the newspaper when the kitten died. I was pondering the practicality of carrying an animal in a backpack on public transport across borders when the kitten asked to be let out of my room, where I was sheltering her. She walked away and I felt rejected. A dream died that day.
The first exciting thing that I did in Matagalpa was find real food. I had heard mysterious tales of lunchtime buffets in Nicaragua. Food so far has been disappointing. Yes, if I ate meat I would have more variety, but that wouldn't change the quality (the meat here looks sketchy as hell). Life has involved a lot of eggs, beans and tortillas; one might say too much. Honduras I remember being particularly bad. I had these strong longings for the food in California, particularly as can be found on the table of Marianne and Ron; food with life, with health, with taste and vitamins. Instead I found eggs, beans and tortillas. And queso fresco, which I believe you can get in the States, but which has not thankfully found its way to New Zealand. It's crumbly white cheese, very salty and pungent. I have developed a hatred for it that I feel for no other food (I like to say that I'll eat anything that isn't meat). Unfortunately it isn't easy to get away from. I remember having the worst meal ever in Honduras. I'd just spent a rainy bus journey dreaming of macaroni cheese, homemade, with crisp broccoli and green beans in pesto. I went for lunch, kind of late (food here is difficult to find outside of meal times: 11.00-1.30 for lunch and 5.30-7.00 for dinner). The kind people at the restaurant looked very perplexed when I asked for something without meat and then produced a special dish, which unfortunately was really horrible. Dry dry plantains with yukka (a kind of tasteless root) and cabbage, a odd kind of tomato sauce, and the dreaded queso fresco. It was a low point in my life.
To return, however, to Matagalpa (the Cuba Libre is making my mind wander). I found a buffet there. I had lunch. It was $2US. It was tasty. It had vegetables. It had BROCCOLI and GREEN BEANS. I nearly cried with joy. Nicaragua is officially the bestest country from now on.
The other exciting thing that happened in Matagalpa was that I went on a walk. It was up in the hills, and it was hard to start, but that was OK. It was beautiful, and out in the middle of nowhere. There were lots of brown trees and little houses, and I saw some coffee bushes (I can report that they are short with red berries). It felt very special. I had a very good time. Then I unfortunately got lost (I should have been warned when my photocopied directions turned into a series of things like "Cross this barbed wire fence and you will see a tree; go slightly left, climb another wire barbed fence, there will be a small path, etc."). I ended up in a steep field with rocks and some tall yellow grass, it was very hot. I picked up a stick to fight off any prospective snakes and eventually fought my way out, and found myself at a house. After being laughed at by young boys (I'm getting used to this) and barked at by dogs, a man pointed and gave me instructions in Spanish that I could not understand. I wondered how often crazed-looking white girls carrying sticks ended up in his backyard. Thankfully the small path I took became a road, which lead me back to the city. Just in time for a buffet lunch.
I am now in Granada. Granada is very beautiful. All the buildings are colonial in style and painted bright colours, and every street is spectacular. It is also, however, quite touristy and feels artificial after being in the north. How odd after towns like Jinotega, where you couldn't find an English menu if you tried, to be able to play beer pong. Unfortunately my buffets have disappeared; there seem to be no local restaurants here that I can find. Sigh. Oh well. Tomorrow I will go to a small village closer to Managua. Maybe they will have one for me.
Where did I last leave you? In Jinotega, that's right; that place out on the edge. It got a bit crazy there. The power cut out soon after I finished writing, so I went and hid in my very dark wooden box for a while and felt odd. It was very cold that night and the wind was loud. I had a scary dream about ghosts. It was that kind of town. In the morning, I left. I went to Matagalpa, a place only slightly more on the tourist trail. The views on the bus journey were as pretty as the guidebook promised. Lots of hills, I remember, and little fincas (farms) and people selling flowers. Matagalpa itself is not particularly beautiful. I had a feeling when I got off the bus that I've yet to shake; a feeling of traveling from ugly dirty town to ugly dirty town, and missing the clean wholesomeness of home. However.
