Traveler Medical Conditions: SDS

A guy was selling toilet paper by the roll. Doing a steady business, too. Smoke from grilling tortillas was heavy in the air, even in the thick greasy exhaust of buses barely managing to keep their combustion internal, and I watched a succession of men honk their horns in childlike rage, then completely ignore it when someone behind them did the same.

From here, I love that Nicaraguan bus yard with a traveler’s affection. But at the time, my initial eagerness deflated by five days of wondering what I was doing wrong, a case of First Destination Syndrome caused by stowaway expectations that had evaded my defenses, I was just kind of moving through it. No longer hoping for adventure, I’d be happy to arrive in one piece.

When my bus came it was packed with hot human meat, my thighs now sweating worse than any of it. And when I climbed out on the side of the highway and the waiting taxi wanted too much to take me over the hill, I bargained him down to half the distance for a quarter the price, annoyed at having to do so.

I think I may have been a bit grumpy as I started walking down into the volcanic crater of Laguna de Apoyo.

But glimpses of too-blue water between the boisterous trees were little shots of joy that entered through my eyes to slide down my spine and lighten my feet. And it felt like bliss when I finally dove off the dock into the old cold of water that doesn’t remember being anywhere else. (Apoyo is an endorheic basin, meaning it has no outflow, just evaporation, and given that it’s about 23,000 years old, I’d imagine some of those molecules sliding around swimming feet have been there awhile.)

Then came delicious food. And solar embraces while I read a good book. The moon at night, monkeys in the morning, and butterflies all day long. The FDS of Leon had been cured. Or replaced? Updated.

Second Destination Syndrome:

Small things lift your mood like cosmic elevators, as gratitude shows itself to be the most powerful force on Earth. Street food starts tasting like authenticity, and you can increasingly differentiate between the hucksters and the genuine. Lower expectations have cleared away your barricades, and positive draws positive, calm creating kind.

Maybe you sing. Dance easier. Smile whenever, and frown almost never. The furrowed brow of affluent discontent doesn’t fit in your bag anymore. The world is as it is, and you’re blessed to get to see it. Prepackaged postcard notions from advertising minds and peer pressure polishing can best be used as toilet paper. You’re not in their idea, you’re in your reality, and you know what? It’s better out here.

The smell of rot under the bushes, a song you’ve never heard before, street dogs dying in alleys, and the mingling senses of possibility and vulnerability. You’re just where you are, as it is, and as you feel.

And it’s everything you could have wanted.

Where do I go now?

Why do I feel so antsy lately? There are approximately 196 reasons, depending on how you count, but one stands out, and it's time it came out of the closet. Nope, no discussion of sexuality here, I'm still depressingly heterosexual, I mean the closet in a much more literal sense.

Lunchtime in Leon

It felt like dropping a beloved friend off at prison when I put my backpack on the shelf in my closet. I mitigated the pain by whispering “Don't worry baby, it may not be long...”

To my surprise I am committed to living in a fixed place for a while, and the pack is getting juuust a bit dusty.

So why so antsy? Because I am human, ergo I want both sides of every coin. Of course I want to have this cake and eat it too, can there be a more appropriately ridiculous expression? I want to have this home and leave it too.

I seem to have misplaced my pics from
Mexico and Guatemala at the moment,
so these are all Leon, Nicaragua

“But no!” I scolded myself without deliberation or articulation, “you need to settle down and stay put.” As with most arguments, this was needlessly fixed in its opposing positions, and it wasn't until this cup of chai that I realized I CAN have both, just with a little adaptation. I can't follow my beloved tact of buying a one-way ticket to a continent of Tantalus dreams, packed to go until I stop, but I can still travel. I'm thinking...two weeks?

The thought of pulling that bag off the shelf is erecting my bloodstream and stiffening my anticipation. My pupils are dilated in preparation of visions and vistas. So where do I go? There are approximately 196 options, depending on how you count.

It's gotta speak another language, and I don't want to forget my Spanish, so I'm thinking Latin America, which is una coincidencia muy buena for physical proximity.

I'd LOVE to go to Honduras or El Salvador, but trips there without an organization-endorsed purpose are purportedly a matter of hiding in one's hotel room the bulk of the time.

If I go all the way to South America I won't want to leave after only two weeks, and I fairly recently traversed Central Nicaragua down through Costa Rica and Panama. I've spent some time in Mexico's Yucatan, but have not yet been to Oaxaca, a land of colors, textures, and culture that has long called to me. (And has enough rumors of danger to keep me pleasantly on edge.)

I did a solid loop through Guatemala a few years back, but much has changed since then, within the country (for the worse) and within myself (for the better).

And finally Nicaragua, where I missed the northern section, which includes the “recently discovered” Somoto Canyon, where Jerry hurt his knee and you deal with locals more than tour companies as you swim through slot canyons and rappel into ravines.

Where do I go?

Mexico – Oaxaca

Mexico – elsewhere

Honduras/El Salvador

Guatemala

Nicaragua – north of Leon (with the option to cross the border into Honduras/El Salvador if the vibe and local reports condone.

Again, vote on the wordpress version of this blog.

What happens to men like Rudi?

Rudi worked as a truck driver for decades, meaning he was on the highways throughout the Sandinista-Contra years. In his mid-fifties he was laid off, and now no one will hire him because he is only four years from retirement, which a new employer would have to pay for.

“At first I stayed home” he told me. “But that was...no good.” He looked down at his feet when he said this, and his voice was quiet. “No good.”

He paused, looked around with tired eyes. His mouth moved a little, but no words came out. His cheeks were sun-lined and rough with a light growth of stubble, turning grey. He doesn’t shave every day anymore. His eyes were dark, watery, but looked at the world with the steadiness of one who knows what his life is, and does not run from it.

“So now I come here. Sometimes somebody will pay me a few cordobas to go pick something up, or take it somewhere...” He trailed off.

Another man, another park,
same Leon afternoons

We sat in silence for a moment, me trying to think of something to say, he lost in memories. Then a sound like violence annihilated the somnolent stillness.

