I left LA at half-past midnight on March 16. We landed first in Houston, where I ignored the
many options for spending money in favor of catching an extra hour of sleep on the airport floor. Then we had another three hour flight to Managua, followed by a little hop on a puddle jumper (which was neither pressurized nor air conditioned, much to my dismay), through Bluefields to Corn Island. Needless to say, I was very travel weary when we arrived. But Elvis picked us up in his big pickup truck, and I was somewhat revived by the sight of my friends clambering into the back of the truck to sit on the sides, and get into the true spirit of island life right away. The first 
night we stayed at La Princesa de la Isla, a pretty little hotel run by an Italian couple, located out on a point, accessible only after a walk or a drive down the beach (hence Elvis, and his four-wheel drive). The spot is extremely picturesque, and the ocean breezes keep the heat and the bugs down. We dropped off our stuff, and then headed into town, looking for the first of many Toña beers we were to consume. We walked around the tiny little “downtown” of Corn Island as the sun set and then made our way back to a fabulous (but expensive, we later discovered) meal at our hotel. We ended the night about as you’d expect, sitting in hammock chairs on the beach, drinking 
beers, and Flor de Caña rum straight from the bottle. But don’t worry; we didn’t finish the whole bottle (at least not the first night).The next day, we got a ride from Elvis back down the beach, through town, which consists of the typical tropical third world tin-roofed concrete structures, painted in bright colors, with ruthlessly clean front porches, a hammock, and some sort of dog sprawled out resting in the shade. We got to the Nautilus Dive shop and met the proprietor, Roland, and the dive master Julien, who would be taking us down. We also met Baldur, a German dude who was coming along on our dive, and who we would later discover had an amazing talent to bump into absolutely everyone while under water.
Our first day of diving was nice. We did a dive at a site called Black Coral, and I think I spotted the thing for which it’s named. I saw some fish, some of them colorful, including a very large grouper that was shepherding a school of smaller fish, perhaps for safety, perhaps as a later meal. After a surface interval back on shore, we headed out to La Chimita, where I saw a strange and wonderful looking beast called a trumpet fish, and a nurse shark. Mostly, though I just enjoyed being back under water, and the feeling of weightlessness as the mild current washed us along.
None of us were blown away by that day’s diving though, so we were wondering if perhaps we’d made a mistake not making the trip over to Little Corn Island, where the reef is supposed to be in better shape. We certainly couldn’t understand why National Geographic had rated the place 9 out of 10 for diving. Our dive master heard us discussing what to do, and told us, emphatically, that if we wanted world class diving what we really needed to arrange was a trip out to Blowing Rock. So when we headed back to shore, that’s what we did. Then we dragged our waterlogged and famished selves down the road to the Fisher Cave for some lunch. That’s where we discovered that nothing related to food happens quickly on Corn Island (or in Nicaragua in general). Still, we had fun sitting out on the patio by the municipal docks, drinking beers or in my case grape Fanta. Eventually, our food came, with wonderfully yummy papas and for me a whole fish smothered in garlic. Mmm… It was worth the glares we got from the Italian woman at the hotel where we’d left our stuff all day when we finally wandered back in around 4pm. La Princessa was supposedly full that night, so we moved on to Carrie Morgan’s guest house, on the other side of town.
The most interesting thing about Morgan’s Hotel was that they’ve chosen to lease out the waterfront across the road from them to some sort of church, which holds open-air services every night. So every night, at around 5:30, they start testing the PA system, and blasting some pretty interesting country versions of Amazing Grace and other traditional spirituals. And then around 7 they settle in for a 2 hour service that is held partly in English, partly in Spanish, and partly in some local Caribbean patois that has a lovely flow to it. This made it all the more interesting, as we sat on the grass outside our hotel drinking the next bottle of rum, when we realized that the sermon was about T-Pain. “Now T-Pain was a fallen mon, hear? But Jesus, he loves him too.”
