Worlds Apart

After a longer than expected delay in the border town of San Carlos, Emily and I were finally on our way to see the hidden treasures of Nicaragua, a country marked by many fellow travellers as a gem in the largely touristified, U.S. commercialised and apartment blocked mass of countries. After shooting through Panama and Costa Rica it was time to slow the pace down to that of Nicaragua.

Our first destination was the island of Ometepe, formed out of two dormant volcanoes in the middle of the seemingly oceanic Lago (lake) Nicaragua, which was said to offer adventure, cheap prices and a spot of relatively untamed travel. Before long all three proved to be accurate. After a long and unexpectedly draining journey on the ferry, an M shaped mass slowly appeared out of the utter darkness. Storms were crashing around in the distance and the rain had just abated as we stepped from the boat into an island submerged in darkness. Emily piled onto the back of a pick-up truck, bags in tow, along with about twelve or so other people heading towards any form of civilisation, and hopefully a bed. The truck bounded over tree vines, pot holes and fledglingly sporadic attempts to pave the road for 15 minutes, holding on to whatever we possibly could , before being dumped outside a locked and lifeless hotel. Fortunately the lifelessness was only temporary and we were shown to a basic room without power, running water or any kind of mosquito net. We doused ourselves in deet, the traveller's cologne, and bedded down for the night.

The following day we were able to ascertain that there had been a power cut the night before, resulting from the aforementioned storm, and that although this was a fairly regular occurrence, the Island was not in fact a trip back into the dark ages. Things were beginning to look up. We left our rather unimpressive hotel in the port town of Altagracia on the first available bus to Moyogalpa, a larger town on the other side of the larger volcano. After the quiet and unpopulated Altagracia, Moyogalpa was teeming with life, and more importantly traveller hostels, including our choice El Indio Viejo, which was cheap as chips, served great food (including chips) and had other people to hang about with. One recent detriment of our fast paced travelling was the lack of other human contact Emily and I had had, and luckily a break was due from this when we met a group of three pretty cool American guys and an enthusiastic Canadian beefcake. With a newly formed social group and the local spirit and coke priced at around 25p the only possible outcome was a hangover, which was only confirmed when we splashed out on a 25 cocktail order early on. The sun dipped, the daily shower fell and the guitar came out, with it's owner (another Canadian) and his cheeky Israeli travel buddy, to end the first of a few banterous and fulfilling days on the island. The next morning everyone headed off to climb the volcano at silly O'Clock AM (including Emily), which I was unable to do after losing my walking boots in Medellin, leaving me to a day of gargantuan beef burgers and a rather thick, weighty book by Tolstoy. The hikers returned and the drinking began again for another evening.

Sadly, however, our time being short meant that we had to leave the island after a few days and move on to Granada, a Colonial city in the centre of Nicaragua. After the usual bout of boats, taxis, buses (two; changing in the middle of nowhere in the dark) and another taxi we arrived worn out and in the dark once again. After trying three fully booked hotels we came upon a pricey but tempting hotel offering everything we desired: internet access, a spot of air con and a hot shower, all three of whcih being unavailable over the past two weeks. Against our usual nature we decided to splurge (the term for splashing out in Lonely Planet language) for one night before moving to a cheaper hostel the next day. The next day came and, to put it simply, we went. Granada appeared to solely be packed with tourists and people to harass tourists, and we were not interested in staying. We had planned to go onto Leon 'another' cultural city in Nicaragua but decided that it would be more of the same. We went back to the drawing board and came up with Esteli, a cool, quiet cowboy town at altitude in the North of the country, which sounded like a perfect place to mix in with the locals and prepare for a short, sharp hop through Honduras before slowing down again in Guatemala. Once again we threw ourselves on the first bus in that direction, preparing for yet another night arrival in a strange town.

Esteli, after arriving, eating, sleeping and awakening primed for some exploration was exactly what we had hoped for. We had managed to find a great cheap little Mexican restaurant and a DVD shop to stock up on a few rainy day films the previous night and were already growing to like the city. We arose early, something we had often being doing as we could not afford to drink much and had been going to bed before 11, grabbed breakfast and headed out to a beautiful 100ft waterfall in the foot of the surrounding hills. After swimming a while in the secluded pool we sighted three local men clad with machetes and watching us from the bank. My camera was sat in my bag on the bank and we immediately headed for shore in hope that these weren't planning to relieve us of our valuables. Unsurprisingly, they were local farm boys who had wandered down for a swim and were more interested in having a chat with us than robbing us. We talked for a while before letting them swim and prepared to leave. Just as we were leaving however a group of young Latin American students, two Nicaraguans and a Columbian, crossed our path and we immediately began chatting. Jorge, a local Estelian (if that's what you call them) said they were going up to the top of the highest point and asked us to join. We gladly accepted.

After a short while of waiting, the five of us hitched a lift on the back of a pick-up and were soon at the top of the hills. We lunched at the top, flipping the conversation between Spanish and English regularly, and grabbed a local bus back down to the town. Jorge, the son of a Scotsman and a Nicaraguan who had settled in Esteli after the Nicaraguan civil war, kindly invited us to his parents' cafe (La Casita) to hang out for a while, before some drinks in the evening. The cafe was beautiful, a local Garden of Eden, with a steam, cactus gardens and winding pathways, and we left absolutely charmed. Sadly, upon returning back to our hotel room we both fell asleep waking too late to meet Jorge.

The next day we were to cross yet another border after leaving warmed to the overwhelmingly cheap, cheerful and charming Nicaragua. Would Honduras offer more of the same or a stark return to what had so disappointed us before? Only time would tell.