Twice daily, 7:00 AM and 12:00 noon, the city of Leon pays tribute to the cotton factories of the past by blaring the air raid siren that used to summon and dismiss workers. The trees shivered and the pigeons scattered like shrapnel. I imagined the plaster must be flaking off the colonial facade of the cathedral behind me. Rudi and I looked at each other helplessly, eyes squinting shut against the aural assault. Just another thing to be endured.

After all, there's nothing like a mind-erasing factory wail to remind you that you no longer have a job.

Once the echoes in my head subsided, I asked my new friend where the best place was to buy a batido, the fruit smoothies that the gods gave to Latin America out of remorse for the heat, and invited him for one.

Leon's parque central where Rudi spends his days

We walked, Rudi’s steps slow and steady, no need to rush anymore, to a collonaded room where a bored high schooler stood behind a chipped white counter. We ordered two pineapple batidos and sat directly under the ceiling fan. We drank the chunky sweetness and conversed as well as we were able given that my Spanish was still dusting itself off, and he had the thick accent of an elderly local who has lived his whole life in the same place.

When we were done I shook his hand and said goodbye. As I walked away I turned to watch him for a moment and he shuffled back to the park. What happens to men like Rudi?

Julie and Arturo

I gotta head for the bus station in a minute, but first I wanted to put my favorite French people on here real quick (sorry, Monsieur Depardieu).

I met Julie and Arteur...Arthuer...Aurxtheourx...

Sorry, how do you spell "Arthur" in French? Nevermind, I'm in Latin America.

I met Julie and Arturo on the morning of the volcano hike (though I had noticed them the night before, cooking their spaghetti on a backpacking stove, like real backpackers, while I sauntered down to order a banana milkshake).

Julie was brushing her teeth above the bug apocalypse, and her eyes shone as she asked if I had hiked the volcano. (I soon realized that her eyes just always shine.) They were hiking it that day too, without guide, and would see us up there.

They are a hardcore pair, and we never saw them en route, but there they were at the big scenic mud puddle on top, relaxing in the sun, not looking particularly tired.

The sinks in the morning,
where we were brushing our teeth.

They are seven months into a thirteen month trip that will take them from Patagonia to California. They were the type of chill folks who never brag about their trip, but in legitimately linked comments I got the impression they've had quite a time.

Linked comments:
Me: "How was your guys' bike ride today?"
Arturo: "It was very nice, beautiful. Difficult though, with lots of hills."
Me: "Not too scary? No cliff edges?"
Arturo: "No, not really." (While wearing that shirt in the picture, for the "Death Ride" in Bolivia.)
Me: "Not like the Death Ride."
Arturo: "No, that was scary. We did it for my birthday."

Unlinked comments:
Arturo: "These tortillas are good."
Me: "Yes. You know who else likes tortillas are the drug runners in the Guatemalan border town I found myself stranded in, see what happened was..."

Unfortunately, they are headed north, while I am heading south, buuuut, they will eventually end up in San Francisco, so if any of you SFers want to give them your phone number/email and maybe get burritos or let them couch surf with you, they come with my fullest recommendations. (I am carrying a massive karma debt for all the hospitality I've received, so while I can't pay it off myself yet, I feel a desire to facilitate other people's payments.)

Oh, and Mom, I already gave them your number.

A quick game of catch-up...

The classes in Las Salinas de Nahualapa went pretty well. They were good kids, all very attentive, even taking notes for the most part, but getting them to talk was harder than a mango pit baking in the sun. (I have those on the brain right now.) After class one tall fellow shyly asked when my next lesson would be, which made my heart swell, then shrink when I told him there wouldn't be one.

My room in Las Salinas, far better than village average
because of the concrete foundation (normally dirt). (Behind,
not the palapa with hammock.)

Las Salinas was nice, and I enjoyed being off the tourist loop, but the need to be in Bogota by the end of next month combined with the nightly process of killing bed bugs to have me up early Saturday morning for the bus out. I managed to be fairly cavalier about the bed bugs, convincing myself there weren't many (as if I don't know better) and I had a better situation than anyone else in town, but that got harder to maintain when I turned off the light and lay down...and every shift of air made me turn on the flashlight to check my ankles.

I told the farm folk I was leaving the next morning, and Karen-from-New-York wanted to head to Isla de Ometepe too, so she met up with me the next morning. We asked Jaconda, my hostess, when the next bus would arrive, and she pointed at the road "right now."

I flung my toothbrush in the bag, and my farewells to Jaconda's family over my shoulder, and ran out to the bus, my shirt unbuttoned and flip flops flapping. A few dusty bus hours, in which I wrestled between the urge to guard my bag versus giving up the seat for standing women and elders, then we were on a "lancha" boat on Lake Nicaragua.

It was definitely a boat for work, not show. (Just like the dogs.) It seemed somehow more handmade than any other boat I can think of; three men raised the anchor by hand, no winch system here, no words of communication or coordination necessary; a leathery man with a square jaw pumped the bilge with a chipped tree branch for most of the crossing. There was a space in the middle for baggage, loaded with one of those ubiquitous plastic carry-all bags, a stack of a dozen bicycle tire rims, and a decrepit cardboard box that was originally for 20 pieces of pork, 19.5 kg, though its present contents are anyone's guess.

Finca Magdalena and Volcan Concepcion,
not the one I hiked.

The other tourists on board stare ahead at the panorama of the island's two volcanoes, the locals prop themselves against something and fall asleep.

We haggle a seat in the shuttle bus waiting at the dock and end up at Finca (farm) Magdalena, a coffee plantation cooperative of 24 families with a hostel in the old barn/farmhouse. The floors are creaky and evocative, the bathrooms are in the converted stable, and howler monkeys out back get riled up at dawn and dusk.

