Leon, Nicaragua: Delays, lessons, and awesome.

Rough morning, slept badly, 4 am I was awake, no water to be had. None. No shower I guess. I had hoped to scrub some of the awful of this place off of me. At least I will be out of here soon. It’s 5:30 and the hotel reception guy is asleep on the couch in the lobby in total darkness. It is only my talking to myself that wakes him and motivates him to turn on the lights.

Walking the 8 blocks to the bus station, the warning in my book saying “one should use cabs in this part of town if the sun is not up” plays through my head a few times. I am too frustrated to care. I dare someone to try and mug me right now. I would be more likely to bite the tongue out of their head than give them any money. Arriving at the bus station, I note happily that the door is open, always a good sign, and walk in. Stating my  intentions to the man at the counter to catch the 6 a.m.  bus to Leon, I smile confidently and begin reaching for my wallet. My hand is about halfway there when the smile disappears.

The bus has been rescheduled to 9:30.

“Por Que?” I ask.

No answer. I’m getting a little frustrated of the Central American tendency to simply not speak to the gringo. As if it will make me disappear. I am left with little choice. I don’t know the city. Even if I did, the little I have seen of it seems to be a putrescent stink-hole smelling of urine and filled with denigrates. I buy the ticket. Now what to do for the next 4 hours…

Not much. I suppose it is ill-advised to pull out my laptop in a bus station in the ghetto. The iPod is an acceptable risk, so I camp out and watch a few sessions of a show called Rome that I got from my friend Chris before I left. It’s brutal and I often feel pretty depressed after watching it, but it passes some time. Around 8:30 I wander down the street to an internet café. Asking the attendant if they have wireless, he says no with all the charm and grace of meat grinder without all the sophistication. When I try to explain to him that I can just plug in the cable, he again answers in the ignorant negative of a descendent of illiterate pirates. Yay.

After sampling the circa Bronze Age computers in this hovel, I swear a silent promise that I will never again complain about the slowness of my computer; the little netbook that could. I’ll probably break that promise the next time I use the computer.

9:30. Bus ride. I am sitting next to a pair of female Peace Corps volunteers. I never knew it was a popular thing to do. I hate to admit it, but the most exposure I have had to the Peace Corps previous to this trip was the movie Shallow Hal.

The bus ride is loooong. The cool thing about the Tica bus company though, is that on international busses, they collect your passport and your entrance/exit fee if there is any, and they go get your passport stamped for you at the border. You just chill out, stretch, grab some food, whatever. Makes things run quite smoothly. It does NOT change the fact that I am beset by beggars, moneychangers, and little children trying to stick their hands in my pockets as soon as I am off the bus. I take a moment to yell at the closest would-be-pickpocket and then walk away as they laugh amongst themselves.

I’m busy trying to procure a baleada from the closest little diner and don’t realize the bus is trying to leave without me. Little did I know, that it was only driving about 100 yards to Nicaragua to stop again so we could get processed in to the country. I cannot stress this enough. Central American border crossings can be chaos. Keep your eyes on the prize. Get to the window. Get stamped and get on your way. Don’t take the first taxi or shuttle that is thrust at you. Talk to the one that isn’t in your face. Even if the price is the same, it’s a better ride.

It’s another 2 hours to Leon from the border. I spend the time listening to Spanish lessons on my ipod but my mind keeps wandering and I realize at points that I have no idea what the people on the recording are talking about and have to keep restarting tracks.

Leon. Finally. Well, almost. Despite being a rather major city for vacationers, it doesn’t really merit a bus stop and I am rather unceremoniously deposited at a gas station. The resident taxi men are here, and hollering at me, so I just walk away. There is a bus stop right across the street and I head over there to wait for the bus. Most of the women have things balanced on their head oh at their feet in baskets. No one is breastfeeding, at least; that particular bus stop curiosity seems to have stayed in El Salvador.

Another of the seemingly innumerable taxi purveyors rolls up to the bus stop and says he can take me into town for 15 Colones; the local currency. This is less than a dollar and probably close to what the bus will charge, so I roll with it. Only problem is, he has no idea where to hostel I want to stay at is. No problem, I know it is 3 blocks north of Parque Central, so I just ask him to drop me off there. On the way, he picks up another woman bound for the city, not uncommon, and drops her off without collecting a fare, again, not that uncommon. Thereafter he drops me off at Parque Central.

