Smokes, Quakes, and a Giant

It is nearly impossible for me to meet my responsibilities to this web log AND be an attentive host to a visiting friend, especially if that friend has a rented car and a peripatetic passion to perambulate all over de place! My pal Tey and I spent many happy hours traveling  about the eastern portion of Nicaragua, as far south as possible (see last entry) and north to Matagalpa where we found German influences, coffee culture, and a rather uninspiring coffee museum.

After our day trip to the Costa Rican border, we spent Saturday traipsing up and down Vulcan Masaya, which was smoking pretty enthusiastically that morning, followed by stops in the Masaya Nuevo Mercado, and on to Granada for lunch and a look at the beautiful church in the town center.

Our next sojourn took us north to Matagalpa. Our destination was a restaurant/hotel/coffee estate called Selva Negra, or "Black Forest," yes, just like the pine forests in Germany. It seems a German family were so taken with this slice of their homeland that they bought the place and entered the coffee business, later expanding the operation to become a destination for both locals and tourists. They even offer a couple of German entrees on the restaurant menu. I had Wiener Schnitzel, and it was pretty dry. Tey had the sausages and pronounced them excellent. Near the dining area was a play space for children (happily empty) with several geese in residence. A big gander moseyed over and terrorized a foursome of German-speaking diners for a few minutes.

Also on offer was a tour of the coffee operation, but for day visitors, the price was a steep $20 each. So we opted to visit the little coffee museum in Matagalpa, which had lots of information on large posters, and a few artifacts, like a coffee bean de-pulper which removes the red fruit-like covering from the bean. The beans must be soaked and hulled and fermented, and dried slowly before roasting. Just south of Matagalpa city, we saw the drying phase in action, as workers raked the piles of beans over and over to make sure the bottom layers had their time in the sun and did not become moldy.

This region of Nicaragua is mountainous and cool. We enjoyed the scenery, as well as our German lunch in coffee country. We also learned that Nicaragua produces only about 2% of the world's coffee. But what coffee they have here is "cherce," to paraphrase Spencer Tracy.

Tey and I planned to visit Leon on the day before Thanksgiving, to collect her friend Tom who had traveled down with her from Mexico. We drove to Managua on Tuesday and visited the Plaza de la Revolución, and the Palacio de la Cultura. Tey was unimpressed with Managua, which is really such a large collection of barrios, with no cultural district to speak of. Managua could use a free map for tourists interested in gallery crawls and artists' studios, which must be all over the city.

Later, we headed to Ivan and Erlinda's house. We were chatting with Erlinda, and the subject of the 1972 earthquake came up. As Erlinda was speaking, our chairs began to vibrate and sway. Hello...
An earthquake! Not so big, really. About 4.2 on the Richter scale, it turned out. But it lasted about ten seconds, and was timed perfectly with our conversation!

We spent the night with Erlinda and family, and rose early to leave for Leon in the morning. The "new" road to Leon passes the large volcano Momotombo, which sits just north of Lake Managua. It was a clear morning, and the vulcan was smoking briskly.

In downtown Leon, a large effigy of a colorful woman with a top hat, enormous bosom and ruffled skirt had been erected next to the park in front of the cathedral. We learned that she is called "La Gigantona," and Tey did a bit of internet research to find our about her and her sidekick, El Enano Cabezon, "big-headed dwarf," a little chap with a big round head.

The kids below were drumming and dancing nearby, playing out the passion of the diminuitive Mestizo for the tall, busty European Spanish lady! Well, La Gigantona's leg man was taking a break, apparently.

Just as we were leaving Leon, we caught a glimpse of the volcano Telica, which had erupted within the past couple of days, and was smoking.

Photo credits: Tey, la Yucatana.