There was both a teething puppy and a kitten in my cheap hotel, and a six year old girl who found my lack of Spanish (and everything else) hilarious. I was a bit upset because I fould the puppy trying to teeth on the kitten. I briefly considered trying to take the kitten with me in my backpack. I would give it a cool name and we would be best friends and become famous, and I would be in the newspaper when the kitten died. I was pondering the practicality of carrying an animal in a backpack on public transport across borders when the kitten asked to be let out of my room, where I was sheltering her. She walked away and I felt rejected. A dream died that day.
The first exciting thing that I did in Matagalpa was find real food. I had heard mysterious tales of lunchtime buffets in Nicaragua. Food so far has been disappointing. Yes, if I ate meat I would have more variety, but that wouldn't change the quality (the meat here looks sketchy as hell). Life has involved a lot of eggs, beans and tortillas; one might say too much. Honduras I remember being particularly bad. I had these strong longings for the food in California, particularly as can be found on the table of Marianne and Ron; food with life, with health, with taste and vitamins. Instead I found eggs, beans and tortillas. And queso fresco, which I believe you can get in the States, but which has not thankfully found its way to New Zealand. It's crumbly white cheese, very salty and pungent. I have developed a hatred for it that I feel for no other food (I like to say that I'll eat anything that isn't meat). Unfortunately it isn't easy to get away from. I remember having the worst meal ever in Honduras. I'd just spent a rainy bus journey dreaming of macaroni cheese, homemade, with crisp broccoli and green beans in pesto. I went for lunch, kind of late (food here is difficult to find outside of meal times: 11.00-1.30 for lunch and 5.30-7.00 for dinner). The kind people at the restaurant looked very perplexed when I asked for something without meat and then produced a special dish, which unfortunately was really horrible. Dry dry plantains with yukka (a kind of tasteless root) and cabbage, a odd kind of tomato sauce, and the dreaded queso fresco. It was a low point in my life.
To return, however, to Matagalpa (the Cuba Libre is making my mind wander). I found a buffet there. I had lunch. It was $2US. It was tasty. It had vegetables. It had BROCCOLI and GREEN BEANS. I nearly cried with joy. Nicaragua is officially the bestest country from now on.
The other exciting thing that happened in Matagalpa was that I went on a walk. It was up in the hills, and it was hard to start, but that was OK. It was beautiful, and out in the middle of nowhere. There were lots of brown trees and little houses, and I saw some coffee bushes (I can report that they are short with red berries). It felt very special. I had a very good time. Then I unfortunately got lost (I should have been warned when my photocopied directions turned into a series of things like "Cross this barbed wire fence and you will see a tree; go slightly left, climb another wire barbed fence, there will be a small path, etc."). I ended up in a steep field with rocks and some tall yellow grass, it was very hot. I picked up a stick to fight off any prospective snakes and eventually fought my way out, and found myself at a house. After being laughed at by young boys (I'm getting used to this) and barked at by dogs, a man pointed and gave me instructions in Spanish that I could not understand. I wondered how often crazed-looking white girls carrying sticks ended up in his backyard. Thankfully the small path I took became a road, which lead me back to the city. Just in time for a buffet lunch.
I am now in Granada. Granada is very beautiful. All the buildings are colonial in style and painted bright colours, and every street is spectacular. It is also, however, quite touristy and feels artificial after being in the north. How odd after towns like Jinotega, where you couldn't find an English menu if you tried, to be able to play beer pong. Unfortunately my buffets have disappeared; there seem to be no local restaurants here that I can find. Sigh. Oh well. Tomorrow I will go to a small village closer to Managua. Maybe they will have one for me.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Hello people, please help.
I am now in Granada which is nice. But I have a problem.
