Crossing Borders

This week Kamilla and I crossed from Estelí, Nicaragua through Honduras to San Miguel, El Salvador. Now we´ll spend a few weeks traveling around El Salvador.

We decided not to take a first-class bus, instead doing the connections ourselves. It was simple and cheaper to do so, but the trip is unavoidably a long one. To break up the journey, we spent the night in the Honduran town of San Marcos ($12 for the room, $4 for dinner). Here´s how it broke down:

Estelí-Somoto -- 2 hrs. -- $1/person
Somoto-El Espino -- 0.5 hrs. -- $0.50
Leaving Nicaragua -- $2
Entering Honduras -- $3
Hitching El Espino-San Marco -- 0.5 hrs. -- FREE
San Marco-Choluteca -- 1.5 hrs. -- $1
Choluteca-El Amatillo -- 2 hrs. -- $1.50
El Amatillo-Santa Rosa -- 0.5 hrs. -- $1
Santa Rosa-San Miguel -- 1.5 hrs. -- $1.50

After crossing into Honduras, we chatted for a while with the friendly border guard. Indeed in our brief time in Honduras we were surprised by the extreme kindness of the local people. But it was getting late so we hitched a ride from the border to San Marco in the bed of a pick-up truck. The scenery was as it had been for most of the day: simply beautiful. The expansive green valley fell away before us, and we leaned back against the cab, marveling at what lay before us. The sun dipped behind the mountains in the west, lending them for a little while a golden crown.

The total cost of our trip was $7 per person (with $5 for custom´s fees); a first class bus would have been more than double that. We spread out the 8.5 hours of bus time over two days.

And so here we are, safely in El Salvador, with a new country to explore.

¡Finishing ¨El Alquimista¨!

Cuando una persona desea realmente algo, el Universo
entero conspira para que pueda realizar su sueño.

Well, I´m proud to report that I´ve achieved a major goal of mine for my time here: to read Paulo Coehlo´s ¨The Alchemist¨ in Spanish. The book is titled ¨El Alquimista¨ in español; it was originally written in Portuguese but the story of course begins in Spain.

I was pretty pleased to do it, and it didn´t give me much trouble at all: I read the book in only six days. Of course it helped that I had read the book a half dozen times in English. But this, the first book I´ve read in Spanish that´s more than 200 pages long, proved to be quite an easy read. I found I only needed to look up a few words per page, instead of, say, a few words per sentence. I think I´ll now try and read other books by Coehlo in Spanish since his writing style (e.g. simple words, short sentences) is straight-forward.

And one day, perhaps, off in the future, I´ll be reading Neruda, Garcia Márquez, and Cervantez in Spanish.

A Highlands Misadventure

This week I spent a few days visiting in the Northern Highlands on Nicaragua. Kamilla had to meet some friends in Managua, so I went up there alone. I visited Matagalpa, Jinotega, San Rafael del Norte, and Estelí and some rural areas and nature reserves along the way. This is the story of what happened in between.

After spending the night in Matagalpa, and climbing the next morning to the top of Reserva Natural Cerro Apante for fine views over looking the city and the surrounding mountains, I set out for Jinotega by bus. But along the way I called an audible and hopped off on a desolate stretch of the highway. I had decided I wanted to go to little-visited Reserva Natural Dantalí-El Diablo. All I knew from the guidebook was that I needed to walk down a dirt road at ´Km 146´ to Finca La Esmeralda, where I might be able to find lodging and guides for the park. I was on my own, so I figured it was worth a shot.

I hitched a ride to the turn-off, then began walking down the road with all my things. It was the middle of the day and there was no traffic. There were no towns to speak of, just solitary fincas with coffee plantations and flower gardens dotting the hillsides below. There were fine views across the valley to the green and blue hills that seemed never to end. Occasionally I passed a young campesino carrying a machete on the way to or from a farm. But I did not reach La Esmeralda. I had walked for more than an hour, and was very tired, when I spied a little town in the valley below. Perhaps this was it.

This was not it. I was in the pueblo of La Fundadora. The man sitting next to his horse on the side of the road greeted me, and I asked him about La Esmeralda. He knew it, and said it was at least another 5 km further. ¨Largissimo,¨ he told me. I must have looked strange to him, for cheles carrying all their possessions do not often foolishly decide to wander 7 km down this road to get to this small village. He told me to wait and take the one bus that was coming through in 40 minutes. It was not safe to walk alone on these rural roads, he told me, because there were many ladrones (thieves) about. I sat down on the porch of the pulperia and had a Coke and waited for the bus.

On the bus (C$7) a young campesino named Pedro greeted me, and at La Esmeralda he pulled me off the bus and led me to the Director of the Reserva Natural. I was pleased to learn that there was indeed an albergue to stay in, and that guides could take me to the park the next morning. I sat on another pulperia porch with these men for a while, and they too warned me that there were many robbers around. I began to feel uneasy in my new surroundings. I had walked the greater part of 12.5 km to get to this tiny village. I knew nothing about it. All the information in my Lonely Planet had proven unsatisfactory. And here was everyone warning me about danger lurking around.