Following the compass and the directions very carefully, I go to exactly where the hotel should be. Only it is not there. So I start asking around. I get a few completely different version of directions, and several nonverbal waving hands in response. No one knows. I stop and ask a dozen taxi drivers. No one knows where it is. No one has ever heard of it. It’s 95 degrees farenheit and the humidity is close to triple digits. I’m carrying 50 pounds of gear and have been doing so for close to an hour. The situation is getting critical.

Jumping into a taxi, I ask the guy to please follow the directions I have for the hotel. He does so. It is not there, but we are in a completely different section of the city. I repeat the directions and he drives to a new part of the city. This particular flavor of insanity happens 3 more times before I finally ask him to go to another hostel I heard was decent and he drives directly there. Then he tries to charge me double his quoted rate. He is holding my small bag with my laptop and camera in it. I’ve had it.

It’s obvious this grade school dropout of a man doesn’t even understand me when I speak Spanish, so why bother? I just begin yelling at him in English in the middle of the street for being a swindler and holding my bag for ransom because he is too stupid to follow directions or even know his own city. I am sweating like a fever patient. People are starting to stare.

Following a solid 60 seconds of turpitude from yours truly, the taxi driver finally hands me my bag, takes the money that he originally quoted me and drives away. I am truly a model citizen.

The Bigfoot Hostel is great. I recommend it to anyone who does not need to hold a private conversation. The place is filled with cool travelers and fluent English speaking staff and a café and music and pool table and pool, and even has internet. The only catch is that the internet is only available in the same area as all the other noise. Trying to have a conversation over skype often just results in confusion. All things aside, I think it is a great place. Also, they do daily tours to surf Volcan Cerro Negro.

Yeah. Volcano Surfing. I’ll get to that in a minute.

It’s hot. Stupid hot. I’m hallucinating even though I am securely tucked under the 12 inch fan tucked securely 12 feet about the floor doing what little it can to cool the sweltering punishment being doled out. Asking around someone confirms this is about the second hottest place in Nicaragua. That means there is actually some place hotter… it’s hard to imagine at the moment.

Shower. Showershowershowershowershowershower!!! The showers are kept quite clean and the water is blessed cold. My groovy 2$ flipflops are giving me my moneys worth, what with all the community showers I’ve been through. Walking the 25 feet back to my room, I am almost dry by the time I close the door. Mini-fan takes care of that pretty quickly.

I have a month of beard of beard on my face and haven’t had a haircut in at least as long. It is way too hot for this. Walking up to the front counter, I ask the British girl at the counter where there is a reliable barber nearby. She in turn asks the rather unshorn, but friendly gentleman sitting nearby and they give me perfect directions the 3 or so blocks to the barberia. Directions can be tricky down here. When they work out, it makes me happy.

The barber is as slow as anything I have seen in Central America. For as fast as the shuttles and busses drive, I can’t understand why everything else takes a small eternity. About 10 minutes later he manages to direct me to the only barber chair in the rather large building. I assume that his whole family lives here because there are about 8 people of different ages and gender scattered around the room doing what appears to be a rather robust course of absolutely nothing.

A bedsheet goes around my neck and my barber and I enter an interpretive dance of Spanish and gesticulation that results in his breaking out his electric razor and some attachments. In about 15 minutes, I am presented with this.

One of the most fantastic and good people I have ever had the great privilege of calling a friend sported a Mohawk with much more style and grace than I. he died two years ago this weekend, and in this far off sweltering place filled with misunderstanding and adventure, this is the best way I can think of to remember him. Brother Julio, this one’s for you.

15 minutes and I’ve got a haircut. I stand up and thank the man, but he directs me to wait and sit back down again. I must tell you, if you ever have the chance, go get a shave in Nicaragua. The next 45 minutes were spent trimming my hairline all the way around my head, shaving every minute area of my face, cleaning clogged pores, face massage, skin treatments, and shaving some more. He did all of this with a bare blade old school straight razor, much like Sweeney Todd. This guy was amazing. When he finally asked me the price, I gave him a strange look as he was asking for more than a doctor or a lawyers full days wage in this part of the world, but I paid him anyway. It was one heck of an experience.

