Nicaragua

All Aboard the Bluefields Express, León
24th April, 2012

Tranquilo Café. There's not a better place to sit back and wallow away the hours. I've finally started reading a new book; and interesting milestone?? It only took me two months & six countries to finish the last. So begins The Life of Pi, I have to giggle at the irony as I glimpse over the first few pages - statistical characteristics of a sloth. On average, a sloth may sleep for up to 20 hours a day, has an 'unmotivated' land speed of 4-5 metres an hour, and in retrospect to other animals, appears blatantly oblivious to the outside surrounding world. The more I read, the more it seems like I've just been handed a behavioural study chart outlining my own pathetic movements over the past week or so. For a hyperactive little shit much like myself, doing nothing (to the point sometimes of literally doing nothing at all), eats away at the very definitive texture of ones soul; turning an inspired, healthy brain into little more than un-buttered mashed potato. Hmmm...but I do terribly enjoy the mashed up patata, so I guess it's not such a bad thing every now and then. After all, between chasing Danish tail & devouring loaf upon loaf of Pan de Coco smothered in long-lost strawberry jam, Nicaragua's Corn Islands have served the "chill the fuck out" stigma perfectly. I have been conquered & mellowed. The baddest of the maddest of dawgs has learnt to sit & stay put...Oh boy. Watch out.

In Guatemala I mastered the Chicken Bus. Even though I'm pretty certain I could get a direct shuttle from place to place for a similar price, this defied all precautionary logic obviously. On the way to Xela we had passed on by one upturned on a dead straight section of good road, and now here I was packed in like a sardine, unable to make a conscious decision on where my body & limbs were to become fixed into place, winding our way through perilous mountain country, high above Lake Atitlan. I love this kind of travel. No good stories ever came from taking the easy option. The boat trip across the lake earlier that day had been mesmerising. Having cleared out nice and early to avoid any obligatory morning small talk, I'd found myself doing the bolt, fleeing the much too pleasant evil forces that could entrap me in San Pedro for weeks. Reaching Panacajel, I was now well on my way back to Antigua, having wisely stayed away until after all the Semana Santa mayhem had filtered down. Returning to Jungle Party, there were many familiar welcoming faces, and as always, some I wish I could have avoided. I hate to make assumptions and generalise, but as a result of this night I now deem Israelis the bane of all drinking nations. After little more than a few shots, washed down with chunks of fresh pineapple chaser, this one guy had chucked up all over the top loft bedding area. He then passed out while his upheaval was being mopped clean by staff, only to then wake back up spluttering & choking as he chucked his guts up all over again in the exact same spot.

Thankfully it was a short night. I didn't get much sleep. By 3 o'clock I was already up getting ready for the shuttle to Guatemala City, from where I'd be powering on through to Managua by long distance bus. This decision had been rash, possibly regrettable, but in hindsight all I had planned to do in El Salvador & Honduras was surf and dive, both of which is reputedly cheaper and better in Nicaragua anyway. I was on a pilgrimage, beelining back to the Caribbean, where my two Danish goddesses would be waiting beneath huge coconut trees, drinking schnapps & chillaxing in the late afternoon sun, desperately hanging out for the privilege to give this blinded buffoon countless, un-measurable pleaze-eure. Obviously I had to get there first, and that meant 18 hours on the road, complimented by three servings of stale, greasy Burger King, just what my stomach was screaming out for...It was a long trip, but proved little hassle apart from the border formalities. When crossing over into Honduras, the entire bus was emptied then searched while we all stood outside; confused and vulnerable in the late night air, hovering about like misguided penguins, lost & alienated in the abyss. I arrived into Managua around 2 o'clock at night, and caught a cab for a short distance to my accommodation which I was praying hadn't forgot about me. I had planned to walk there until some guy began hinting tourists have been known to have their heads hacked off around here for the mere contents of their backpacks, role playing this charade for me with a hand cutting neck motion. Safely locked away in my awaited sweaty dump, in spite of the heat, it didn't take me long to crash out.