After some time, Pedro led me up a deserted path to Finca Elizabeth, where I would be staying. Once we were alone, he stopped and pulled himself nearer to me. He then demanded that I give him as a gift 20 pesos. I felt nervous. I had seen this coming: I didn´t like the look in his eye when he was watching me. And my traveler´s instinct made me suspect the way he had attached himself to me so possessively. And now here he was demanding money. I didn´t like the fierce whisper of his voice, that look in his eyes. I looked around. The path was deserted. I began to feel very scared.

--Arregalame 20 pesos.
--¿Porque?
--Por que lo quiero.
--¿Para que?
(A pause. We stare at each other. I am very scared that he might kill me. I tell him in what must have approached a whimper that I wanted to go to the house.)

So we continued up the path. The nice girl there, Keña, showed me to a bunk in a dark and musty room. This was fine with me. Pedro and his uncomfortable stare left. I was alone there in that farmhouse though and it took me a while to calm down. I really believed that I was going to die. I´ve reflected on that fear for a while now, and it surprises me. In my four years of traveling in this manner, I can´t often recall feeling like that. I think there was a confluence of factors. For one thing, this man who one minute earlier was telling me about the presence of ladrones was then demanding money. Something about his manner (and in his eyes) made me highly uneasy. Furthermore, I have read or heard first-hand many tales recently of travelers who have been robbed or encountered violence in Central America. Writing an article for Harry and Adam´s magazine, the Leóneazy, about how to avoid getting your camera stolen in a robbery probably made me more on edge. I also felt ashamed of my fear since I often scoff at such notions as misplaced stereotypes. Yet here I was succumbing to them. It was a strange and bewildering moment for me.

I sat down to relax in the farmhouse, reading my book. A few hours later the guides came. They were young guys and very much into birds (which I guess is why people come here). Yader told me he´d take me the next morning on his motorcycle to the park. There was fierce rainstorm that night, the type of rain that one must shout over to be heard. I ate a bowl of gallo pinto in a dank hut. I had longed to see rural Nicaragua and here I was, tucked away in a tiny village, deep in the interior of the country.

We woke at six the next morning an I went with the three guides to the reserve. The ride there was on a track made muddy and slippery by the night´s storm. We swerved and skidded along the muddy path. Several times I had to hop off and run to the top of hills as Yader revved the engine to climb the hill. Along the way we passed by tiny huts and little coffee farms clinging to the steep sides of the hills. The epic ride on the motorbike reminded of a similar incident in the desert of Rajasthan, a year and a half before.

We trekked down a path and into a surprisingly dense forest. At the base of the hill we waited for an hour and looked at birds. We saw maybe a dozen species, including some related to the quetzal. You have to be really into birds for this sort of thing, which I am not, but I appreciated how much my guides were. For me, it was just peaceful to smell the morning and watch the stillness of this lush tropical forest. After we finished with the birds we took another sendero down to a raging waterfall, which must have been at least 20 meters high. It was a very worthwhile trip, especially because my guides were so affable.

Having visited to Reserva Natural, I planned to continue on to Jinotega. But I had a problem. Only one bus left for the city in the morning at 6:30 AM; I had already missed it (and only one bus returned in the afternoon.) At 9 AM, I paid for the bed (C$50) and the food (C$20) (the guiding service was free), and walked to the edge of town to try and hitch a ride out. This was possible to do, except that it was such a remote area that saw such little traffic. I sat on the edge of this dirt road on the outskirts of the little village and read. I was glad I had my book because by the time I caught a ride back to La Fundadora, the fifth ride I´ve hitched in Nicaragua, 4 hours and 18 minutes had passed.

4 hours and 18 minutes! That is by far the longest I´ve ever had to wait for a ride in my life.

And I was lucky to get it, since I could have waited 9 hours, or I could have waited for the bus the following morning. It was that remote. My body was jolted as I rode in the back of that pick-up, but I was just happy for the chance. After all, it is a deflating feeling to stand on the side of the road with your thumb out when you´ve been standing there for hours.

From La Fundadora, I still faced a several km walk back to the main Matagalpa-Jinotega highway. The day was still high and so I started off up a hill. This was all uphill. Once again, I was nervous about encountering thieves on these rural roadways. My nervousness increased when another young campesino stopped me, and warned me with that same uneasy glint in his eye about ladrones. I told him he was mistaken, that it was a safe area. No, he told me, you better hurry up. Despite myself, hurry up I did. I walked for another 5 km or so back to the main carretera, and I was exhausted and relieved when I arrived there. Not long after I got there, I hopped on a Jinotega-bound bus, my foray into the interior complete.