The next day, we were a little late for our dive appointment due to the very friendly breakfast served to us by Ike. Ike runs a hotel a little down the road from Morgan’s, and is one of those wonderful, gregarious characters that is truly able to make you feel like you belong. He’s a serial entrepreneur, and over our breakfast of gallo pinto and scrambled eggs, we learned a bit about the many businesses he runs on the island, while also working for a solar power storage company. I guess in a place as sunny as Corn the problem isn’t generating the power, it’s storing in long enough and stably enough to convince people to come off the grid. We eventually tore ourselves away, and wandered on to our date with Blowing Rock.
As best as I could tell, Blowing Rock is a mini volcano that rises from the sea floor about nine km off the coast of Big Corn. It stretches from the ocean floor to the surface about 100 feet up, and attracts all sorts of marine life, large and small. The surface is fairly choppy, so we had to do a “negative entry”. This basically involves making sure there’s no air in your BCD (Boyancy Control Device – the vest you wear that everything is strapped to), and throwing yourself backwards off the boat in a nice little cannon ball, hanging on to your mask and regulator so they don’t come dislodged with the violence of your entry. And then letting yourself sink as the bubbles clear and the boat pulls away, and rendezvousing with your group a couple meters below the surface. I would have been terrified, except that as soon as the bubbles cleared I realized the water was so clear the visibility was well over 100 feet. And all the surface chop faded to a very gentle washing back and forth, just enough to rock you, but nowhere near the drag-me-off-the-rock-into-the-very-large-very-empty-ocean sort of current I has anticipated. It was like getting dropped into the world’s biggest, cleanest, best stocked aquarium, and was one of the best dives I’ve ever done. The
first dive we saw a nurse shark and two gray reef sharks, as well as all sorts of fish including many barracuda. We also saw a bunch of very large, very colorful lobster for which that coast in famous. It’s the off-season for lobstering right now, so they were feeling pretty safe and hanging out right in the open. Right at the end, we also saw two massive spotted eagle rays, very majestically fanning along in perfect unison, trailing their long tails. It was unbelievable. After a surface interval during which I got very seasick, between the chop and the smell of the boat’s diesel fuel, we dropped in again for a second look.The highlight of that dive, besides more successfully avoiding the German’s tendency towards collision, was seeing a school (flock?) of 7 or 8 large rays off in the distance. They were too far away to see their colors, but just the graceful
way they moved together, as massive darker blue shadows in the midst of the clear blue sea was something I’ll never forget. And then Dan scared one of them, and it darted off so fast my eyes almost couldn’t track it, and that’s when I realized this is one animal that is very well designed for the environment in which it lives. Goldie seemed to be as impressed as I was, or maybe she was just taking revenge on Dan for scaring the ray, but she spent the evening considering a tattoo of a ray on her leg.After those amazing dives we were pretty amped, but also basking in what we’d seen. So we weren’t moving too quickly as we wandered down the road towards a place, maybe a house, where some named Marie, or was it Maria sometimes cooks food for folks. It gave us a chance to walk further along the road that rings the island, admiring the fact that the road was surfaced with pavers, each placed individually. It makes it easier to deal with the potholes, but is somewhat unfathomable given how long it must take to create in the first place. Eventually, we made it to Maris’s house, where we feasted on shrimp, lobster and king fish, plus rice and salad, and of course beer, for a whopping 7 dollars each. This was the first of two meals that day, however, which reminded me we weren’t in a place where food is always plentiful. The six of us ate Maris out of everything she had, and as we wandered back up the road, she was taking down her welcome sign. And later that night, we managed to eat the pizza shop out of pizza AND chicken curry. I know that some of the people I was traveling with have big appetites, but I think it’s mostly that there really isn’t that much that isn’t rice and beans. And we were forking up all of it. Which made it a bit embarrassing when Julien, the dive master, and Chavo, the local kid who was assisting him on the boat, showed up to join us for dinner only to discover that the restaurant was out of food!