I woke the next day nice and early, ambitiously hoping to score a same day flight to the Corn Islands. No one seemed to know what to do, so I was forced to catch a ride out to the airport with all my gear and try my luck. No chance!! It was hot. One step drip hot, and I pleaded with the agent to squeeze me on somehow so I wouldn't have to spend another night in this shithole. The best she could do was the early morning flight the following day, so for me, it was back to the city...to lie & rot in the four walls of my room. There is something devilish about a place when you are held there against your will. I'm not saying I could come to love Managua, but normally I manage to find a glimmer of hope somewhere amongst the chaos. At this time being however, I hated the fucking place. Between long siesta's I did happen to step out for a wander. I'd only taken a dozen strides or so down the street before I copped a fruit pip in the face! A combination of sticky juice and still fresh saliva beaded down into my fucking eye before I could fend it off. Some bum seemed bemused with his actions when I faced up to him in reflex retaliation, but he had that 'crazy eye' thing going on, so I sure wasn't keen to stick around and discuss the politics of the matter. My day in Managua reached it's pinnacle munching on deep fried something, I actually have no idea what it could have been, but it appeared slightly more enticing than the musty vegetable broth bubbling away in the corner. After I'd accomplished forcing that dinner down, I had second thoughts.

But HEY!! Today was the day! I excitedly rose to my alarm and chucked on my clothes. Sleeping draped in anything other than your birthday suit here would make for a lot of unnecessary laundry. It was 4 in the morning and already the temperature was creeping up on 30 'C - so as you can imagine, I was teeming to hit that cool, turquoise water I knew awaited me in a few hours. Another cab ride out to the airport and I was all but on my way. What more, here was Ole sitting at the cafe waiting to catch the same flight! I'd emailed him yesterday since I knew he'd be heading in this direction, but it's hard keeping track of the rest of the world when you don't have technology at your constant disposal; a disadvantage I actually take great pleasure in most of the time. Two Swiss & a couple of Swedish chicks later, and once again we had a posse. BOOM! Life is full of joy. And gratefully, I knew I wouldn't have to think about the rat race of Managua for a lonnnngggg time!

I could feel the shift in momentum the instant I stepped off that small, rickety plane. I could smell the salt on the breeze and the sky above projected a bright, piercing clarity, untainted by the carelessness of human development. The islands lie about fifty miles off the eastern coast of Nicaragua, which figuratively speaking, is practically deserted bar a few spaced out commercial hubs. The Toña's were already going down smoothly by 9 o'clock, as we sat about waiting for our panga boat ride out to the smaller, more idyllic island of Little Corn. For those seeking a true, untarnished Caribbean island getaway, this is the place to go. The surrounding waters are glazed like that of an undisturbed swimming pool, protected by reefs on the east & the distant mainland to the west. There are no cars, only a thin path that wraps around most of the shoreline, intertwined & connected by other minor routes that disperse out through the banana plantations for the more adventurous. I ripped off all my clothes and waisted no time jumping straight in. I was finally back at the beach, and how I'd missed it so.

North Beach, Little Corn

Walking back through the main village, I heard someone calling out from somewhere. Twirling around, out in the distance I could see my two Danish babes waving frantically, sun baking out on the floating platform. I felt like The Hoff. Man, life is good. I'd found the perfect antidote for my hectic lifestyle. I could sit and read, while they'd cook me curries. I'd go for a run & lift some concrete weights while they'd do my laundry. I did try to help, but I swear all I ever had to do was get the grog or groceries. Booyah!! Oh man, life is SO good! We met some other worldly figures and got busy to work having a hoot. Friday night was bonfire night at the beach front lodge known simply as Cool Spot, cool, where we downed many a dollar Toña and passed around bottles of cheap rum. During the day we would literally do nothing, I wasn't joking on that front. The pontoon (Mike you would froth) acted as the central focus point for our beaching about outside Tranquilo Café, where they happen to make the best strawberry & banana smoothies I've ever tasted. Due to my new found laziness, I missed the islands local version of a beauty pageant, where apparently the same girl wins every year. I heard this caused quite the cat-fight commotion this year as she won once again, and the runner-up ripped off her victory sash in a violent display of spite. Yet I got a taste of all this bitchy competitive flair, when later on we made our way to the only "club" in town. The girls were out in force. I felt like I was part of a low budget, hip-hop music clip. I'd never seen chicks dance together with such aggressive bootie shakin' intensity. Some were lifting the others up, saddling them above the hips, and throwing back their heads until they nearly bounced back off the ground, seducing each other to the beat with rhythmic pelvic thrusts. It was a sweat box. I was dripping, and M&M was jammed in a black-bootie sandwich. I could only take so much before heading on home to find my Danish Princess.