Howler monkeys chillin' in the heat

Anyone hearing howler monkeys for the first time would be forgiven for asking "There's a Hollywood sound stage in the middle of the jungle? What kind of monster movie are they rehearsing? Dinosaurs?" "Howler" monkey is not really the most accurate name, but "Demonically Grunting Monkey" is less euphonic.

The nightly bug apocalypse

There is an amazing density of large flying, clicking, crashing insects every night, and every morning one is greeted by an insect apocalypse on the bathroom floor. A smiling man sweeps them into a pile of impressive iridescence after he empties the garbage cans in each stall of the used toilet paper (which is never flushable in Nicaragua). Inside one of the stalls is written (in Dutch no less) "spitter spieter spaaater, het is poep maar het lijkt als waaaater." Do you need me to translate that for you? ("Lijken" means "to look like"...)

Another accommodation option.

My room was decently sealed against bugs, but luckily there's a fan. The best anti-mosquito measure here is to sleep with a decent breeze running over you. There was a mosquito net hanging from the roof...but it wasn't large enough to span the bed, and had a gaping hole in the top, right under the insect-magnet of the light, which would result in a virtual insectile highway when used in combination. Instead I used neither, staying outside until bedtime then operating by flashlight, as briefly as possible.

Volcan Maderas, the one I hiked.

The volcano hike was strenuous, followed by a long day of walking to and from the beach, stepping over the surprising density of dead fish on the sand, most of whose faces had been eaten off by the spoiled vultures lurking overhead. One decent sized eagle/falcon of some sort was around too, though it flew off in a huff when I called it a chicken for being so camera shy.

The return ferry (named after Che Guevara no less) was bumpier, crossing a lake with whitecaps and waves that look you eye to eye over the rail, yet somehow manage to never do more than speckle us with droplets. (The lake is rougher than most, since the wind sweeps in off the Pacific, then crashes into the Caribbean trade winds over the lake.)

A rush through Rivas including a visit to the single most unfriendly post office I have ever seen (and that is saying something) at which the lady takes my money and postcards, then flings the latter under the counter, without putting on any stamps. (So K, padres, brother, sister, Ed, and Jen, let me know if your post card ever arrives).

Then it was a hurried goodbye to the French couple (see next blog, hopefully) and Karen as I climbed onto my bus, though Karen jumped on a minute later to pass me a pork taco, which carried me over until Costa Rican dinner, and went perfectly with the little baggie of chocolate I'd just bought.

All the details and experiences are beautiful, but it's the people one meets and friends one makes that are the highlight of traveling.

Laundry first, then a siesta. Sound good?

(I forgot to post this one, it goes back in Las Salinas, before Isla de Ometepe and the volcano.)

(That's Neo the Devourer of Men, sedated by the heat in front of the single street in Las Salinas de Nahualapa. The red and black on the electric poles are the Sandinista colors and are on nearly every pole, as well as most of the rocks, in the country.)

The long hot afternoon lolls indolently in front of me. What to do?

I prefer to do my laundry each day or two, so it’s quick/easy instead of an onerous task, plus it also allows me to bring less clothes. So I take my dirty laundry bag, plump with one each T-shirt, shorts, underwear, and the bag of soap, and my friend Karen shows me the thermal tubs where the locals wash their clothes.

In a glade of hot dusty sunlight village women are standing up to their ample thighs in the warm water, scrubbing clothes on the concrete washboards built alongside. It feels bizarre to climb into the warm water when the air is 170 degrees, and the locals (as usual) are peering at the white guy wondering why a male is washing his own shirt, but with a couple little girls wandering around as ice breakers, we are all soon chatting away as I scrub the bus sweat out of the armpits of my shirt.

Nicaragua is another country where people hang their clothes to
dry on barbed wire fences, this one across from the thermal springs.

There is a shallow swimming pool too, which looks gorgeous over there, despite the mud on the bottom, but then I remember it’s warm too. Instead Karen and I head back to our respective residences and agree to meet up after siesta-ing through the worst of the heat, planning to head to the (surfer)world famous Popoyo Beach afterwards.

The waves at Popoyo are supposed to be towering things, but if possible I desperately want to swim in the cool salt water. Plus it’s good for the heat rash which is slightly disfiguring a couple of my fingers and toes. How we get there will depend on the tide, if it’s low we can walk across the tidal flats, if it’s high we either have to walk around, or if we can finagle the canoe from the farm and paddle down.

I lay here sweating in bed during my siesta, wondering how I can possibly be lucky enough to find myself in this situation. Will I walk across the salt flats to the tropical beach, or shall I take the canoe?

Have I mentioned I love traveling?

Can I interest you in a beer? How about a volcano?

When you go to Italy you really should eat some pasta. When you go to Japan you really should visit a temple. When you come to Nicaragua, you really should climb a volcano.

My volcano is called Volcan Maderas on the southern half of Isla de Ometepe, the large pile of gorgeous sitting in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, located, conveniently enough, directly behind the farm/hostel where I'm staying.

So yesterday I got up at 6:00, washed my shirt and shorts at 6:30, ate breakfast at 7:00 of rice and beans (mixed they are called "gallo pinto" and are the staple Nicarguan food) with a scrambled egg and handmade corn tortillas, to be ready to follow the guide up the mountain at 7:30.

His name was Levis, a calm and quiet young man whose house will be finished in one week, he is looking forward to having his own place instead of living with his girlfriend's parents.

With us were Stefan, from Paris, who looked like either a computer programmer or a hit man; Karen, from New York, my new friend who came out with me from the rural town of Las Salinas where I taught a couple English classes; and Boris, from the Yukon, who has a bodybuilder physique, to the point that I suspect his abdominal muscles could throw a better punch than I could.

We started walking up a steady slope between fields of coffee and coconuts. The dry season heat was already fairly brutal, promising more, there was not a breath of wind, and the humidity was at least 100%. 200%? Is that underwater? Then 198%.

Burly Boris, no problem.

The sweat was soon dripping off of all of us, including Levis, which made me feel much better. No drier, but better.