I´ve been thinking about what happened for a number of days now. I´ve thought about the friendly and helpful people I´ve met. And I´ve thought about the fear I had then (and still retain) and whether it´s justified. I didn´t set out to have the experience that I did have, I certainly didn´t set out to risk my own life in this way, but that´s sometimes how traveling ends up and it´s really about how you handle situations that are less than ideal. In the course of 24 hours, I was terrified and thrilled. I lost calm within myself and found it again deep in the forest. I lost and restored my faith in people. And I saw a little bit more of this country that fascinates me, and walked away having been in some small way changed by that.

The Cock Fight

The first time Kolja asked me if I wanted to go to a cock fight (these are popular events in Latin America where men gamble on two fighting chickens), I told him that cock fighting was immoral and I did not want to go. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should go to at least see what it was all about, from an anthropological perspective.

A few weeks later, my friends and I went to see a cock fight just around the corner from the school where I work. It was a Saturday night, and I went with a group of my eight closest friends. The scene really is quite remarkable to one has never seen it before. You enter through a narrow alley into a courtyard with a well-lit ring with 3 foot walls and steep metal bleachers erected all around. There were hundreds of men there in baseball caps, t-shirts, and jeans focused on a central ring; there were some women there too of course but this is primarily a masculine endeavor. The ring, perhaps 20 feet in diameter, is decorated with painted advertisements for Nicaraguan beers and Coca Cola. The ring has a sandy dirt floor, lined with wooden square on which the chickens are placed before the fight.

We grabbed our drinks and headed to the top of the bleachers. One fight was finishing and the new chickens were being brought in. The proprietor of each brings the birds from the back (where they are kept in cages and then weighed, with much fanfare. Then he sort of warms the bird up by getting him to hop around and getting him excited by waving another chicken in front of him. Small razor blades are attached to each chicken´s foot. At this point, the patrons have had a good look at the birds (their size, movements, reaction time, etc.) and begin to place bets on the fight. Of course, the owners of each bird have more at stake than anyone. Thousands of cordobas are bet on each fight: Gambling is the whole point.

Since we wanted to partake, my friends and I formed a syndicate. Four or five of us who favored the same bird and would bet 100 cordobas (20 or 25 cordobas a person) against one of the locals standing near us. This was exciting. If we disagreed amongst ourselves on the stronger bird, we might place a small 10 cordoba bet within our group of friends. Betting made this more interesting, because otherwise it´s just two birds pecking and fighting against each other. Altogether that night I won 30 cordobas, or a little less than $2, which isn´t so bad.

The fight begins with much screaming and shouting. And all of a sudden we were caught up in it too. The birds are charging at each other, pecking and ducking and clawing and scratching and moving about the ring. It´s a very professional set up with an umpire and a timer for each match. Often there was a man in the ring with a fancy video camera filming the fight. The owners and the umpire stand around watching the birds go at it. Usually it´s pretty even for the first few minutes and then one bird begins to take the upper hand. As blood starts squirting out onto the feathers and the floor, the crowd´s cheers become more intense, or more desperate.

At the point one it seems one cock has clearly won -- because the other bird has given up fighting, running away or crouching into a ball to minimize to the pain -- the birds are often picked up. At this point, you can see such things as one owner licking the blood from his chicken´s neck. Then comes what to me was the saddest part: Even though it is clear that one chicken is the victor and the other is badly, almost mortally wounded, the birds are still put out there again for a second or even a third time. It is really upsetting to watch these lop-sided attacks, where the winner claws at the loser with his beak and razor-aimed claws. The losing bird is there getting hurt badly. I just don´t see the point to it. It disgusted me.

Then the fight ends and a new batch of birds and owners enter the ring. The rhythm of the night repeats itself for hours on end. We stayed for a few fights and then left, feeling we had gotten a good sense of it. I was glad that I went to see it, but I don´t think I´ll be buying season tickets anytime soon. There was something repugnant in it to me, but I also realize that it´s not my culture and that I can´t judge it. There´s something in a cock fight that appeals to the lifestyle and outlook of the people here; of course it´s foreign to me. Still, it was sad for me to see what happened to the birds at the end of the fight. However, cock fights have been popular events in Central America for hundreds of years, and I don´t think they´re going away anytime soon.

Granada

Kamilla and I just spent the week staying in Granada. The city is located an hour to the south of Managua and is an ancient colonial rival of León, the city where I was working and living for more than three months.

Granada is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Nicaragua, and it´s easy to see why: There are indeed many interesting and accessible sights in and around the city, and many fine restaurants cater to the tourist dollars. It is a pretty town, as all the colonial adobes have a fresh coat of bright paint.

But though we certainly enjoyed our time hanging out there, I´ve decided that I still like León better. There´s a certain vibe to my city that I came to know and appreciate--artsy, liberal, filled with students, with many outlets for music and art. Though not as photogenic on the surface of Granada, I found there were many meaningful pursuits that lay just underneath those worn facades.

More and more, though, I´m finding that the Nicaragua I´ve come to love has been the Nicaraguan experience I´ve forged for myself here: living in my house in León, working with my students, hanging out with my friends, interacting with the locals, riding around on my bicycle in search of frescoes, and just enjoying the rhythms and routines of daily life I´ve created for myself here.