Tranquilo Cafe

Practically half a week passed on by before I again got up to anything else slightly noteworthy. We'd attempted to go snorkeling, but the weather had began to crack up, and it was hard to get out far enough to see anything worthwhile. I just had to go diving again, so Ole and I signed up for a whole day on the reefs. It was so nice to be back under. Despite not yet coming face to face with the islands infamous population of hammerhead sharks, we were lucky enough to spot a plethora of giant lobsters, nurse sharks and to snatch a peek at the elusive, evil eyed moray eel.

Underwater Caverns

Later that arvo, Boris (our Canadian karate kid wedding crasher) & I started kicking around the hacky sack, and Anthony, a little kid from across the street ran over with his soccer ball keen for a kick. As it turned out, Anthony took a fancy to my harmonica, and over the bet few days would come over especially to have a play (although I'm guessing he simply craved basic company). The more this kid appeared on our doorstep however, the more cocky, annoying & invading he became. A real pain in the arse. The situation peaked one night as M&M and I were cooking dinner, when he began demanding fruit and other possessions that belonged to us. Since he hadn't gone to school that day, we used this as our excuse to refuse, from which he replied with a disturbing formula for accumulating his fortunes in the future. When a 9 year old kid starts preaching the benefits of cocaine trafficking, you know there is a serious, fermenting problem. Kids don't lie. They don't yet know what should be kept to themselves, or what or not is considered to be "cool." They are a product of their surroundings, and obviously he'd bared witness & been encouraged into this kind of behaviour somewhere down the line. I kicked him out when he started mimicking beating up his woman and locking her in his bedroom to remain there at his own disposal...charming.

Days passed on by with constant rain, a procession of continuous downpours. I'd been lucky up until now with the weather, and this was the first time I had to actually sit and wait for the madness to subside. Everything became putrid to the senses. Clothes refused to dry. A mix of salt water and an endless, engulfing humidity turned clothes into rotten rags, flaky to the touch. When the sun finally broke free once again through the clouds, I took on a new appreciation of this magical place, revelling in the tranquillity I'd previously been taking for granted. I had to make the most of it. Back on the reef!! The diving around Little Corn just kept getting better. Hearing it was calm enough to dive over the eastern side, I jumped at the opportunity. And thank the Lord I did! Although brief, I got my hammerhead. Man, those things move! My lumberish motions again resembled that of a sloth in comparison to the sleek slicing manoeuvres of this menacing beast underwater. Next we took off south to a spot called yellowtail, possibly the prettiest of all sights I've now dived, with its fun tunnel resembling sand channels, breaking up the colourful corals. Above us swam hundreds of jack fish & barracuda, all entangled in one giant multi-specied school. Then out of no where came these two enormous loggerhead sea turtles! I kid you not, these things things were as big as a small car, and gracefully glided towards us without a worry in the world. To my absolute bewilderment, one just kept on coming, swimming so close I could have reached out to touch it. The animals size gave me the shudders, and I felt there was a shared moment of curiosity as he swam on past me, his own right eye transfixed to mine. Insignificant maybe for him, it's a moment I know I'll never forget.

Loggerhead Sea Turtle!!