As soon as I return, it is time for another shower. The hostel is filled with people from all over. Israel, Australia, Denmark, Britain, and places I can’t figure out from listening to them. The Israeli guy is really quite chatty, but has a habit of chainsmoking which is starting to make me feel a bit ill from all the smoke.  After the womens figure skating Olympics is over, he invites me to head out to a bar with him. It’s late, and I don’t feel like getting locked out of the place. I’m going to bed.

Upon waking, I am feeling a bit ill, but know that I need to shake it off as I am going to the volcano today. A shower goes a long way towards healthy.

Another strange thing about this part of the world, if you see three women, ages 14, 30, and 60 passing a baby back and forth between them, you really can’t be sure who the baby actually belongs to.

Coffee and an odd, flat, salty omelet give me a bit of a leg up on the day. We have so many people going to the volcano that we are taking two trucks. Listen to the next part as this is important. When traveling in caravan, get in the truck IN FRONT. If you aren’t sure, say they are parked next to one another, get in the one that the tour guide will be riding in.

In Nicaragua, you can’t assume the road will be paved. When going to a volcano, you can almost assume it will not be paved. This combined with a healthy application of sunblock, means the people in the tailing truck will look like coal miners coming off a 72 hour shift by the time they are done eating all the dirt from the ride out to the mountain. It’s pretty funny, actually, but only because I was in the front truck. Now, Volcano.

A sea of nearly unending shards of volcanic glass spreading down the side of an active volcano, in the 95 degree heat with the lava rock baking through your shoes and heating the air around you. Sweat and dirt are your only certain companions for the 45 minute hike up the volcano do get to what passes for a “safe” area to participate in this masochistic endeavor. The view is magnificent; old destruction and the symptoms of heat are visible everywhere.

With my recent haircut, I have had to add more parts of my head to my sunblock routine. I’m not sure how much good it is going to do, since we all seem to be baking from the inside-out AND the outside-in in this temperature. This video of the ground smoking should give you an idea of what we are talking about. The already hot wind is scraping across these volcanic craters and baking us like a convection over.

The ride itself is rather short lived, but well worth it. It’s not exactly Barber Motorsports Park, but it will do. My jumpsuit is high fashion, and zip ties combined with duct tape can solve any problem.

Shower!!! I am certain that very near by, there are avid prostitutes that wash less often than I have been since arriving in this EZ Bake of a city. Now what to do with the rest of the day. I guess I should decide where to go next; or if I should even leave. I feel I should be clear about this; if this city were not quite so hot, or so loud and city-like, I would have a difficult time leaving Bigfoot. It’s been pretty good to me.

I’m beginning to think that the whole reason I’ve left on this mad adventure is so that my story can be a cautionary tale for others who will follow. What follows will be the cautionary tale of the Tika Bus, vol. 2.

Very conveniently situated next to both the Big Foot and ViaVia hostels in Leon, Nicaragua is the office of the Green Tours group. They arrange numerous adventure and relaxation tours, and sell tickets for the Tica Bus, one of the premiere and still affordable bus companies in Central America. Today, I am asking them to sell me a ticket.

For lack of any other clear destination, I decide to finally get to Costa Rica and pick up my ATM card that is waiting there for me. My tracking number says it is still there, and I should be able to pick it up less than 48 hours from now. The first bus leaves Managua, 1.5 hours away from Leon, at 6 a.m. That’s the bus I want. There is another at 7 and a third at noon. The Tika system is misbehaving at the moment, so they ask me to come back in an hour or so. I swing over to the café next door to use their internet whose slowness defies all definition by mortal man.

I return about an hour and a half later. The two women in the office both speak English quite well, and this makes things much easier for me, especially since they keep trying to put me on the 12 oclock bus after I tell them repeatedly that I absolutely must be on the 6 a.m. bus out of Managua. They tell me that there is food provided on the noon bus, but I can pay for my own food.  Speaking of food, I ordered food in the restaurant ViaVia next door and need to go back and check on it. I ask the ladies is everything is good and I go grab food, returning about 30 minutes later.

They are still having issues performing their job. For reasons that are beyond the comprehension of mortal man, if there are two customers in their extremely spacious office at the same time, these two being myself and an amiable Australian guy, then all work must cease and the attending employees must sit there and look at each other blankly and not answer any questions. I’m getting really sick and tired of this, so I give them my money, re-vocalize my instructions and verify that they do understand me, and take a walk over to the grocery store to pick up something for this head and neck-ache that has been plaguing me all day.