For some reason mosquitos do not like me. So all through Belize, Guatemala and Honduras I was secretly laughing at all the poor people being bitten and itching themselves to death. But with true ironic charm, now that I am in 'bug free' areas, I am being eaten by something.
It is very mysterious. I am being bitten at night, generally in the early morning, on both my legs and my left arm only. The bites are small and red and itchy but not unbearable. I have no idea what it could be. It's not bed bugs; I found someone who's had them and the bites are different. I considered that it could be fleas, but it seems unlikely that four hotel beds in a row would be so infested! I thought maybe they could be in my clothes, but last night I slept without my pajama trousers and they still got me. The night before, I slept in long leggings with insect repellent on and they still got me. See the theme?
So what is it? Have I suddenly become allergic to cotton? Is there a special kind of insect in Nicaragua that is invisible and only bites me? If anyone has any idea what this could be, or has a lot of time on their hands to find out, please let me know. I am out of ideas.
For some reason mosquitos do not like me. So all through Belize, Guatemala and Honduras I was secretly laughing at all the poor people being bitten and itching themselves to death. But with true ironic charm, now that I am in 'bug free' areas, I am being eaten by something.
It is very mysterious. I am being bitten at night, generally in the early morning, on both my legs and my left arm only. The bites are small and red and itchy but not unbearable. I have no idea what it could be. It's not bed bugs; I found someone who's had them and the bites are different. I considered that it could be fleas, but it seems unlikely that four hotel beds in a row would be so infested! I thought maybe they could be in my clothes, but last night I slept without my pajama trousers and they still got me. The night before, I slept in long leggings with insect repellent on and they still got me. See the theme?
So what is it? Have I suddenly become allergic to cotton? Is there a special kind of insect in Nicaragua that is invisible and only bites me? If anyone has any idea what this could be, or has a lot of time on their hands to find out, please let me know. I am out of ideas.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Continuing along the road
It hasn´t been long since my last post, but to be honest there isn´t much to do in this town. So I will tell tales of Nicaragua so far to people a long way away.
I am currently residing in Jinotega, a untouristy town in the mountains. It´s known as the City of Mists, and is set in a circle of hills that make it feel almost Scottish. I am staying in an exciting flimsy hotel. It´s the kind of place where there are three generations of family members sitting downstairs, and the rooms are in a loft, sectioned off by thin boards. There was a light, but it quickly stopped working. It costs, however, half of my budgeted cordobas; only $2.50 US. I had a tamarind juice at lunch, with a view of the misty cold hills. It was delicious, and tasted like a grandmother.
Today I traveled by bus from Estelí, where I happily had some company, picked up in Honduras. Yesterday the company and I tried to make our way to a waterfall somewhere in the countryside, an hour walk from town (said the increasingly unrelible Lonely Planet). After a dusty but charming walk along a dirt road (attempts made to converse with a pot-bellied man riding a bicycle proved yet again that my Spanish is going nowhere) I was getting hot and sore. So I hopped on the colourful bus passing by, certain that I would see my friends at the waterfall and all would be well.
A long while later, I descended from the bus to discover that I was about 10km further down the road than I should be. There was no choice but to wait for the bus to return. Sitting on a rock eating a cantalope with a Swiss Army Knife, I was forcibly reminded of all the times I have spent on Mills Road in Brooklyn, Wellington, waiting for buses and gazing outward. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I am happy to announce that they have coffee here, real stuff, but very sweet. And ice cream; I had the biggest one in the world yesterday, to make up for my bus fiasco. We also went to see ´He´s Just Not That Into You´, or ´Simplemente, No Te Quiere´en español. The sound was terrible, but it was in English, and a delightful slice of a world a long way away.