I hung about back on the beach for the rest of that afternoon, enjoying time lounging around with my ladies who I know classed as close friends. It's amazing how well you get to know someone when you're spending every passing hour in each others face. There's not much chance for reprieve, and you can't hide the bullshit. That night I went out for a night dive; a daunting prospect in theory due to my obvious lack of experience, and it felt utterly wrong rolling over the back of the boat, returning to the warm waters as the sun set on another enthralling day. I couldn't see a thing. I think I may have got a dodgy light, and the first few minutes took some getting used to. You feel quite enclosed, weightless inside a small cardboard box, which completely blacks out all source of light and throws your sense of gravity and direction totally out of wack. It wasn't until we sat on the bottom and switched off our flashlights that the spectacular even truly began. After a few minutes, stars appeared out from the darkness. As I moved my hands, trails of fairy dust recorded my motions. I was surrounded by the heavens, an apparition of the night sky, or another dimension. I'm finding it hard to describe, but it almost felt like I was in some stage of limbo. Pre-death. Or maybe the best drug trip you will ever have. The "stars" we were seeing are actually bio-luminescent micro-organisms known as the string of pearls, and apparently they solely appear here in the Caribbean. What a treat. We began to swim through "the sky". Flipping onto my back and kicking wildly seemed to have the best effect, sparks shot out behind me trailing my progress. I let all these sensations take over and simply went with it. Then as if I were actually dreaming, BOOM! the lights came back on and the stars were gone, burning now only in that euphoric sub-level of my memory.

On my second last day, M&M and I climbed the lighthouse situated at the highest point of the island to watch the sunrise. The vista before us was majestic, and it felt like a fitting farewell to my long, spontaneous visit here to Little Corn. You always know when it's time to go, but it helps push you along when there's only one ferry out on the weekend for the next five days. It was "bye, bye" to the island, and "bye, bye" to my favourite foreign chickadees. I almost broke down with a moment of unusual emotional sensitivity. But it wasn't due to leaving the girls behind, since I knew I was bound to run back into them, even in as little as a few days - it was more the realisation that I'm always going to be that detached lonely soul, aimlessly wandering about without an actual purpose. These girls, like so many others I have met along the way, share something special and admirable in their impenetrable little duo, that I feel I've maybe never had and never will. It's my own fault. I myself hold the key to breaking this imposing impossibility, if only I was willing to let it happen. Companionship is the essence of life, and it took hanging out with these two dashing Danish lasses for two weeks in the middle of the Caribbean to realise it. What a dick I am.

My Danish Babes

Sunday came. "All aboard the Bluefields Express!!" I was gone. The ride between islands had left me with six hours to kill before the ferry, and I spent them finding cheap deals on bread and bananas...By the time I got back to the dock, the boat had been loaded up with three cars!! People's hammocks were slung out over the sides of the railings, dangling dangerously above the water. Luckily (or unluckily??), I had no such valuable possession, so I simply claimed my place like a king at the bow of the vessel. I even found a cardboard box which greatly improved my level of comfort. At precisely 9 o'clock we took off into the surrounding darkness, and to begin with the motions weren't all that bad. A group of us sat nearby to where I was sleeping and played some songs on guitar, before everyone grew weary and made it back to their beddings. Shit got hectic, and I got little sleep that night. I was constantly being thrown laterally from side to side, finding it necessary to hold on to any kind of fixed object at any one time to keep myself from bouncing up of the deck and landing hard back on my head. Occasionally spray would make its way over the front of the boat and drench me entirely, although the ocean breeze had a way of drying my sheets before it got too cold. The morning snuck up unexpectedly fast, and the cruise along the river proved quite pleasant in contrast to the violent open seas. The sunrise over the strange surrounding vegetation was a just reward, and we arrived into Rama after a tedious 12 hours on the water.

My Cargo Ship to Rama

More fun was yet to come. After some breaky, we jumped straight onto a crammed long distance bus back to Managua. Actually I nearly missed the bus when I went to take a piss! It just took off, with all my things on board, and I had to chase it on down the street, cursing and banging on its side to draw attention. That bus sucked. It was hot, with little air flow, and it seemed like we stopped at every village at least three or four times. Oh well, that was a nice little adventure. There was no way I was staying around in Managua for another night, so I took off to León, a much nicer destination. And now here I am, safe and sound after just clocking 70kph down the face of an active volcano on a piece of plywood. Our guide claimed to have reached up to 90kph once or twice before!!! But then again, he'd also once or twice broken his collar bone among other numerous stints in a Nicaraguan hospital. Insane.

Volcano Boarding!!

I look forward to chatting again soon my friends. Be safe, but keep your sanity.