The Laguna de Apoyo

On Sunday I went to visit the Laguna de Apoyo. This is a volcanic crater lake about 20 minutes outside of Granada. It has some of the cleanest waters for swimming in Nicaragua. First by bus you climb up to and then descent the steep, jungled volcanic walls. The water is a crystal blue color and delightfully refreshing. The 360 degree panorama of the ancient volcanic cone was quite enjoyable to look at when I was swimming, kayaking, or lying on the floating dock. When I wasn´t in the water, I spent the rest of the day reading and writing in a hammock. All in all, a very relaxing day trip.

Happy Birthday, Danielle!

Today, April 20, 2007, is my sister´s 21st birthday! So I want to give Danielle a little ¨shout out¨ here and wish her a happy day. I love and miss you, Schnoo!!!

The Return of Mango Madness

For the last month or so, as they impatiently awaited the rainy season and endured rising temperatures, Nicaraguans have been treated to the next best thing: the mango season. It´s not such a bad trade, really. At first, only tiny, super-sweet mangoes were available. But as we´ve moved deeper into the season, you can get the bigger, more balanced ones: A couple of these guys can really fill you up for breakfast.

Those of you who followed my Indian correspondences last summer know how deeply I care for mangoes. You may remember how I fought off a troupe of hostile monkeys for the sake of my mangoes. (And if you don´t remember, the story is posted toward the bottom of this blog.) So having tasted the Indian version of the fruit, and reveled in the extended mango season on the subcontinent, I was keen but also skeptical to try the Central American counterparts: What if it just didn´t compare?

And at first, I wasn´t overly impressed. But as we have progressed here, I must say that I´m really enjoying now. I´ve had about two dozen mangoes that have been simply excellent--tasty fruit combining with a singularly messy (and thus enjoyable) eating experience. These could have been mixed in with an Indian barrel of mangoes and no one would know the difference.

So with three mangoes as a part of my daily diet, life is just a little bit sweeter.

A Bad Shave

Returning from our week in Little Corn, a place with few services, I needed a shave. So one of my errands during our first morning in Granada was to stop into a unisex sala de belleza down the block from the market. I walked out with one of the worst shaves of my life. Many of you may remember my shaving travails in India: Well, this ranks right up there with the worst of them.

Entering the shop, a man pointed me to a chair. A woman placed the smock on me and I told her what I wanted. I´d never been shaved by a woman before, but I figured I would give it a shot. But after she finished trimming my beard with the electric machine, things took a turn for the worst. With the manual razor, she took 20 excruciating minutes while she fussed with my beard and mustache. Her technique was all wrong: this part of the process should take no more than five minutes. Also, she applied a cream to my face which I did not like. Worst of all, she spent her time trying to sculpt my mustache without any regard to its natural inclinations. One I stood up, I found myself paying C$40, a relatively high amount, for the worst shave I´ve had in Nicaragua.

To be honest, I think the problem was that she was a woman. Hey, I´ve got nothing against the ladies. In fact, my favorite hair cutter is a woman. But women have hair. They do not, as a general rule, have beards. And this really is the crux of the matter. Much like the 14 year old Indian boy who gave me a terrible shave last summer, this Nicaragua lady had no first-hand understanding of how hair grows onto the face of the man. How could she know? How could she know that when she tried to sculpt my mustache and make it thinner like one of her finely sculpted eyebrows, not only would this feel terrible at the time but it would also leave me itching insanely when it grew back in over the next days. No, she had no understanding of that at all.

I wish I could say that there is a happy ending to this story. But for much of the following week I was extremely itchy and irritable. And I think we all know who is responsible for that.

From now on, I am returning to the rule I originally expounded: Hayden will not be getting a shave from any barber who is not capable of growing facial hair.

Back from Corn Islands

Kamilla and I just returned from five wonderful days in the Corn Islands, Nicaragua´s Carribean possessions. It was the best time.

So what I want to say to you is this: Don´t go to the Corn Islands! At least not more than two at a time.

The place is so peaceful, so untouched, that it would be a shame if a large-scale tourist industry (e.g. resorts, a service economy, etc.) spoiled the land and the culture of the local people.

We spent our entire time at Derek´s Place on Little Corn. The place was so secluded, tranquil, and beautiful that we did not want to move. The property sits on a grassy point with dozens of coconut palms. Our private cabana was made of wood and palm fronds. It sat just meters from the beach: a narrow white sand striped, lined with palms, curved around a sparkling blue ocean. To get to Derek´s Place one must walk for 20 minutes on a jungle path to the remote northwestern corner of the island. All the energy there is solar or wind, and Derek built all the structures there himself. The double room cost us $25 per night. More than any other place I´ve been, I highly recommend this.

It is the most hidden little spot one can find. I thought this would be just another beach vacation, but it was something of a completely different quality; it was as close to paradise as I´ve ever been.