I return a few minutes before 5, just in case they are going to close at 5, and summarily ignored for about 30 minutes before I am handed a $20 bill. It appears the ticket is less than they said it was. That’s good. Then I am handed a ticket. This is good. The ticket says 12:00 from Managua. This is bad. I think it is something about the heat that makes me so abusive when I am maligned. Today, these people get both barrels. No cursing, but I am loud enough to make my point. When they tell me I am welcome to go to another bus company, I nearly lose my mind. After explaining to them that I would have done so about 3 hours ago if they had been honest with me at any point in our exchange. I ask them if there are any busses leaving Leon to go to Managua earlier in the day and am told repeatedly that there are none, a statement that I know is a lie because it is the same lie that is told to me at every bus station, ticket counter, and taxi stop in the whole of the continent. Finally, after the employees tire of lying to me and my abuse they start trying to hand me my money back and tell me to go somewhere else. I’m pretty tired of it by now, so I take the ticket, and the additional change that they mysteriously forgot to give me before I looked at my actual ticket price, and I head out to be hot somewhere else.

Now, note, the problem is really unfixable at this point. It’s time to learn a little something from the experience so it isn’t a complete and total waste.

1. Don’t wait for 3^rd world country computer systems or employees. Seek other options immediately.
2. Never let a question go unanswered. If you think the answer is important, it probably is. Press the issue.
3. Get a receipt for the exact cost and check it against what you paid.
4. Check the seat number if there is one.

Yeah, the last one came later.

I’m in a foul mood at this point. Food is a welcome activity. If you are vegetarian, you will be thrilled by the Bigfoot Café menu. There is not one piece of food on the entire thing for any meal. The closest they come is offering eggs for breakfast. They do make a delightfully spicy vegetarian chili for dinner. It may have not been the best choice when it is 90 degrees at 8 p.m. though.

Sweating this much, the logical answer is to take a shower. Aaaah…. I never thought I would love cold showers this much. Also, being this grouchy, the logical answer is to get some sleep. One thing to note, The one item I have used as much or more often than even my shoes, is a set of earplugs. Bring earplugs. A few pairs. You’ll thank me.

Morning comes with the realization that there may be other places that I would like to go before leaving Nicaragua. I rather like the country and the people I have met, so running a 12 hour bus day seems a bit silly if there might be something closer. My mission is defused rather quickly. Tica ticket office isn’t open until 10 a.m. and, I am informed by one of the Bigfoot staff, the Tica system is incapable of changing a ticket after 6 p.m. on the previous day. My options for going to Lago de Apoyo are simply to ride the bus as far as Masaya and get off, effectively wasting about $30 US and heading to Lago de Apoyo, and paying that money again when I can get to Granada and head south again. Yuck.

Now, back to those lessons learned… almost all hours of the day from early morning till late afternoon, there are innumerable shuttle busses, like the UCA group, who will take you in to Managua for less that $2 US. Don’t believe your ticket salespeople. You just need to show up at the terminal, they leave every 20 minutes. Now as for lesson #4: When I looked at the ticket, it was number 53. This didn’t strike me as odd, until I got on the bus. There are only 54 seats. The only way I could be closer to the bus toilet is if I was sitting on it. Note: this seat was assigned to me long before I was ever in a confrontation with the employees who gave it to me. Must be some private joke.

I can’t help but laughing when I realize that my flipflops fell out in the shuttle that brought me to Managua. Time to go buy another $2 pair of shower sandals.

After 2 hours on the bus, I think it is actually cooling off as we go towards the equator. I’m not sure why. I was dripping sweat in the bus for the first 90 minutes, but it seems to have lessened. I am still sweating, but not bathing in it as earlier.

Don’t misunderstand me. I have enjoyed Nicaragua immensely. There is a large expatriate population in the country, it is filled with volcanoes and apparently has some beautiful islands and coastlines. I will come back here for an extended stay at some point in the future. The super cool hotel owner from Lanquin is from Nicaragua, and they do have the whole rebellious vibe going for them. I want to return to go to Lago de Apoyo. I want to go to Big Corn Island and see Taylor and Erik’s friend, Ike Siu. I’ll be back, but for today, I’m outa here. 2 more hours to the border… or so.