Ta Ta & so long now!!
The Baddest of the Maddest Dawgs,
Captain Morgan. xx


Pissing on Iguanas, San Carlos
1st May, 2012

A'ight. So begins another chapter of my supersonic southern odyssey. A fresh start. The long road will often decide when to drift into repetitiveness, but only you can renew those revolutions with one refreshing revival. I'm sitting on the shores of the Rio San Juan, in the small town of San Carlos, waiting for immigration to do its thing. Hopefully I'll make it into Costa Rica later on today, sooner rather than later, but my temperament has come to accept the velocity in which shit moves along in this country. I'm burnt...utterly wrecked to be honest, and the overnight haul on the ferry from Isla de Ometepe hasn't boosted my moral in the slightest. Only recently have I began to feel the toll of these travels in the tropics, more so from leading the once enviable life of a typically reckless, wayward backpacker; but I feel like its time for a shift in direction. Is it possible to live off raspberry fanta & corn flakes, gallo pinto & Toña?? Somethings gotta give. I feel it's way too early to be already counting the costs & enveloping the mess.

Arriving into San Carlos on Sunrise

León got left behind in a manic flutter gust of disillusion. Had I even been there?? Maybe not. I'm sure it would be easy enough to invent such a place, creating a hybrid city concoction based around all the other hot, crumbling hovels I'd pushed on through. To be fair, it wasn't such a nasty place, more that I was in a horrible state of disrepair, still adjusting to being back on the mainland after my long stint of relaxation out in the Caribbean. It wasn't long before I was continuing onwards, sharing a lift to Granada with two Israeli lasses who taught me everything to know about the Lebanon war, the Lebanon war II, the south Lebanon conflict, the Palestinian uprising, the Palestinian Gaza conflict, the second Palestinian uprising and of course, all the good things to do when splashing about in natural springs on their days off. On arrival I treated myself to a hearty plate of rice & beans...Oooo baby I love a good staple.

More so, Granada actually proved itself worthwhile. Much more comfortable and easier on the eyes than León, it reminded me in a way of a BBQ'ed version of Antigua; swirling swarms of gnats thrown in at no extra cost. I wandered the central park, checked out the churches, and ambled on through the markets before slogging it down to the lakeside. Later at the hostel I ran back into my two Danish chickadees, bright-eyed & seemingly buzzed up from all the sporadic, senseless shopping they'd been ripping into. At once I was glad I'd done the gash-dash. I don't think I've ever seen two people accumulate so much shit over such a short period of time. What was worse, it took until late afternoon the next day to have it all sent back home across the Atlantic, while I sat patiently outside the post office, waiting around like the timid fool I was for this prophesied mish to the coast, which was looking more & more as if it would never eventuate. Would the golden gods, just this one time - "please, please answer my prayers..."

It's true, somehow we did make it out of that place; but where the fuck was my head at?? Had it lost its way alone somewhere back in Guatemala?? Or did I take one to many oranges to the head? I wasn't acting myself. Ever since Mexico, I'd been hearing whispers about this hostel in San Juan del Sur called the Naked Tiger, apparently a place so cool that travellers had been known to divert their entire trips solely to hang out at this place. On first impressions it's hard to dismiss their reasoning. Perched high in the hills overlooking the entire town & rugged surrounding coastline, this 'hostel' feels more like your best mates place - or what would happen if your best mate owned a mansion, let everyone move in & run a muck, then let the wild & wackness of the drunken imagination create the ultimate house-party paradise. Its hard to say no to a free beer on arrival. It sure sucked me in and got me a little too excited, and it now seemed as though not much surfing was to be had in this town after all.

Boris @ The Naked Tiger, San Juan del Sur

Friday night was party night!! Actually, every night at the Naked Tiger was party night. I had to give that, if anything to the owners - I have no idea how they sustain themselves or stay motivated; they live one hell of a destructive lifestyle in that place. After way too many pre-dusk schnapps, we still felt it was a great idea (isn't it always) to make the late journey into town. The hostels shuttle dropped us off & we got boot scootin'. The Iguana Bar was pumping!! I vaguely remember meeting up with the two Israeli girls & Boris, who I hadn't seen since the Corn Islands, and at one point it looked like the whole second floor was about to cave in from the collective mass of party-goers leaping about in all kinds of revelling mannerisms - I was to become one of those statistics written about briefly in the side column of the world news. I can read the tiny headline now: "165 Killed in Nicaraguan Nightclub Disaster." Would anyone even be talking about it past dinner time?? I highly doubt it. Tut, tut people...