The first part of the walk has rough steps, which we climbed steadily for the first hour. Imagine an hour on the stairmaster, but in a sauna. Did you bring enough water? Not unless there's a packhorse behind you.

We ascended above the stair-builders' reach, which was good. Stairs all the way to the top = child's play. I wanted more of a challenge. Silly, silly me.

Note Stefan's sweat, while Karen may be
having a breakdown.

The terrain got rougher, the slope steeper, the sweat drips steadier. We took a welcome break. Continued. Steeper, rougher. I have seen waterfalls with less flow than my upper lip. I was nice and shiny. The shirt barely made it out the gate, and spent the rest of the day draped over my shoulder under the strap of my messenger bag. At pauses I would wring it out. And I am not stretching the meaning of the word "wring."

After a good long walk we rested again, feeling proud of ourselves, and Levis told us we were at about 700 meters above the lake. The peak? 1400. We were halfway. Shit. Then I asked how high our starting point was. About 115. Less than halfway. Shit and shit.

The way got rougher, our party straggled apart, and I would find myself walking alone through the jungle, on the side of a volcano, along a path that was really just a watercourse carved out during the long rainy season, narrow ankle-breaking loose stones.

Getting harder.

We climbed into the clouds, which brought the temperature down a tad (don't overestimate the meaning of the word "tad"), though the limited sunlight meant the mud never really dries. I can't imagine doing this hike during the rainy season. My Teva's were soon mud-slicked inside, until I was basically ice skating with each step.

Advice note: don't wear Teva's when climbing a muddy volcano.

Actually, one surprise of the walk was that all of my beloved gear became my enemies. The sandals were trying to kill me. One of my best purchases ever was my Timbuktu messenger bag, which is normally ideal for allowing quick access and return to my camera, but it swung always in the way, smacking into every tree, rock, and howler monkey on the volcano.

Even my trusty blue linen shortsleeve shirt, which I've worn most of the days down here (and washed first thing most of the mornings) was falling off my shoulder, inevitably into a mud puddle, and generally making a nuisance of itself. When Karen asked how I was doing at one point, I could only get out past gritted teeth "I hate my possessions."

The cicadas were unbelievably loud.

But the jungle and hike were beautiful. Cicadas louder than car alarms, with brilliant irridescent colors, butterflies the size of birds, howler monkeys grunting in the valley bellow, giant fuzzy caterpillars whose hairs will mess your skin right up if you brush them. Levis was an incredibly intelligent guide, and even offered to switch shoes with me on the way down, although my masculine pride (i.e. stupidity) meant there was no way I was going to accept less than finishing what (and how) I started.

If it's on you: ok. You touch it: problem.

We eventually made it to the top, and Levis indicated a tree I could climb. I went as high as seemed safe. "You can go farther." I went farther. "No, farther, the branches are very strong." Farther. I pushed past some leaves and found myself looking down on the island from above the canopy.

I took a picture, which I'll upload when I get a better connection, though it doesn't come close to representing that feeling of popping one's head up above the canopy, on top of a volcano. Quite a feeling.

We continued down into the crater, which houses a lake reknowned for its surprisingly cold water. Oh, and someone mentioned something about mud I think.

I came out of the jungle, dropped my bag and shirt and flung off my would-be assassin sandals, and headed for the water. First step sank a few inches into sikly silty mud. Liquid dust. Next step sank farther.

Boris on the left, Karen in the middle, both in shock.
Levis the guide, all in a day's work.

Within a few steps I was up to my hips in mud. Another interesting sensation. I reassured myself that there are no water snakes here (although we did see a poisonous coral snake on the way back down) and went for it. Slogging. Slogging.

Some helpful Canadians (is there any other kind?) yelled from shore that the only way to do it was to go horizontal and swim. I slid down, and was soon paddling into the lake. Way out in the middle I reached my hand down to see...it was about two feet deep.

I would say you could walk across the lake, but you wouldn't be able to, the mud is much too deep for that. It was an odd feeling to be able to touch the bottom but suspect I could drown anyway. Now that would be a gnarly way to go.

In case you thought I was making it all up.

A quick snack lunch on the chicken sandwich I carried up from the farm, then the long descent, which felt brutal, but actually went faster, especially when chatting with Levis. All told it was just over seven hours of hiking, and I have rarely felt more tired in my life.

We got back to the farm in the pleasant warmth of afternoon, covered in mud and trying not to limp, and a cold beer has never tasted so good.

I sit here now, the next day, with a light sunburn on my shoulders and an achy knee, and plan on going beyond beer to drink every cold beverage the kitchen can produce. Next stop: banana milkshake thing.

Cheers.

First day of school in Nepa-, sorry, Nicaragua.

I got up this morning when the heat went from pressing my skin to punching it. The rainy season starts in a few weeks, but for now I sweat. During the bulk of the day the hammocks swing languidly, and the “pulperia” (mini-grocery) stores do a brisk trade in cool sodas.

My new friend came to collect me on her way to the school next door, where she valiantly tries to teach the kids yoga and art. The feeling quickly reminds me of Nepal, in its beautifully welcoming friendship and absolute chaos.

I am reminded again of the monumental task of US schools in converting children into factory workers who sit in orderly lines and obey.

Around 8:00 I follow Teresa, who works with the library, over to the school, where she gives me a tour and introduces me to the principal. They have two new buildings, though they can't use them until after the mayor comes down for an official opening and vote-securing hullabaloo & photo op.

I meet Alex, a large fellow with a kind face, who teaches English. He is initially wary, as are most English teachers I’ve met whose English is far from perfect when they meet a native speaker who claims to be an instructor. After I show him my sympathy and respect, the wariness fades and we chat comfortably. We decide I’ll help with a couple of today’s classes, then run my own lesson with half the 9^th graders tomorrow, the other half the day after.

We head to his first class and find them taking their final exams. Oops, miscommunication. Instead we stand around and chat some more. Did I mention it reminds me of Nepal? A moist-armpit hour later we walk into his second class to find the biology teacher beginning her lesson, the class laughs, we turn around and leave. Nnnnnepal. Nnnnnicaragua.