So we spent our days lying on the beach reading, lying in hammocks reading, swimming in the ocean, walking around barefoot, roaming along the isolated jungle paths, making sandwiches for breakfast and lunch, eating seafood for dinner, looking up at a sky of crystal stars. More relaxing, swimming, and fun: You get the idea.

The local inhabitants are different from the majority of Nicaraguan population. They are African by descent, and speak a Carribean-accented English. They are primarily fisherfolk, and they live the way they have for centuries. Only recently has tourism become a more prominent industry. There are few connections with the mainland, and they do not naturally identify with Nicaraguan culture.

Getting there was worth the effort: A twin-propeller plane flight across Nicaragua, then a 30 minute boat ride from more developed Big Corn to Little Corn. We wandered into the little village on the island just once a day for dinner (when we weren´t dining with Derek and his delightful family.) There weren´t many provisions available (or cheap) in Little Corn so if you go I recommend you come prepared.

Sometimes in life you do something and you don´t really realize how amazing it was until the time has passed. That wasn´t the case here. In this situation we realized acutely in every moment just how special this experience was.

The Flor de Caña Rum Factory

Flor de Caña, one of the world´s best rums, is a product of Nicaragua, manufactured in Chichigalpa, just one hour north of León. Incredibly, the factory offers free tours of its facilities and a free tasting for its guests. I got together with five friends (Allie, Rufus, Kolja, Adaée, and Bonnie) and made the trip one afternoon a few weeks ago.

OK, the factory tour is exceedingly boring. It´s a factory, which means it is loud and hot and smelly. We also had some difficulty hearing the Spanish-speaking tour guide over the roar of all the machines. The one interesting part of the hour-long tour was the bottling plant: Under very florescent lights, they have a series of shiny machines for washing, filling, capping, labeling, and sorting the glass bottles with different types of rum. It´s impressive to watch. For the workers this is a rather difficult and monotonous job; unfortunately, it really is the only stable large-scale chance at employment in the area.

Afterward touring the plant, my friends and I retreated to the visitor´s center with the guide. There we sampled all the different types of rum, some more than once. Our favorite was the 12 year old rum (this means its aged in barrels for 12 years.) Our guide was friendly and poured with a heavy hand.

After an enjoyable and often hilarious hour of drinking (yep, we were hammered), it was time to return to León. We started down the lane that leads to the main road, but just as we reached there, the bus roared past us. We chased after it, but only lost our shoes and got separated from each other in the process. Thankfully, Rufus and Kolja flagged down a pick-up truck and we all scrambled in the back. Allie was only half-way into the truck, perched on the running board, when the truck started moving; with a tug I hauled her in as we pulled away.

From the main highway we hopped on a León-bound bus. Eager to keep our buzz going, we all went for a quick dinner at Buen Gusto and started up a family poker game to end the night.

Si Way, Jóse

I was in my first homestay one day, eating lunch with Maria. My host sister Cony walked into the kitchen, searching for something to eat. Maria began to give her a hard time about her weight, which was ridiculous because Cony is quite slender and pretty. Here´s the conversation, translated from Spanish:

Maria: Oh, gorda, why do you want to eat something? You´re getting fat!
(Cony just ignored her mother´s uncalled for nagging.)
Maria: Hayden, don´t you agree with me that she´s getting fat?
Me: No, no I don´t.
Cony: Of course she is, just look at her.
Me: No way, Jóse.
Maria: Huh?
Me: In my country when we disagree absolutamente, we sometimes say the phrase no way, Jóse. ¨No way¨ means claro que no and ¨Jóse¨ is of course just a name.
Maria: Oh, I get it. Si way, she´s getting fat.
(Cony rolled her eyes and I just laughed.)

Let the Traveling Begin!

My time in León has come to an end. I´ll be traveling now until I return to the States on July 3. If you want to try to keep track of me (this is probably a futile endeavor), here´s a run-down of what I think I´ll be up to:

April 12-17: Corn Islands with Kamilla
April 17-24: Granada with Kamilla
April 24-May 1: Estelí and Northern Highlands
May 1-May 23: El Salvador with Kamilla
(UPDATE: México with Kamilla from May 9-22)
May 24-June 2: Costa Rica with my parents
June 3-10: Back in León with Michelle and friends
June 10-15: Isla de Ometepe with Michelle
June 15-30: Solo adventure on the Rio San Juan
July 1-3: Last days in León

My Farewell Address

For my final night in León, I got together with some friends. Nine of us cooked up a big dinner together: tortilla chips and bean dip to start, then orange chicken and soy sauce, served on rice with carrots and broccoli. After our meal and beers, we headed out to La Olla Quemada for one last night of live music. But before we ate, I made a little speech to my friends at the dinner table.

Me: I have prepared a speech.

Hannah: Shouldn´t you be naked?

[I pretend to take off my shorts; the room gasps in fear.]