The other interesting part of that meal was when Chavo, pressed to describe what he wanted to be when he grows up, told me that he just hopes he finds some of the packets of cocaine that sometimes wash up on the beach, so that he can sell it and buy a slick car. It’s an interesting aspect of the economy there, which stems from the island’s location near some of the major smuggling routes out of Colombia.
The next day we woke up early, and were on track to catch our plane until we realized it left an hour earlier than we thought. Still, after a bit of a scramble, we made it and were on our way back to Managua. In Managua, my dad’s friend Rita Arauz had arranged for a van to pick us up and take us to San Juan del Sur, 2.5 hours to the south. As with many such plans, not everything flowed smoothly, and there was a great deal more sitting around waiting that we had anticipated. Still, it gave us the chance to a) try the really yummy tacitos at the Managua airport, b) learn more about the foundation Rita runs, Nimehautzin, and c) get a free ride. Once we were on our way, we passed out of the Managua traffic into the countryside which was fairly dry this time of year, and dotted with extremely impressive volcanoes. Eventually, we arrived at Finca las Nubes, and the absolutely gorgeous house
that Devin had found for us to stay in. By the time we got there, the others had already made themselves at home, and were sitting on the bar stools that are kindly located IN the pool.That was the start of the surf part of the trip. I won’t give you the blow-by-blow, since that consisted entirely of waking up, eating, surfing all day, eating some more, and then sleeping. Lather, rinse, repeat. But it was both a joy and a challenge hanging out with a group of 13 (eventually 14 when Trent arrived having celebrated his successful match at UCLA for dermatology) for 4 days. The fun parts were throwing all the surfboards on top of our two cars, pilling everyone in (including, always, a bunch of guys riding the rails of the pickup – what is it with guys and trucks?) and heading out to some amazingly remote beach where we had the break to ourselves. Also fun was getting to learn to surf, although I don’t think I’ll ever get remotely good at it. And it was fantastic to have a big group of fun people all together, in the stereotypical spring break that MTV has popularized but that I never really experienced. SB2K9, baby! The challenging part was trying to make decisions with that many people, and negotiate where we were all going to sleep. And completely not fun were the nasty sunburns we all got from spending literally all day in the sun, even though we diligently reapplied our sunscreen.
I have to state the obvious, which is that surfing is pretty painful. Forget the tiny jelly fish stings we all got. Or getting completely washed out by a big wave and spending what feels like eternity in the white water to surface with a gallon of sea water in your sinuses that will spend the next hour and fifteen minutes slowly draining out your nose at unexpected intervals. Or getting conked on the head with your board by that very same wave. (My friends knew what they were doing when they talked me into a “soft”-topped foam board.) Or the muscles you never knew you had until you spend all day trying to direct a large floating oblong to obey your commands, not the ocean’s. It’s the very fine scratches and scrapes that you get on your knees and elbows from the sand that’s mixed in with the wax on your board, which then sting like fire as they’re bathed, with every wave, in a combination of salt water and sunscreen. My main impression of surfing is that it’s a slow death by rug burn. Is it any wonder I don’t think I’ll ever get good at it?
Actually, I liked it a lot. And I loved Nicaragua. Both the uber-mellow Caribbean vibe in Corn Island and the more touristy San Juan del Sur, which is not entirely successful in its resistance to Costa Ricanization, but is still pretty real. Neither place had any signs of the crushing poverty I had thought we might see, both places were wonderfully welcoming, and I loved the chance to pretend I spoke Spanish, eat good food, hang with friends, and relax. So I was sad to leave early, but proud of myself for successfully navigating the two buses it took me to make it from San Juan del Sur to the Managua airport. And although I found myself thinking as I compared the urban sprawl that is Houston to the scenes I had just seen in Nicaragua, that there’s much I prefer about the latter, I was still extremely relieved that I had the good sense to give myself a whole day to leave LAX, come home, do laundry, sleep in my own bed, and take a yoga class (with one of the Olsen twins, I have no idea which) before heading on to the next adventure.
1 comment:
I am not mentioned anywhere on here. wtf
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