We go over the plan again for tomorrow. I will show up at 7:45 and take half the 40 9^th graders out to the covered area, where I will attempt a short lesson about baseball (Nicaragua differs from the rest of Latin America in that futbol is the second most popular sport after baseball. I've even seen a few Giants hats.) Then on Friday I’ll come back and take the other half.

I don’t really expect the lesson to work, but I am looking forward to the experience.

Love me them bus rides

First off let me say, if they find my body slumped over this notebook entry, dead with a big swollen knot on my back: it’s the wasp that done it.

This big feller seems to not want to leave my room, and when I told the boss lady what I was looking at she came in and took a couple swings at it with a towel, knocked it down behind my bed and pissed it off. Then she left. I’m just waiting for him to shake it off and come exact his waspy revenge.

It took most of the day to get here, Las Salinas de Nahualapa. The first bus was full by American standards and hot by pizza oven standards, while the second was equally hot but packed by sardine standards. I gave up my seat on the bench to a lady who was, shall we say, festively plump? Of impressive width? Hippopotamusly ample? On her lap she held a baby (another common condition) who was a scale model, and peered up at me from sharp eyes under a fleshy curve of forehead, then reached up her soft little bodybuilder arms and grasped at me.

I attempted to play/entertain, but the little Michelin critter had something in mind, though it took the toothless grandma in the seat across to translate it, that she wanted my water. Unable to refuse the adorable little behemoth I handed it over, she gummed the cap for a few minutes then fell sleep cuddling the bottle.

They really pack ‘em on those buses, and soon I was edged right out of the aisle into the airspace of a young couple sitting in the seat opposite, my culo hanging right in the poor young mother’s cara. The father looked out the window. The baby slept. I sweated and concentrated on being sublimely fart-free.

Soon there was no room to breathe, and a good deep breath would have been at someone else’s expense. I had an itch on my ankle I couldn’t scratch, which went from an itch to a generalized sort of soreness that eventually took me to a state of altered consciousness where I felt the burning along the soles of my feet but couldn’t think of anything to do about it.

A period of time longer than most summers passed, punctuated by occasional stops were they performed magic tricks which inevitably involved cramming even more people on the bus. The conductor guy would yell “get in get it, empty empty!” from where he hung out the open door, unable to get more than his toes inside.

I don’t mean this as a complaint, it’s another one of the “cultural experience” that one learns to love. And spending a couple hours pressing your crotch up against a stranger is a good way to make friends.

The engine chugged and rumbled, gears grinding their metallic agony. I nibbled the odds and ends purchased from the vendors who had eeled through the press as we loaded up in Rivas, and drank some sort of chocolate milk stuff from a little plastic bag after biting off the corner. The woman’s hair in front of me smelled like henna. The driver’s face was soggy clay expressionless except for one time he smiled the most radiantly happy smile I’ve seen in moons.

Then we were stepping down in Las Salines, I was meeting the radiant personages who run the library, school, and a farm. The sort of people whose service to their community and humanity is tangible holy. I briefly remember the missionary priest on the plane down from Houston who cut me off both getting on and off the plane.

Soon I was putting down my bag outside the room I’m now staying in, and chatting with the family while the mom cleans some stuff out. We sat in the ubiquitous plastic lawn chairs or long-service hammocks, talking about Nicaragua and giggling away from my attempts to get them to speak some English with me. I told them genuinely how happy I was to be here, especially to have the chance to get away from the tourist zones, where you can’t trust people as much, and into the countryside to meet authentic people. I think they took it as the gratitude and compliment that I meant it as.

And just that quickly

Did you figure out an answer to the question of how to be, how to help, who to believe and who to support? Me neither. But! The Universe provides.

I've been in a few of these places, small hands stretched out in cups, adult tongues weaving tales that I want to believe at face value...

The counterpoint was my experience in Nepal.

We were off the self-corroding tourist loop. The children were looking to me for information, teaching, maybe a tad of guidance (if I may be so optimistic/conceited). The adults listened, learned and taught in implicit authenticity.

I don't want to give a man a fish, I can't teach him to fish...but maybe I can teach him how to talk about it in English?

Three hundred seconds after this thought I am talking to someone and hear of a smaller town, with enough tourists to have accommodation/food, but maybe not so many as to corrupt the character. I think of that as the Green Zone. And the Beauty continues, there is a possibility of volunteering some teaching time.

I am immediately nervous at the prospect, my insecurities as a teacher returning (I can't make lesson plans for a whole classroom of kids! Different levels? Help!) but the prospect thrills me; can it be the perfect antidote to the malaise of hostel dorm rooms with their drunken sleepy farts and non-conversational indolence?

Suddenly the haze of disjointed confusion that I've felt since arrival clears a little. There are the stars! The music playing in the hostel is suddenly better (that one's purely objective) and I feel more myself than I have all week.

So tomorrow I will get up as planned. Ablutions as always. I will have breakfast, nearly as expected. Get on the bus I intended, but get off in a place I hadn't heard of until a few hours ago.

I love traveling. I love the Universe. Gratitude.

Morning walk. Evening walk.

Buenos dias my friend! Where are you from, Spain? France? Ah, America, I lived in Maryland. I am a tour guide, have you been to the islands? The market? The volcano? Masaya? I can take you there. I have a friend who has a boat, he is a very nice person, I will take you to the islands. We go to the volcanoes on the public bus then have to walk up to them, twenty dollars. I can take you into the market you can take pictures...I am making tours to make money for my daughters, I have three daughters, It is hard, there is no work, I want to make some money to be able to feed them, I don't drink, I need money for my three daughters, I had nothing to give them breakfast, can you give me something, we can put it against what you pay for a tour, my three daughters, I want to give them breakfast...