Me: I had prepared a speech for you all, based on the Roman Empire´s system of aqueducts, with the general theme being that what doesn´t kill you makes you stronger... unless you die. But I´m willing to set aside that topic in the interests of brevity.

Well, I want you to know I could have done this without you...

[Laughter.]

...but it was much more fun this way.

[Laughter and cheers.]

To my friends!

My Easter in Nicaragua

Sunday April 8th was Easter Sunday. For me, it was quite interesting to observe what transpired in the city on that day. Really the whole week had been one of relaxation and celebration for the local people, but this Sunday was undoubtedly the pinnacle. The city had a special, festive atmosphere and it was cool to be here to see this.

Morning mass:

I went with my friends Nick and Jessica to mass in the cathedral, the largest in Central America. The place was beautifully decorated with bunting and candles, and a large sculpture of Jesus and Mary stood to one side of the altar. A choir filled the cavernous space with music. After the prayers, the bishop made a sermon to the congregation about the meaning of Easter. Then red-robbed altar boys carried large candlesticks down the aisle and Catholics went to take communion. One of the sweetest parts of the service to me was near the end, when the strangers in the different pews wished each other a Happy Easter with soft touches of the hand and soft voices. There was something pure and kind in that moment that really moved me.

The procession:

Each barrio in León is defined by its iglesia, and our house falls within the district of Iglesia Calvario, one of the most vibrantly painted churches in the city. Each church has its own procession, its own way of celebrating the holy week. The Sunday procession from Calvario started out at 5 PM. The cool thing for Harry and I was that this wasn´t just any parade to us; this was a parade through our neighborhood, right past our street. It felt like home to us.

The streets surrounding the church were packed with people: spectators observing the parade, people waiting in colorfully decorated homes, vendors selling cold water, snacks, and cotton candy, and people marching alongside the float and band. When the float carrying a life-sized statue of Jesus finally lurched forward to start, the band struck up a joyful tune. The float moved slowly through the streets, pausing at each house that was decorated with streamers and balloons. These were the families that were asking something from the Lord this year.

As the float approached our position (we were standing on a high wall that lines one side of our street), it neared a sawdust carpet that had been painstakingly laid on the road before us. This was a 10 foot by 8 foot multi-colored portrait of Jesus in colored sawdust, surrounded by a host of similar religious objects depicted in sawdust. Before the parade got underway, the crowds were careful to avoid disturbing it. But it is customary for the procession to walk through it, thus ruining the picture in an act of destruction I found rather beautiful.

Later that night the procession looped back past our street again. The sky had darkened, and only two glowing statues (for Jesus and Mary) stood out in the night, above the heads of the people.

After the parade had past, Harry and I sat on the front steps for a while with our host family, chatting and joking together. We´ve both come to feel that there is no better place to live in León.

Easter dinner with friends:

After the procession, my friends and I gathered at the Quetzal Trekkers house for an Easter Sunday dinner. Hannah took the role of head chef, cooking up a delicious feast like those she used to eat in England. There was shepherd´s pie (mashed potatoes and beef filling), cabbage, carrots, onions, and a host of other vegetables, warmly baked bread, and real wine. It was very tasty. We had an incredible 16 people around the table to enjoy the good food, laughter, and photos. (It reminded me a lot of our famous October Thanksgiving dinner in Dunedin, NZ.) I think this was actually my first Easter dinner, and I enjoyed sharing it with all my friends: indeed it felt like we were a big family.

And afterward, what better way to celebrate the resurrection of the Lord then with a family poker game!

Our Poker Addiction

My friends and I are, as a group, absolutely addicted to poker. I suppose the first step is admitting we have a problem. But really we don´t see it as a problem. We see it as a really fun activitiy that we all do together practically every night.

This is No Limit Texas Hold´em and the buy-in is 100 cords. Normally our table is between six and ten players. On occassion we´ve had 15 or 16 people come by, so we´ve started up a second table. But on average we have eight or nine regulars. At the table we´ve naturally identified each friend´s betting strategy and distinctive way of speaking; we spend lots of time playfully making fun of one another through imitation.

We played our first game on March 1. Over the next five weeks, we played 15 times. The pinnacle of run was Samana Santa when we played poker seven times in nine days; previously we were only playing twice a week (Mondays and Thursdays). On this Friday of Semana Santa, we played for six hours on the beach at Playa Roca. We all loved this since it provided with extraordinary ocean views and a steady supply of beer while we played. (Since it was windy, we used shells I collected to hold down the cards.)

I kept track of my winnings and after 15 games, I finished 65 cordobas ahead. (I spent, of course, way more than 65 cordobas on liters of beer and late-night hamburgers.) I consider this whole experience an extremely cheap and extremely fun poker education.

Aside from being unable to stop playing (our games last a minimum of four hours and have occasionally gone into the wee hours of the morning), poker language was also infiltrated the rest of our lives. Here are some examples of poker speech:

--Kolja: Hey, ja, can I buy-into this pasta dinner?

