Volcanic Activity

Yesterday morning were dropped at the entrance to the volcano park in Masaya before they´d even opened the gates.

Lately, when recognizing that something happened only yesterday, we all moan
in unison with utter disbelief that more time has not passed.

But it was yesterday. It was a humid 100 degrees out in Nicaragua yesterday, seriously. The hike to Crater Santiago isn´t really a hike- it´s a road, and this road makes the active volcano known as one of Central America´s most "easily accesible." At first, as tourist vans struggled by us on their way up the painfully gradual incline we celebrated our adventurous spirits. For awhile we kept contentedly busy- plotting elaborate escape routes in case of an eruption, ooh-ing and aah-ing over volcanic rocks, laughing at the absurdity of the heat, breaking into random sing-a-longs. The walk turned out to be about 8 miles long. Thank Lucifer, the crater was eerily impressive. Santiago angrily brewed and steamed sulfuric gases with random intensity as we wandered his surroundings. Then we walked all the way back downhill, our hands all puffed up from some combination of heat and altitude, this time working muscles that don´t get used, and again nearing death from heat exhaustion. It was a quality adventure.

Later that day, yesterday, we hitched a ride from a local bus along the highway in Masaya. Everyone sat a sticky hot three to a seat, grooving like old friends to Latin American music videos. In random intervals a handful of locals would pile onto the bus and shove themselves through the the packed aisles selling homemade snacks before jumping out the back entrance. I woke up from a cat nap literally on the shoulder of the little Nico next to me- he was still singing along to the music oblivious to the absurdity of this Gringa´s audacity to snooze on him. We got off the bus, into a taxi, and to a dock where we walked onto a big old ferry bound for La Isla Ometepe. From the top deck we gazed at the islands double peaks reassuring each other that we´d wait at least a day or two to tackle them.

the local laundromat :)

The town seemed quaint enough- and although it kept with the Nicaraguan tendency to lack tourists outside ourselves and a couple others, people spoke English, in fact we immediately met the boy who spoke the best English on the whole island- it got him a free trip to Utah and he thinks Utah is the best state ever. Chatty locals paraded alongside us as we made our way to Hospedaje Central and checked ourselves into this Lonely Planet suggested, seemingly safe but slightly delapidated hostal. I think I referred to it as ¨rustic.¨We spent two nights profusely sweating and gasping for air through the night as the electricity went in and out taking away our crucially important fan. We shared our hot box of a room with a daring group of cockroaches, a few twitchy lizards, and some spiders that we didn´t mind simply because we were glad they weren´t turantulas. A small deer lived outside the front door.

In an attempt to find the beach and much needed agua we rented bicycles and got on the island´s only road. We biked 17 miles that day. 17 miles. Once again, it was over 90 degrees out. I have to include that our entire ride was directly alongside a tall steaming lushly green volcano and that we shared the little road only with horses, cows, goats, and a few bicycling locals who sped past our flushed selves. But still, 17 miles under the Nicaraguan sun. After failed exits down sandy dirt roads in the hopes of finding paradise, we finally found a beach. The lake water was murky and we read way too much on the voracious bull shark population and their ability to swim into shallow waters in search of human flesh to really enjoy it for more than a few tense minutes at a time. Lauren and I followed a shaded jungle path along a small lake teeming with black baby tadpoles, directly through spider webs, and past several intricate twisted monkey tree-houses. Hopping (with much hesitation) back onto our bikes, we pushed through the heat and pain to a thin peninsula of black volcanic sand where we spread out as the sun went down in front of a priceless view.

sorry guys, guessing this isn´t Playa Charco Verde?

A combination of exhaustion, depleted patience, and necessity led us to definite decisions in bed on our last night. First, the rumor that the author of Isla Ometepe´s Lonely Planet section took bribes is true. Second, we need to get off the island and to a Carribean beach immediately.