Racing for the Border

Great friend Tey arrived last week from her home in the Yucatan peninsula for a ten-day visit, her first to Nicaragua. She is an enthusiastic world traveler; last November, she spent a month exploring Cuba just prior to the beginning of the thaw in that island's relationship with the U.S. The recent brouhaha on the Costa Rican border with Nicaragua, as Cuban emigres sought to enter the U.S. via Central America, was on her mind upon arrival. The Nica government wasn't having it, and got all up in Costa Rica's face and brought in army troops to deal with those Cubans who got through the border crossing.

Naturally, we were curious to see where all this was happening, so we drove southeast toward Peñas Blancas, the border town site of the troubles. En route, we stopped at San Jorge, where two weeks ago Bob and I caught the ferry to Ometepe. Tey just wanted to take a gander at Vulcanes Concepción and Maderas from the port, and then we continued on to the border. Peñas Blancas turned out to be little more than an outpost, with facilities to serve the truckers who pass back and forth between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. There is a small hostel with an inauspicious restaurant, where we had some lunch.

We did not immediately return whence we had come, but continued along the southern edge of Lake Nicaragua to Cardenas, where we found a modest park along the shore, populated by a number of white storks or cranes, wading among the marsh grasses. Also a happy piggy, munching the lush greenery in a watery culvert.

From there, we retraced our route, and were stopped twice at military checkpoints set up to nab Cuban illegals, which was actually a bit of a tickle. One soldier checked the trunk just to make sure we weren't trafficking in Cuban humans.

A lovely day, with much driving through Nicaragua's spectacular scenery.

A Day to Forget.

Every other day, the electricity goes out. Usually, I hop up and down and beg, " Please come back!" —and it does. It comes back, and all I need to do is reset the electric clock and reboot the computer, and all is well.

Once every two or three weeks, the power does not come back. The computer dies. The internet dies. The lights die. The fans die. The fucking fans die, and do not come back. Today: 8:30 a.m. Reading Edith Wharton on my Google Nexus. A short story, The Reef. Not so short. 90+ degrees. No fans. Oh, when will the electricity return? 12 noon. 92 degrees. No fans. Still reading Wharton. Dogs flaked out on the tile floor. A little puff of a breeze appears. Hallelujah! For only a moment... Come back! More Wharton, in the hammock now. Sweating profusely. 95 degrees. No fans.

Still have ice. Orange juice -- with ice. Bliss. No fans. 3 p.m. Still reading Wharton. Switching to scotch and water and, yes, still ice. Sacrifice five ice cubes to dog water. Appreciated, I think. 4 p.m. Current should have returned by now. Please come back, o god of electricity. Need fans! Please!
5 p.m. Sun starting to set. I gather candles and matches. Oh, please come back, o great godfruits of electrical juice. I light a candle. Then a second. And— the fans come back! The computer comes back. Fuck Edith Wharton. Hurray for electricity! Life is good again. Fans -- what a concept! The end.

Another Beast of the Tropical Wild

Nearly every morning, the dogs all line up on the porch to receive a treat of little hot dog pieces. I started doing it as a way to help Brynn become part of the gang, and it is such a pleasure to see them wait so patiently as I go down the line, one after the other, doling out little pink bits. One morning this week, Roxie, the Rottweiler, showed up as usual, but was unable to eat due to spines impaling her tongue and muzzle. At first I thought she'd chewed a cactus plant, of which there are many about. I found Roxie's muddy pawprints on my bedsheets, and when I pulled the sheets off the mattress, a stray spine ended up in my little finger. This was like no cactus spine I'd ever seen.

I asked Salvador to examine Roxie's mouth. He did, and then looked around the compound for a possible source of the stiff, multicolored spines. He found it, up a tree—a Mexican dwarf hairy porcupine.

When I looked it up online, I found many photos of people holding these apparently gentle creatures with admittedly wicked defenses and long prehensile tails. Their spines are not as long as their North American cousins' but are similarly engineered to have barbs that make extraction a very difficult and painful proposition. Even with tweezers, Salvador could not remove the dozen or so spines in Roxie's mouth.