Que hora es? Espana? Italia? Oh America, you speak English? Good I like English. I speak it. I am from Mosquito Coast, I no speak Spanish. How long are you here? I come here from Mosquito Coast, I have beautiful bay, we fish for shrimp and lobsters, you should come to my village and we will eat shrimp and lobsters, you will see how we live, I teach children there, I work with orphans, I lost my wife and children in 1980 when they drop a bomb in my village so we take guns and we fight but now I am old, I no want to fight, you have map of Nicaragua? You should come to my village we will eat shrimp and lobsters, I teach children there but we have no map, you can have a map from the tourist office here but they tell me no, you can get a map from them, oh! You will get a map for me! One more block this way then over. Thank you, you are very good person! The government he says I cannot work because I fight but I want to buy seeds for beans to feed the children, one more block up and then over, I have sailing boat, you know how I have boat? I am out in my small boat last year and I find three Australians drifting in their boat, I bring them to land, they say we have money, get me to Managua, they fly home and give me their boat, but I no need boat, I make five more of them one more block up then one more over, we go this way...see that woman in green that is the tourism office I will walk ahead because I already went there and they say no...

Oh thank you for the map, let me show you where my village is, Bismuna, there, that is where I am from, to get here I first go to Waspan then to Bilwi then all the way to Granada, but I want to buy seed but he tell me I cannot work because I fight. How do they treat you in Spain? Here I have no water no food I go to ask for some water they tell me I am "negro" and give me no water, these donations, they are for the children, I am not a beggar, I come to buy seed then in few months I have food for the children, he say I cannot have seed, for a few pounds of seed I can feed the children, a pound of seed costs 15 cordoba in the market, they have seed, I am not beggar, there is car that will take me home tonight at 8:00, I have not eaten, I want to get some water and bread and go, I don't want to stay here, I was walking and I see tiger and elephant and then I see you and I ask you what time it is, you say you no have watch I say no problem, you remember? I will always remember how you walk how many blocks with me? I will never forget this, I have the map now for the children, here is my internet and phone number, you can call me free from USA, come and eat shrimp and lobsters, I work with orphans...here put it in my hat so people don't see, they will think me beggar.
Goodbye.


The skinny street kids, bare feet, torn clothes that don't fit, big brown eyes Senor, two dollar two dollar, their fingers point at the plate, food senor two dollar.
They can wait a long time. I mentally research through discussions of this in Nepal.
Fuckyou.


What do you do? What is real? What do our actions help or hurt?



Evening walks are worse.


The girl in knee-high black boots, little black vest, hair all done up, tight pants, standing on the corner. She looks at me with a sort of glaze on her eyes.

She can't be more than fifteen years old.

What's this wet spot?

I need a shower. But first a quick blog.

Made it to Granada yesterday with surprising ease. Only barely got lost finding the hostel (just overshot it at first by half a block) and met up with my old friend, catching up on the lives of people I haven't seen in years. Good day.

I'm still adjusting my reality to traveling. Physically I am sporting my nice sunburn (recovering from that Belgian sun's kindness, I guess) and two sets of blisters, one from the sandals the other from the flip flops. I started wearing my shower flip flops out after Jenny (of need-to-dance fame) laughed at my "Jesus shoes" (they're Teva's for crying out loud) and how us Americans wear the worst footwear.

And I'm adjusting my notions of behavior to accept the 20 person dorms. Like the guy in the bunk above me last night who woke up at 4:30 AM, rummaged around shaking the bed until I was well awake, ponderously climbed down and went through his locker next to my head with his flashlight shining in my eyes, left, came back, climbed back up, fiddled, climbed down, locker, then finally left.

This morning I opened my eyes to see a big wet red patch on the mattress next to me. Too light to be blood, but far too dark to be water. Not the best first sight upon waking, gotta love bunk beds.

But I talked to him a bit ago and it is shampoo. Whew. I think he felt bad because he spent the next 20 minutes giving me every tip he knows about this area, so tomorrow I may head down to some relatively deserted islands...once I put out of my mind the story the other guy told me about getting robbed by three dudes with masks and machetes on the beach just outside San Juan del Sur.

Good old traveling! Now, time for that shower.

Do I really have to leave Eden?

I wasn't sure I wanted to leave Leon... I'm definitely sure I don't want to leave Laguna de Apoyo.

Monkey Hut, my hostel home for the last couple days.

But I'll be on the 11:30 bus out of here to Masaya, where I hope to have time to wander around the gigantic artisan market (even though I can't buy anything), although that will depend on how long it takes me to get there and how my backpack feels on these sunburned shoulders I acquired... From Masaya I'll catch another one to Granada, where I'll meet up with an old friend.

I know approximately one person in Latin America, who lives in Costa Rica, and I wasn't sure I'd have to chance to visit her. Life being a beautiful and bizarre thing, she was already coming to Granada today to renew her Costa Rican visa. Timing like that always makes me think I'm on schedule, in a grand cosmic sense.

Having something particular to head towards helps (don't underestimate the appeal of meeting a friend on the solo traveler) but I am already starting to miss this place. So I'll enjoy my breakfast, sitting in the chair on the left, although I think I'll pull it back into the shade.

Stupid sunburn.

Jerry

Jerry is my only roommate in the dorm looking out over Laguna de Apoyo. He's a quirky fellow, mid sixties, sun-browned from dozens of trips in Latin America, and mentioned within a few minutes of meeting that he has no interest in reading blogs or interacting with the internet beyond a single monthly email to his sister, who in turn updates the family that he's still alive.

He's sitting on his lower bunk when he tells me this, his leg stretched out in front of him and a massive ice pack slumping all over what is clearly a very swollen left knee.

"I tell them I'm okay. I don't tell them my knee is hurt, what can they do about it? Why should I tell them that? I tell them I'm okay, that's it."

His statements are usually very emphatic, in English or in Spanish. Far be it from me to criticize anyone's accent in any language, but his Spanish is the sort of enthusiastic pronunciation of letters that I can't help but smile.