--Adam: So I was out at the bar and I was just talking to this girl and then all of a sudden she just dragged me out onto the dance floor.
--Me: So you just checked to her and then she raised you. Nice move.

--Rufus: Well, boys and girls, this has been emotional. I think it´s time for another cup of tea. Jump on in, boys and girls, the water is literally warm.
--Nick: I call.

Volcán Cerro Negro

On Thursday I climbed my third volcano in Nicaragua. Cerro Negro is a 726-meter steaming black mountain that sits in the middle of tranquil agricultural land. It´s only an hour by León by bus. What makes Cerro Negro unique is that it is an extremely young (and therefore active) structure, first erupting in 1850. It can blow again at any time.

I went with my friend Janine (a Quetzal Trekkers guide with whom I´ve hiked all my volcanoes), her father, and a new guide named Hillary. I had prepared all the supplies for our trip, so I was excited to be more involved in the planning.We set out from León at 5 AM. By 6:30 AM we walking on the trail towards the mountain. But by 7:30 AM or so we were completely lost in the woods.

At that point we abandoned the path and just started bush-whacking through the brush, headed directly for the mountain. Janine was like, ¨OK, Hayden, why don´t you just lead?¨ This assured that we would arrive at our destination (and indeed we did), though the way I do things -- walking over hills, under tree limbs, and through the bush without much regard for what´s in my way -- it meant we were all scuffed up and a bit tired by the time we actually reached the base of the volcano. (Indeed, when we finally emerged on the path, we met two campesinos on horses carrying rifles; we asked them which way the sendero was and then promptly got lost again.)

Our time on the volcano went more normally. It only takes 45 minutes to summit, yet once inside the main crater there is so much active volcanic material to hold your attention. The steam coming out of the vents, sulphurous and smelly, gives a extra-planetary feeling to the place. The top of this black mountain was surprisingly multi-colored, with yellow, red, and green material deposits mixed in with the white calcium ash. It is really something to stand in the middle of a crater of an active volcano.

We then followed the trail up the lip of the crater to the very peak, where there were fine views of dried lava fields meeting the surrounding countryside. The day was a bit overcast, thankfully, and the clouds kept us cool. Around this time I was stung by a bee on my neck, but Janine came to my rescue by removing the stinger. We paused for a moment to enjoy the views but our earlier digressions from the path didn´t leave us with much free time.

Cerro Negro is unique because you can just run down the slopes to the bottom, and that´s what we did. (It´s also possible to surf down. If you´re crazy, you can take your bicycle and set the land speed record for a bicycle ride: see the video posted earlier on this blog.) The angle is 45 degrees, and mentally it seems impossible to run down it. But as you start striding you create a mini-avalanche of gravel. Really it´s just a small slide of stones, and you kind of run on top of that, as if you were on an escalator. It´s really one of the most peculiar feelings, running down the side of steep volcano. For most people, it´s lots of fun; for me it was a little terrifying. The others waited down at the bottom for me to arrive.

From there it was a brisk walk back to the town of La Rota, evading another angry bees nest and with a bit more bush-whacking. From there we caught the 12:30 PM bus back to León. We were all so exhausted from the effort (and the lack of sleep, I was playing poker until 12:30 AM the night before!) that we passed out on the way home. We didn´t have time to eat our sandwiches, so I did that while I cleaned the black volcanic rocks out of my shoes.

Last weekend, Harry decided this volcano most suited my personality (because I was extremely volatile). And indeed I had a great time up there: It is a starkly beautiful thing, and fun to climb. I was also so impressed with my companions, especially Janine´s father who, despite being a few years our elder, really rocked that thing. And Hillary did Cerro Negro without shoes (only sandals) AND without complaining! Most of all, it was just fun to hike another volcano with my friend Janine before she heads back to Chicago.

It´s kinda a cool feeling to return home at 1:30 in the afternoon and realize that you already hiked a volcano that day: makes you feel like you´ve deserved a chocolate.

Getting Hotter

Over the past month, the weather has seriously gotten hotter. It´s the middle of Semana Santa we are all praying for the rainy season to start: all we´ve had so far is a couple of teasing drops. The air is humid and oppressive, and sometimes there are very aggrevating water shortages in the city. Most of all, it´s extremely draining to be outside during the middle of the day. It will be a few more weeks of torment before the rains begin.

The People I´ve Met

I´ve got a little secret. The truth of the matter is that I like living in a place much more than I like traveling through one. You get to know people, and over the course of my travels in the developing world I´ve enjoyed the feeling of having a routine, seeing the same people each day, and crafting a relationship with them. They aren´t friends, exactly -- I´ve made lots of Nica friends through my work and through other friends -- but these are people with whom I share an experience on an almost-daily basis, and it´s a joy for me to forge a relationship with them. Here are some of my favorite characters from my time living in León:

Flor de Maria:

Flor de Maria is the proprietor of a small fritanga around the corner from my house. She´s a middle-aged woman, a little thin, but always with a smile. I used to go to her a lot in February, the first month I was living in my new house. The food she makes is simply delicious. Her table is laid-out like a buffet: I always ate two spoonfuls of gallo pinto, three pieces of grilled beef in a tomato sauce; if I was feeling really hungry, I might have a pollo fritter. All really good. And cheap: My normal meal cost only C$12, which is unbeatable.