Silvio, the itinerant motorcycle vet, was called, and when he showed up that afternoon, he anesthetized Roxie, laying her out on the dining table and removing the spines. Within hours, she was her old self, and very hungry, though not permitted food until the next day. The Mexican porcupine fared less happily. After reading about the creature, I hoped Salvador would find a way to relocate the poor little thing, but the machete had already done its work. I've been here four months, and we've had poisonous toads, venomous snake, porcupine spines... I have yet to encounter a scorpion, though they are common here. And don't forget chikungunya and those ever lovin' mosquitoes.

Footnote to last weekend's flurry of activity with Bobby:

Bobby caught this moment when everyone joins in to help beach an incoming panga, as well as a sad-visaged tyke in the fish market.

Sunday, after an early morning visit to the Casares fish market, we drove to Masaya, the town that poet Rubén Darío called "the city of flowers," widely regarded as a haven for artisans and craftsmen, and home to a large mercado frequented by tourists. These kids are performing as a couple traditional characters for tourist change. Just out of view, two very loud drummers.

When we reached the market, we were guided to a parking spot by one of the ubiquitous street entrepreneurs—factota, if you will —who will keep an eye on your car, find somebody to wash it or pop out a dent while you shop, do your laundry (kidding!), direct you to a restaurant or a booth within the mercado. Bobby and I really just wanted to stroll and enjoy the sights, and we fended off various "helpers" along the way. We also bumped into our car watcher a few times, at some distance from the actual car. But he turned out to be a help when we wanted to visit a tapiceria, a place where they make the rope tapestries — creating pictures of villages, or people, birds, or fruits, by stitching together flat portions of coiled rope into colorful wall art and rugs. Bob remembered a tapiz I had brought back for our mother years ago, and hoped to buy one for himself.

Joseph, our car watcher, sent us off on a fruitless search on foot, after which we returned and found a good sandwich cafe with air conditioning, Cafe Nani. As we were finishing our lunch, who pops up but Joseph, dismayed that we had not found the tapiceria. He suggested we collect the car, and he would direct us to another, too far for walking. So we did, and we ended up a a couple of other places that turned out not to be tapicerias. We did, finally, find the spot, and Bobby managed to find a very beautiful village scene in gorgeous saturated colors. And, just around the corner, a hammock studio, with exquisite hamacas strung up on the porch. The master explained the process of teams who crochet the side panels, weave or knit the body, tie off the sections and attach them to the wooden spreaders on either end. Ten people in all, and about 60 hours of labor for each hammock. Well, both Bobby and I decided to purchase one, at about $75 apiece. A good day's business for them, too. Why we neglected to photograph both the tapiceria and the hammock place is a mystery. Apologies. We dropped off Joseph back in town before we set off for home, with a nice tip for his efforts.

Here is Bobby's tapiz, with Heidi:
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The Whirlwind That is My Brother

My weekend with my brother Bobby flew by, and in three short days, we covered more ground than do I in two months! All these photos are his.

Friday, after his flight arrived on time, he rented a car, and as the GPS was slow to kick in, we scrambled a bit navigating through Managua, which has almost no street signs, and few signs to direct the neophyte Nicaraguan. But we managed to find Erlinda's neighborhood, and had a quick visit before heading south to Diriamba and La Boquita.

I thought Bob might want to dine at La Boquita's little beach restaurant zone, and we arrived there after the early sunset and the dark that quickly ensues here in the tropics. It didn't appear that any people were dining anywhere, but we parked and asked a couple of the usual tourist herders if Ronaldo was cooking. I had heard that he prepared good lobster at a better price than anyone else. No, they said. Ronaldo was at home, but his "aunt" could rustle up some lobster. We were guided to an empty elevated pavilion to which a table and chairs were brought, along with cold beers, and we awaited our dinner. I swear we were the only customers in the whole town that night, but we made the most of our impromptu eatery. The lobsters were small, and were served on one large platter, along with rice, plantain tostones and salad. Delicious, really, and we ate our fill. For a Friday night crowd, it seems we were it, and I cannot fathom how those places stay in business. No wonder Ronaldo stayed home!