"I don't like traveling with people my age, or I end up doing only things that people my age do. They pull up to a beautiful place in a bus, take a picture out the window, and stay on the bus. Do they jump off the cliff in Somoto Canyon? (Which is how he hurt his knee.) No! I want to repel off cliffs!"

He mentions his male Nicaragua "friend" several times, and I can't help but wonder, although lately my gaydar has been going off like crazy so I'm doubting its accuracy here, but then he tells me about how he asked his friend out and the difficulties with the friend's girlfriend when he told them he was gay. His arms cross for a moment as he prepares himself in case I react poorly. Seeing that I have no problem with it he relaxes and our conversation continues.

Where I was sitting when I noticed my burn.

This morning we both woke up before 6:00 when our East-facing room was blasted with sunlight, and shockingly quickly I noticed a pink flush on my shoulders. I was only swimming for...a few minutes? So this evening I sit here with shoulders flaming like a damn flamingo. In Spanish they call us sunburned whitey tourists "cangrejos." Crabs. I am a frickin lobster.

I'm sitting next to Jerry and start to apply a second layer of aloe vera gel. "I'd offer to do that for you, but I just told you I was gay so I guess I shouldn't."

I reassure him that I don't get bent out of shape about that stuff and how proud I was of my brother when he came out at a young age. Before I know it he's jumped up, splurted a generous handful of gel into his hand and is rubbing me down. The staff at the table next to us suddenly finds whatever they're reading very involving.

"Don't worry, you're not Latin so I won't get aroused."

Not sure what to say to that but don't want awkward silence so I respond: "Uh. I'll try not to tan too much tonight then." How'd I do? What would you have said?

He rubs it in a little longer than strictly necessary and I thank him. "That's okay, I enjoyed it too." I can't think of anything to say to that. We go back to talking about traveling and I mention K offhand. Several times.

He looks slightly disappointed but our conversation never slows as we talk about Uruguay, Zambia, Corsica, Newfoundland, the Camino de Santiago, and only getting old when you decide you're old.

It was a pleasure to meet you, Jerry.

Leon to Laguna de Apoyo

Time to move on. I packed my bag (tidied really, I wasn’t there long enough to really unpack), said goodbye to the people I was just getting to know, and walked out.

Nicaragua has a clever little scheme going on. The bus routes leave from different stations, and they put them far enough apart to need a taxi to get between them. Clever clever, the taxi lobby must be powerful. Or they are just terrifically unorganized. That could be too.

Taxis always give me an icky feeling, from the juice of overcharging they always seep, to the guilt of riding along like a colonial elitist while the people on the street watch your white face float by. (This is countered by someone who worked in Peru for awhile who said “the locals take taxi’s the tourists always want to walk” but I haven’t quite come to terms with that.)

When I asked how to get to the bus station that handles traffic back to Managua (different from the one I walked to when I went to the beach) the hostel staff told me to take a taxi. Luckily my buddy Rudy had clued me in to the camionettas that run through the streets on their way out there.

(Crud, I just realized I didn't mention Rudy yet. He's a fellow I met in the Parque Central, laid off from his job as a truck driver at 52, no one will hire him now because they don't want to pay his retirement. So he goes and sits in the park "If I stay home, I do nothing. So I come here. Sometimes someone will pay me 10 cordobas (about 40 cents) to go pick something up in the market." He recommended a place to get a batido, like a fruit lassi/smoothie, and I bought him one. I enjoyed our halting conversation over our pineapple smoothies.)

Two camionettas passed as I was walking down the last block, so I posted up and waited for the next one. Once I put my bag down and sat, I actually started to feel like I was fitting in a little more. (I really cannot overstate the importance of packing lightly. A foreign face is already a lot to overcome, a giant mountain of a backpack just pushes you farther into the realm of an “other.”) I wouldn’t go nearly so far as to say I blended in entirely, but I felt like less of a sore thumb.

The pickup truck arrived and I climbed up into the back to sit next to an old lady with heavy-looking bags and across from a rather plump young woman with a sleeping baby slewing half out of her arm. The old lady stared at me with minimal interest, like I’m a puzzle she has long given up on solving but can’t help peering at anyway.

We drove through Leon, away from the downtown where the white faces congregate, out through small dirt roads where the bumps threw us against the metal frame holding the big blue tarp over our heads. There is poverty in America, but I really can’t imagine there’s a town like this in the “First World”, while they are the norm in so much of the rest of the world, varying in some details but familiar in so many. Naked children standing in dirt yards watching you pass. Pregnant women holding toddlers, watching you go by. A few crops in dry soil, heaps of smoldering garbage, stray dogs with short yellow hair and droopy teats. A sense of stasis in a world where the every day is something of a triumph.

We eventually pulled up to the bus station, wood fires making food for bellies and smoke for lungs and eyes. Stray dogs and their droopy teats. Vendors walking around shouting their wares over and over. Little bags of water. Bananas. Sweetcakes. The guy selling packs of toilet paper started to try and sell me one out of habit then we shared a chuckle. I ask if I can sit in one of the chairs for a moment, and the agelessly old woman cook behind the rickety counter jokes about how long of a moment it can be. She waves goodbye when I go.

Then I’m en route to Managua in a sweltering minivan, realizing as we leave town that we drove close to the station in the truck before heading out to the dirt streets, but I’m glad I had the reminder. Remind me next time I bitch about anything in a hostel.

After two hours of dozing we are all getting out into the chaos of UCA “station”, which is basically just a wide place in the road where the “interlocal” buses pull over. My next leg is in a sort of minibus, each ride is getting a bigger auto. The only seat left is the front, so I ride shotgun, a little old(ish) lady clambering up to sit next to me with her legs up on the dashboard since it’s not a proper seat with foot room. She reassures me she's comfortable.

After an immeasurable period of drowsing, during which I’m just glad none of my head bobs smashed into the lady ("ay! Lo siento por el headbutt!") I am dropped off on the side of the highway at the base of a road leading up. My guide book is a couple years old, so I don’t really expect the 15 minute ride to still cost 10 Cordoba (~40 cents) but when the shady looking driver kid spits and says 100 I balk. We end up settling on 40 and he’ll take me as far as he feels I’ve bought.