Of course AC/DC had to come on...and of course I was up on the table ranting & chanting 'TNT' in one giant, balls out rock-off with the rest of the club. Aussie pride?!? Nuts, I had to take a piss, but the line was backed up along the wall five drunks deep! Man, it's a horrible feeling. I'm about to conceive this as a metaphor like finding yourself strung out on heroin - sometimes you've just gotta do what you've gotta do; and I couldn't have cared a less about the consequences of my actions. I had my hit, and what a hit it was. THE BEST! I pissed straight over the roof from the second floor down onto the street below...little did I realise in my drunken state that this also happened to be the same side of the building where the front door is...where bouncers wait in meat-head anticipation - to stop respectable young patrons such as myself having all means of fun. It was an accident, but a big one. No bouncer likes getting rained upon from above, especially when it comes out from some drunken white gringo wearing an 'Elmo lost his pigmentation' shirt.  I was fucked. I tried to blend, but they got me. Of course they got me!! They always do. In hindsight I came out of this situation pretty well. They grabbed me violently, almost ripping poor Elmo in two & chucked me out onto the street. No more Iguana Bar for me tonight. Haha! I did try to walk back in though. It really is just a matter of time...

That is about as much as I remember first hand. Apparently from here I managed to run into someone else heading back up to the hostel, and they dragged me back to where the last shuttle was leaving. Clambering aboard, I was in the jolliest of moods, sitting precariously up on top of the trucks racks, dangling like a spider. I hadn't been able to do that sober earlier in the day. I was superman.

The next day sucked. Not so super now. I spent the day rotting on the couch, slamming BLT's & floating upside down in the pool trying to kill myself. This was the point when I realised the craziness had to stop. All is well and good when you start out on a trip - I mean before I left I was in the best shape of my life, so I had a buffer to mess with; but months have now passed and I haven't exactly been one outstanding representation of sustainable living. The next day I took off. I got out of that death trap - scribbled my farewells on the wall & made a pact with the resourcefulness of my mind. "I will protect you." What should I do?? I'll a climb volcano on the largest freshwater island in the world! Booyah!! Bring it on.

I made my way to Isla de Ometepe along with three Quebecan lads I'd met in San Juan. We could see the twin volcanic cones rising sharply up out from the encompassing waters as we sat around sucking mangoes on the beach, waiting for our boat ride. As we approached the island, the enormous, symmetrical massif of Volcán Concepción became intimidatingly apparent. It was definitely 'in your face', and dominated the scenery from every angle. After a few games of pool using a broom handle & two 8 balls, we crashed out for the night on the floor. I was woken early to an evacuation siren blaring about, having me think the volcano was exploding! I'd had a similar late night freak out once before in New Zealand, when I thought an earthquake was bringing down the town around me. It turned out to be no more than a late night arrival hopping up into the top bunk. Again this time, another false reason for panic, the 'siren' was simply the alternate alarm option on Dom's phone to make sure we woke up - the other 'bird call' option had failed to snap these blokes to attention on previous occasions, ever engulfed in the strange surroundings of animal clad jungle. Now awake, it was time to do things! We munched upon some tuna sandwiches and began our hike up the hill. Unfit or not, I don't know; either way it was a constant, sweaty climb! By the time we reached the centre crater lake I was dripping like a tap, the humidity was engrossing. But at least I'd been moving, and I felt better than I had in weeks! What more, the views across Ometepe were mesmerising. I love being in the mountains.

Sunset on Isla de Ometepe

So never fear, I'm not actually depressed. Things are always bound to go up & down, round & round, it's just a matter of how you handle the ride. Now I've got all that out of my system, I'm even feeling a lot less agitated about all this fucking waiting around. There has actually been some pretty funny shit going down behind all the chaos. Looking out across the river once again has me brimmed with a new excitement. Nicaragua has been a whirlwind; a combination of extreme highs and lows, but I'm about to cross into Costa Rica for Christs sake. How could I be pissed off?? Sure beats making teeth!!

Ciao, ciao chicos!!
Much love from this PocketRocket!!
xxxx