The journey on the rattling school bus today was one of the better ones. Along a dusty pot-holed dirt road, it traveled through some beautiful countryside. Steep hills, lots of rocks and dust and the most amazing trees I have ever seen. Strange and fantastic, each one was different. Leafless, with branches big and small; spiking straight up into the air or regularly patterned, asymmetrical, gorgeous. Many branches have moss in shades of grey or brown, some possibly Spanish (it was hanging down anyway), some have white opaque balloons that might be insect nests. Some hung sparsely with fat green succlent leaves; and every so often, one with white or pink or bright bright yellow flowers. This part of the world is going in my book of places to return to and photograph, along with the White Desert in Egypt and Barton Creek Cave in Belize. I wasn´t really able to get any good shots through the bus windows. They seemed to be in the middle of building the road we drove along. There were a few stone houses, irregular wooden fences, and a church or two in the bizzare dry landscape; on a rocky hillside, a brown cow sat with three delicate white birds.
And now, in Jinotega, I have already visited the only tourist attraction, a large white church. Maybe I will do some crochet in my wooden box room, and find some cake. Tomorrow I will carry on to the next town, and hopefully visit a coffee farm (does it grow on bushes? Trees? I drink it every day and don´t know). There is also a chocolate factory there; I´ve tried some already. It´s different, no milk at all, and slightly gritty, but growing on me.
I am currently residing in Jinotega, a untouristy town in the mountains. It´s known as the City of Mists, and is set in a circle of hills that make it feel almost Scottish. I am staying in an exciting flimsy hotel. It´s the kind of place where there are three generations of family members sitting downstairs, and the rooms are in a loft, sectioned off by thin boards. There was a light, but it quickly stopped working. It costs, however, half of my budgeted cordobas; only $2.50 US. I had a tamarind juice at lunch, with a view of the misty cold hills. It was delicious, and tasted like a grandmother.
Today I traveled by bus from Estelí, where I happily had some company, picked up in Honduras. Yesterday the company and I tried to make our way to a waterfall somewhere in the countryside, an hour walk from town (said the increasingly unrelible Lonely Planet). After a dusty but charming walk along a dirt road (attempts made to converse with a pot-bellied man riding a bicycle proved yet again that my Spanish is going nowhere) I was getting hot and sore. So I hopped on the colourful bus passing by, certain that I would see my friends at the waterfall and all would be well.
A long while later, I descended from the bus to discover that I was about 10km further down the road than I should be. There was no choice but to wait for the bus to return. Sitting on a rock eating a cantalope with a Swiss Army Knife, I was forcibly reminded of all the times I have spent on Mills Road in Brooklyn, Wellington, waiting for buses and gazing outward. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I am happy to announce that they have coffee here, real stuff, but very sweet. And ice cream; I had the biggest one in the world yesterday, to make up for my bus fiasco. We also went to see ´He´s Just Not That Into You´, or ´Simplemente, No Te Quiere´en español. The sound was terrible, but it was in English, and a delightful slice of a world a long way away.
The journey on the rattling school bus today was one of the better ones. Along a dusty pot-holed dirt road, it traveled through some beautiful countryside. Steep hills, lots of rocks and dust and the most amazing trees I have ever seen. Strange and fantastic, each one was different. Leafless, with branches big and small; spiking straight up into the air or regularly patterned, asymmetrical, gorgeous. Many branches have moss in shades of grey or brown, some possibly Spanish (it was hanging down anyway), some have white opaque balloons that might be insect nests. Some hung sparsely with fat green succlent leaves; and every so often, one with white or pink or bright bright yellow flowers. This part of the world is going in my book of places to return to and photograph, along with the White Desert in Egypt and Barton Creek Cave in Belize. I wasn´t really able to get any good shots through the bus windows. They seemed to be in the middle of building the road we drove along. There were a few stone houses, irregular wooden fences, and a church or two in the bizzare dry landscape; on a rocky hillside, a brown cow sat with three delicate white birds.