I was for a while her most devoted customer, and brought Harry with me a bunch too. But as time went on I started going there a little less often: The reasons were that I started cooking for myself in my kitchen, and then I started cooking a lot with my friends too. This left sometimes only one night a week to patronize Flor´s establishment. I felt a little like I deserted her, especially since she was sick and having a rough time. Flor works as hard as any person I´ve met: In addition to cooking for her fritanga each night, she cleans clothing in the morning to make a little extra money. We used to chat a lot, and I liked having a friendly face down the block. She´s an avid church-goer and used to speak often of her children. We tried to stop in whenever we could, but it was hard to know that she was struggling a bit these last few months.

Favio Vega:

Those who read my correspondence from India know how I appreciate a good barber. I need I can trust, someone friendly and capable, to cut my beard once a week. Favio Vega is that man. I first passed his shop on a run through a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of town. He did a good job, and was excited to meet me because I could help him with his English. So I came once a week for a shave and taught him a few words and corrected his pronunciation of those he knew at the same time. He so appreciated the help that he only charged me C$10 for a shave instead of the usual rate, C$25. Very friendly guy and a good barber too.

Veronica:

Veronica is my favorite lady who makes frescoes in the market. Obviously, this alone makes her very important to me. She always asks me how I´m doing and we chat a little. She also gets excited for me if she has melón fresco for me that day because she knows I like it. One day we sat down together and made a list of all the possible frescoes and talked about her favorites. Even though I sometimes visit the other ladies if they have the flavors I like best, I am always sure to stop in and talk with Veronica as well.

Rudy:

Rudy is the Internet guy at the Casa de Cultura, where they have the best rates in town. Since I work there, it´s pretty convenient for me. He´s always got a friendly greeting and I enjoy seeing him.

The old lady at La Buena Cuchara:

This lady cooks up the best food in town everyday for lunch. The fish, frijoles, and frescoes are outstanding. In addition, she´s one of the sweetest characters in the city, always with a smile and a bit of conversation. Also, a couple of times I haven´t had the correct change and she´s let me pay the next day. It is just nice to go to a quiet place between work, sit in the quiet garden, and eat delicious food. It´s always nice to see her.

The ladies at the Green Door Comedor:

These sisters own a very nice establishment not far from my house. When I wasn´t eating lunch at La Buena Cuchara, I ate here. They had a good variety, and lunch came with a free fresco. Most of all, they always had a smiley greeting and chided me for being absent. During my last week in León, I popped in for lunch and to say goodbye to them. The sisters insisted on a picture: First one of the two of them, then one of them and me, then the other of me and then. But when this second sister went to take the photo, she held the camera the wrong way and took a photo of herself instead while we watched!

Guadelupe:

Guadelupe is a small lady who walks around León selling bags of cookies. She makes a daily route that includes the market, the Quetzal Trekkers house, and Via Via; this means I´m bound to run into her several times a week. She´s got one of the hardest jobs in the city, I think, but always is in good spirits, waving her bags of cookies and carrying her bucket on her arm. Luckily, some of my friends like the cookies and she sells to them. Even though I don´t like them that much and thus don´t usually buy them, I always say hi to her.

Semana Santa Schedule

Semana Santa is the Easter holy week. Having finished my work, there wasn´t much to do but soak up the cultural events in the city and hang out with my friends. Here´s a look at my daily schedule:

9:30 AM: Wake up, perhaps mildly hung over
10 AM: Go to the market to buy food & check Internet
11 AM: Hang out and make lunch with my girlfriend Kamilla
5 PM: Hang around in my hammock for an hour or so
6:30 PM: Wander over to Quetzal Trekkers to cook dinner with my friends
8 PM: Start playing poker
1 AM: Finish playing poker for the night

So basically hanging out during the day, cooking dinner, and playing poker at night. Not bad. Special events included live music at El Divino Castigo on Tuesday, our Friday poker game at the beach, followed by the beach party and wet t-shirt contest at La Perla Negra. Sunday, of course, focused on the Easter celebrations in León.

So it was a great week and I´m having a lot of fun. This is, I must confess, a bit strange to me. When I came to Central America in January, I wasn´t expecting to have much fun. I thought I´d learn a lot and see a lot and feel challenged. And that´s how it was, at first. But I met some cool people, and my life just gradually got more and more social. I don´t regret the decision to pursue this lifestyle, or to deviate from the type of experience I suspected I´d have. Rather, I think that this type of experience is something I needed. I didn´t have a very social time when I was living in India; nor did I when I was working as a substitute teacher at home. So it feels good to get back to life: to have friends, to go out, to have fun. I´m really enjoying it.