Nicaragua is Great

Early the next morning I hopped on a bus for Granada. I had thought about stopping for a while in the capital - Managua - but as we pulled into town I realized there was nothing there for me. I got off the bus and immediately hopped in the first van headed for a place called Masaya.

Masaya wasn't a particularly attractive or interesting town, but it's known for its large artisan market. Some of the local surviving Aztec villages (yes, Aztec - not Maya) produce tons of tchatchkes for tourists and regular Nicaraguans. Lots of small wood carvings, paintings, woven clothing, hammocks - a fairly interesting assortment of local products. For the sake of the authenticity argument, I did see a substantially larger number of locals shopping there than I did gringos.

I walked around for a while taking in the scene, and I ended up getting myself a beautiful handwoven two-person cotton hammock. I bargained it down to about 9 bucks (thank you China for training me in the art of negotiation!!). I saw similar hammocks in other markets and stores for about 40 dollars, so I feel like I did pretty well. The girls that I bought it from folded it into a bundle the size of a small dog and helped me cram it into my backpack.

Next stop - Granada.

One of the oldest Spanish settlements in Central America, Granada definitely has an Old World charm. Pastel stucco houses and storefronts line the wide cobbled streets, much like the other colonial towns I have visited on my trip so far. The main distinction here was that there were more tourists, and there was a beautiful promenade stretching from the central park toward the Lake of Nicaragua, lined with pedestrian walkways, restaurants, and sidewalk cafes. It was very pleasant, but it felt a little fake. I think I liked León better.

After wandering around the streets, I headed down to the lake to look for the infamous freshwater bull sharks that I had seen on the Discovery Chanel as a kid. I didn't see any sharks, but I did see dozens of skinny cattle and horses grazing on the lawn that bordered the lake. It felt very out of place. This was a city, not the countryside. The lake was polluted, and the bums and dirty cows were a little too sketchy for me, so I walked back into town. I stopped to watch a local baseball game on my way back.

The sun was brutal, and I was getting dehydrated, so I turned to my favorite Nicaraguan past time - trying out fruit drinks that I didn't recognize. So far I had checked avena, semilla, and zapote off my list. All were delicious. I sat down at a cafe and asked what kinds of refrescos naturales were on the menu. I settled for chiacotamarindo. (I have no idea how to spell it.) It was pink and full of tiny grey seeds, and it tasted like bubblegum - the texture was a little bit like tapioca, or maybe like juicy fish eggs? Either way - it was very interesting.

I decided to continue my culinary adventure around Granada, so I bought some mangoes in a plastic bag from a woman on the street. They were green and unripe, and the woman poured a brown liquid on them and sprinkled something white on top. I was not ready for the flavor of the first bite - salty, bitter, spicy. The green mangoes were very bitter, the white stuff was salt, and the liquid was something like spicy soy sauce. I ate a few and then handed the rest off to a beggar.

I sat down at another streetside vendor and got a plate of whatever they were making. It was kindof like mashed potatoes covered in some kind of putrid smelling, fried crust, with spicy cabbage salad on top, served on a banana leaf. The mashed potato part was delicious, the crust - not so much. Some beggars came and ate my crust.

I was still thirsty, so I found another fresh fruit juice vendor who had a table with five cement buckets full of colorful liquids. I asked her what they were, and she mumbled names I didn't recognize. I pointed to the orange one, and she filled up a small plastic bag with ice shavings, ladled in the juice, stuck in a straw, and tied the bag shut around it. Once again, I have no idea what it was, I've never tasted anything like it, and it was delicious.

For dinner, I ate the typical grilled chicken, cabbage salad, fried plantains, and gallo pinto. I had a Fresca with it, which the woman immediately poured out of the glass bottle and into a plastic baggie. Interesting way to drink...

The next morning I headed south. I hadn't really decided where to go when I got on the bus, but I figured I would decide when I got to the next town. I could choose between the following: going to the islands in the lake and hiking a volcano, going to a surfing town to relax on the beach, or crossing the border and going to a cowboy town in Costa Rica. The chicken bus I was taking (old American school bus) was PACKED, and I was shoved in the back door where there was only enough room to stang in the aisle, squished against the back wall. There were two Canadians and two Americans packed in there with me, so at least I had some good company for the long ride. The Canadians were going to Costa Rica, the Americans to the island, and I ended up going to the beach. The island was too far, Costa Rica was too expensive, and the beach didn't involve any thinking or planning.

We all parted ways in Rivas, and I made my way down to San Juan del Sur - a small surfing village on the Pacific Coast near the border with Costa Rica. It seemed pleasant enough. My plan was to hang around waiting for my friend Sage to give me the green light when she rented an apartment in Costa Rica, and I would head down to meet up with her in a few days. I found a cheap dormitory hostel near the beach, and met my room mate - an old gray-haired hippie who was an expat from Brazil, but who had apparently never gotten over his years of living in Manhattan as a Hell's Angel during the 60s and 70s. He had a kid in León, whose mother was a "bitch." They didn't talk at all unless it was about their son. He was in San Juan because it was a convenient stop from the border, where he had just gone to renew his entry stamp and pick up a huge bag of weed and come cocaine from Colombia. I left him to roll a joint in the room, and I headed out to grab some lunch at a place that he recomended. The owner was another gray-haired, hippie expat who sat back (high) watching the people in his beachside restaurant. He has a handlebar mustache and spoke spanish to the bar tender in a VERY gringo accent. Interesting bunch of people. I felt like the Merry Pranksters were going to stroll by with walkers and oxygen tanks at any moment. I went to the beach.

I've basically been chilling for the past two days doing nothing but sleeping and reading on the beach and eating seafood. Life is tough, I know. Tomorrow morning I'm catching the first bus to the border, and I'll continue my journey in Costa Rica. Overall, Nicaragua has been great - very relaxed, very colorful, very lively. I would rank it up there with Guatemala.

Pura vida.