The road is steep and long, and doing it with my bag would have been an ordeal; not sure I would have made it by dark. He gets to the gates to what is now some sort of ecological sanctuary and says they charge him 25 cordoba to drive down, so to go farther I have to pay 50 more. He warns me that it’s an hour walk still to the hospedajes. If he hadn't been so shady at the start I probably would have paid.

I pass him 40 cordoba and get out, climb over the chain the guard lowers for me and ask him how far it is to the water. He tells me it’s about 3 kilometers, and seeing my relief cautions me “suave, suave.” Go slow, go slow, patting motions with his hands.

I start down the hill, and quickly glimpse blue between the branches. I am heading to Laguna de Apoyo, a freshwater lake in an expired volcano. It’s even more beautiful than it sounds. A few hours, a swim, and a good meal later, I am sitting here listening to the small lake waves on the rocky shore, nighttime crickets, and one of the cute older gay gentlemen playing his mandolin in a hammock. The bats come and go from their nests in the eaves over my head and there is a good stiff breeze, so I won’t have to slather my delicious ankles with mosquito repellent tonight.

I am one happy backpacker.

Good night.

Jenny's choices

To be honest, for the first couple days I knew Jenny, I might have used the word “mousey” to describe her.

She seemed to be in a shadow more often than everyone else, and our early conversations were halting and erratic things since the noise of the fan often overwhelmed her soft British accent.

That all changed on my last night in Leon. It was Wednesday, which is live music night for the fairly substantial population of foreign students studying Spanish in the city, and our hostel was invited by default.

It was adorable in a sweet sort of way; tables of youngsters, ecstatic to be overseas and surrounded by peers, crowding the benches of an uncommonly brightly lit bar (gotta keep tabs on those libidinous little monsters), their exuberant conversation bubbling over between overly loud covers of The Doors, Eagles, Jimmie Hendrix, and a set of ubiquitous songs whose names and bands I’ve never known but can sing along with anyway.

It being youngsters, with awkward limbs and broad Scandinavian smiles, the crowd preferred conversation to dancing. That is always fine by me (I’ll keep my own awkward limbs to myself, thank you very much) and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves until about 11:50 PM, when Jenny whispered to me that this was the worst bar she’d ever been in, all these people were losers for not dancing, and fuck them all, she was going looking for someplace to dance.

I should mention that Nicaragua is not really a party destination. Nearly everything is closed by midnight. In fact a night watchman comes around at 11:00 PM and shuts almost everything down, blowing his whistle indignantly in our window if the lights are still on. There were some muscley tattoed party boys there the first night who got kicked out for disturbing the neighbors with their late night conversation.

Our bar had clearance to stay open until midnight. Jenny had 10 minutes left when she decided to leave.

I am enjoying my time in Nicaragua, the prices are right and I haven’t worn a shirt in days, but it is not the sort of place a woman should walk around by herself at night. Or a man for that matter; when we left there were about a dozen of us and we piled into the cars of press-ganged helpers instead of walking the 5 blocks back to the hostel.

One look at Jenny showed she was not about to be dissuaded, and off she went into the night. We got home an hour later and she wasn’t there. I went to bed and lay in the stifling heat, expecting her to come in (her bunk bed was opposite mine) but nothing. Throughout the night I woke up a handful of times, each time peeking down to see if she was there. She never was.

Up the next morning, putter around, go out to breakfast, run a few last minute errands, go to the bank and pay my bill at the hostel. No Jenny. Not much you can do in that situation, although everyone looks at everyone else as if hoping someone’ll come up with something.

About 4 minutes before I left, my bag packed and on my back, I swung by the pool to take a picture and there sat Jenny at the clunky hostel computer, recently arrived. Sedate. She didn’t seem to want to talk, or make eye contact, and to my regret I wasn’t in a position to wait it out and see if she would.

It’s one of the dangers of traveling. Well, of human behavior in general, but perhaps it’s magnified while overseas in foreign places and cultures. Impetuous decisions, a necessary skill for the traveler, can be affected and super-powered by forces you didn’t know were there. I don’t know where Jenny’s night took her…all you can do is hope for the best future you can, for everyone.

International Haircuts, Part 8.

Hair cut country number…eight, I think. Nicaragua.

I had Nepal’s barberji on the mind as I walked into PIAF Internacional Peluqueria half an hour ago. In the door, reading a newspaper in a florescent green plastic stacking chair was a large fellow whose sleepy eyes didn’t resemble barberji’s burning orbs in any way. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or pleased by my appearance, a confusion that lasted the duration of my visit.

My usual vague description of “shorter on the sides and back, the buzzer is fine, and longer on top” was met with the customary familiar grunt. I should just say “the generic male, please” but I’m not sure how to say “generic” in Spanish.

To start, he combed my hair into something like a cross between a mohawk and an old school DA, then set about fine tuning the edges I assumed he was about to buzz away. He seemed to enjoy combing my hair, and continued doing so periodically throughout the procedure, which grew odder as the hair got shorter and the comb made less and less difference.

His fingernails were perfectly manicured, and they flew around above my head with little sweeps and flourishes like a somewhat sedated flamenco dancer.

Credence Clearwater Revival sang Born on the Bayou from the little radio on the desk, followed by a Spanish group heavily inspired by Pink Floyd.

I’ve never seen a barber so concerned with tidiness, frequently wiping his scissors and clippers off on my shoulders and jiggling the plastic cape thing, which was covered in Japanese script and odd line-sketches of severe women with bad haircuts.

We chatted about Leon, Nicaragua in general, and how it’s better to travel alone than with a guide. He informed me that the climate here has gotten hotter due to all the cotton they’ve grown in this part of the country.

And that was about it. I never know what to say in response when someone says “muy amable” (basically “you are very friendly”). You too? Iqualmente? Nice manicure? I settled for “thank you” and left, enjoying the breeze.