And now, in Jinotega, I have already visited the only tourist attraction, a large white church. Maybe I will do some crochet in my wooden box room, and find some cake. Tomorrow I will carry on to the next town, and hopefully visit a coffee farm (does it grow on bushes? Trees? I drink it every day and don´t know). There is also a chocolate factory there; I´ve tried some already. It´s different, no milk at all, and slightly gritty, but growing on me.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
In coffee country
Honduras now lies behind me, which I am not too sad about. I am happy happy to be in Nicaragua, and using the fastest internet that I´ve had in ages, even if the ´p´on my keyboard isnt working too well. You will forgive the spelling mistakes.
After the rain in La Ceiba, I got on another bus further along the coast to Trujillo. Here is where I will actually start being a better sort of travel writer instead of just a diary keeper, and tell you some things about Trujillo. It was one of the earliest Spanish settlements in Central America, founded in 1525. It has a spectacular location on a wide bay, with jungle covered mountains rising behind the town. Near Trujillo was where Columbus first set foot on the American mainland on his fourth voyage. Trujillo was used as a shipping port for gold and silver, and that means one thing... pirates.
So theres your history. The town itself is kind of OK, the backdrop of mountains and the sea certainly adds a little something special. I stayed out of town, at a place called Casa Kiwi. Owned and run by yes, a New Zealander, called Chaz of all things. It was ridiciously odd. There was Kiwiana on the walls, and chips on the menu, and a semi clean beach out the front. Casa Kiwi did me well for a few days; I made some half hearted attemts at day trips, visited the old fort (relatively unimpressive) and was going to go snorkelling but chickened out due to fear of scary sea creatures lurking in sea grass. I sat on the beach and watched the mountains at sunset, beams filtering through the clouds. And oh yes, I climbed a mountain. Yes, I did, although we didnt actually reach the top. But it was very hard and difficult and I am still sore, although I think I did it for my Mum.
So, Honduras. I had some thoughts about it catching the buses. I wasnt all that keen on the idea of it to start, and I remain unconvinced. I attribute this uninspiring nature to two things that Honduras lacks: civil war, and volcanoes. Both Guatemala and Nicaragua, and El Salvador, have these things in abundance, whereas Honduras has remained unscarred by revolution and violent earthly activity. perhaps civil war is good for the national character, although this is a thesis that I could find difficult to advance in academic circles. The closest thing to a war in Honduras seems to be going on between two cellphone providers, Claro (que tienes mas!) and Tigo. They have carved out their terrority on walls everywhere and will go into battle any day now.
So Im not sad to be out of Honduras. After the gruelling hike, I took a night bus to the caital, Tegucigalpa. Another reason not to trust Lonely planet: in everything they have to say about Teguc, they fail to mention it is an absolute hellhole. Every capital city in Central America seems to be rife with crime, and if they look anything like Teguc, are places to be avoided at all costs. Brown and dirty and full of poverty, climbing up the hills, full of traffic. Even the Coca Cola delivery truck had an armed guard with a gun; there were two outside the service station store. Literally could not get out of there fast enough.
Nicaragua, I like. I do. I expected to like it. I learnt yesterday that in Honduras, 45 out of a thousand are murdered; in Nicaragua, its 15 in a thousand. There isnt even a guard outside the ATM! Although that could actually be a mistake. So after bus after bus, we crossed the border at Las Manos, and starting traveling through Nicaraguan cowboy country. The landscape already seems volcanic, and dry and dusty, with feathery trees and moss growing on power lines. The bus played Kenny Rogers, and the afternoon sun shone through the dirty windows.
The buses in Central America, as well as being old and shuddery, are certainly set up for sound. Normally they play Latin pop as loud as possible. By the time I leave I will be able to sing along to a fair few songs. Every bus, and taxi as well, also comes equipped with messages to God. Dios Es Amor, or Dios Me Guia; often, however, the messages are more like disclaimers. One from yesterday: Solo Dios Sabe Si Volvere (only God knows if I will return, I think). This makes me feel slightly uneasy. Road accidents arent all up to fate, you know. I think dangerous driving accounts for a good part of it.