We rose early Saturday and drove southeast to Rivas, and on to San Jorge, a little port on Lake Nicaragua, which is the largest freshwater lake in Central America, home to freshwater sharks, reportedly. And it is a great lake; one cannot see the opposite banks, and when we were there, white-capped waves dotted the surface, and broke on the shore as do ocean waves. From San Jorge, a ferry takes people and cars to the island of Ometepe, which was formed by a pair of volcanoes.

Bob booked us a package which included being met by a driver at the other end of the ferry ride, and being driven to the El Ceibo museum of pre-Columbian artifacts found all over the island, then to lunch at a beautiful hotel on the western shore of Ometepe, and a visit to Ojo de Agua, a mineral water spring where people swim and dunk themselves for the purported medicinal benefit. And throughout, the lush greenery and dramatic vistas of the two volcanoes: Concepción, the larger, and still smoking northern vent, and Maderas, an extinct vulcan, now topped by a beautiful lake. The two circular island portions are joined by an isthmus, giving the isleta a lopsided hourglass shape.

Bob's photo from the ferry:

(below) from Google Earth.

The Museo El Ceibo takes its name from the large farm in which it is situated. The magnificent ceibo tree stands like a sentinel just off the main road, where a dirt road leads back to a grassy clearing where the museum's wealthy benefactor installed buildings to house a large array of artifacts from the pre-Columbian indigenous population, as well as his own extensive numismatic collection, which we bypassed, neither of us being interested in currency. There must also be an El Ceibo Hotel nearby, according to the sign beneath the tree. The museum opened less than a decade ago.

An obliging docent, Tony, guided us through the centuries of ceramics, petroglyphs, ceremonial and agricultural tools, jewelry, toys, sculpted stone, and funeral containers that compose the museum. I was happy to find I could follow Tony's Spanish narrative pretty well, and it was all very interesting and worthwhile. No mention of human sacrifices, dammit. Bobby wondered if the petroglyphs were scratched by indigenous teenagers, spreading graffiti, to their parents' dismay...

We left the museum and were driven west along the southern rim of Concepción, and our driver pointed out the site of an enormous landslide that occurred a year ago after 40 hours of torrential rain. It took eight days to clear the road, he said, and there are still many uprooted whole trees flung about by the avalanche of volcanic material that gave way. Our destination was the Villa Paraiso hotel at Santo Domingo beach, on the eastern shore of the isthmus. It is aptly named, as it is pretty darned paradisial. Elegant tropical wood structures, lush plantings of flowers and greenery, and even some semi-tame magpie jays who flit about awaiting crumbs from the mostly foreign diners. A welcome breeze blew in from the water, and Bob and I enjoyed a delicious lunch and some decent table wines.

Our avian friend visited our table before dining on fruit from a Veitchia palm just beyond the deck rail. 

It was a leisurely lunch, to be sure. We waited and waited for our food, and afterwards, we had only a few minutes to view the mineral water pool before we caught the return ferry at 4 p.m. It was, well, a nice woodland pool, with many happy tourists paddling about, or sitting cross-legged in hippie gauze peasant skirts. Bob spotted a monkey and got this shot:

Then, it was a race against the clock to return to the other side of the island before the ferry left at 4. We made it with 6 minutes to spare. Bob caught a few shots of these fishermen, standing in  impossibly narrow boats, casting their nets.

1. 

 The ferry ride takes about an hour, and we left Ometepe in the embrace of its cloud/smoke canopy. A wonderful day that we concluded with a couple of bottles of wine, some heavenly brie cheese brought from Texas, and crackers supplied by Beth. Early to bed.

and back to San Jorge by sunset.