My sunburn is finally starting to fade. I failed to wear sunblock on a beach jaunt, because I didnt believe that anything other than New Zealand sun could burn me. This was a mistake. I have now invented a new kind of torture for backpackers: sunburnt shoulders.
After the rain in La Ceiba, I got on another bus further along the coast to Trujillo. Here is where I will actually start being a better sort of travel writer instead of just a diary keeper, and tell you some things about Trujillo. It was one of the earliest Spanish settlements in Central America, founded in 1525. It has a spectacular location on a wide bay, with jungle covered mountains rising behind the town. Near Trujillo was where Columbus first set foot on the American mainland on his fourth voyage. Trujillo was used as a shipping port for gold and silver, and that means one thing... pirates.
So theres your history. The town itself is kind of OK, the backdrop of mountains and the sea certainly adds a little something special. I stayed out of town, at a place called Casa Kiwi. Owned and run by yes, a New Zealander, called Chaz of all things. It was ridiciously odd. There was Kiwiana on the walls, and chips on the menu, and a semi clean beach out the front. Casa Kiwi did me well for a few days; I made some half hearted attemts at day trips, visited the old fort (relatively unimpressive) and was going to go snorkelling but chickened out due to fear of scary sea creatures lurking in sea grass. I sat on the beach and watched the mountains at sunset, beams filtering through the clouds. And oh yes, I climbed a mountain. Yes, I did, although we didnt actually reach the top. But it was very hard and difficult and I am still sore, although I think I did it for my Mum.
So, Honduras. I had some thoughts about it catching the buses. I wasnt all that keen on the idea of it to start, and I remain unconvinced. I attribute this uninspiring nature to two things that Honduras lacks: civil war, and volcanoes. Both Guatemala and Nicaragua, and El Salvador, have these things in abundance, whereas Honduras has remained unscarred by revolution and violent earthly activity. perhaps civil war is good for the national character, although this is a thesis that I could find difficult to advance in academic circles. The closest thing to a war in Honduras seems to be going on between two cellphone providers, Claro (que tienes mas!) and Tigo. They have carved out their terrority on walls everywhere and will go into battle any day now.
So Im not sad to be out of Honduras. After the gruelling hike, I took a night bus to the caital, Tegucigalpa. Another reason not to trust Lonely planet: in everything they have to say about Teguc, they fail to mention it is an absolute hellhole. Every capital city in Central America seems to be rife with crime, and if they look anything like Teguc, are places to be avoided at all costs. Brown and dirty and full of poverty, climbing up the hills, full of traffic. Even the Coca Cola delivery truck had an armed guard with a gun; there were two outside the service station store. Literally could not get out of there fast enough.
Nicaragua, I like. I do. I expected to like it. I learnt yesterday that in Honduras, 45 out of a thousand are murdered; in Nicaragua, its 15 in a thousand. There isnt even a guard outside the ATM! Although that could actually be a mistake. So after bus after bus, we crossed the border at Las Manos, and starting traveling through Nicaraguan cowboy country. The landscape already seems volcanic, and dry and dusty, with feathery trees and moss growing on power lines. The bus played Kenny Rogers, and the afternoon sun shone through the dirty windows.
The buses in Central America, as well as being old and shuddery, are certainly set up for sound. Normally they play Latin pop as loud as possible. By the time I leave I will be able to sing along to a fair few songs. Every bus, and taxi as well, also comes equipped with messages to God. Dios Es Amor, or Dios Me Guia; often, however, the messages are more like disclaimers. One from yesterday: Solo Dios Sabe Si Volvere (only God knows if I will return, I think). This makes me feel slightly uneasy. Road accidents arent all up to fate, you know. I think dangerous driving accounts for a good part of it.
My sunburn is finally starting to fade. I failed to wear sunblock on a beach jaunt, because I didnt believe that anything other than New Zealand sun could burn me. This was a mistake. I have now invented a new kind of torture for backpackers: sunburnt shoulders.
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