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Published: November 30th 2010
Getting from La Fortuna, Costa Rica, to Nicaragua is more difficult than it should be. There are two main border posts between the countries. One is on the Pacific side, a long way from La Fortuna, involving buses, hired cars, more buses and insanely early mornings. The other is the much nearer, smaller border village of Los Chiles. The border is actually a few kilometres up the San Juan River, towards the gigantic Lake Nicaragua.
The easiest, most convenient and safest, although not cheapest way of crossing the border here is to take the Agua Trails Nicaragua Shuttle Tour. There mini-bus shuttle arrived promptly at 8am to pick us up. They took us to Los Chiles, helped us with the border formalities and then its small launch brought us up the San Juan River, for a bit of wildlife spotting and deposited us safely in San Carlos, where we were to take a ferry to Omotepe Island in Lake Nicaragua.
On the way to Los Chiles our guides stopped at a restaurant on the side of the road, just before a narrow bridge crosses a river gorge. Here, bending the thick, sturdy branches of tall trees that grow from
the valley floor and side of the gorge, are dozens of enormous iguanas. These beasts are right in the crown of the trees and their long, sharp claws grip the branch bark perfectly. Both of us were surprised to see iguanas in the trees, as we both thought they were more inclined to basking on rocks near water, but they were a truly impressive sight so close. The red/orange ones are the males and the green ones are female.
After a few hours we found ourselves in the minute border village of Los Chiles. Not having a clue where to go and what to do, we happily followed our guide from part of the tiny village to the other, producing in turn passports, money and visa exemption forms. We were equally happily relayed to the safe hands of Mr Franklin, who nonchalantly arrived after a one hour wait on the dockside. We jumped onto a boat and were taken languishingly down the Rio Frio. Two minutes down the line, we were stopped, reversed back and tucked close to the shore to be entertained by the playful Howler Monkeys inhabiting the banks of the river. Loving it, we enjoyed frequent
stops in which Franklin would expertly point out more Howlers, White Faced Monkeys, turtles and hoping for a sloth. T
The 30 minute river safari, as it became, took us to the less entertaining village of San Carlos on the Nicaraguan side. Bug ridden, grey and inhospitable, your skin itched of the dirt this place was living in. But fortunately, only 20 minutes passed until we could jump on the ferry that would take us across Lake Nicaragua to our final destination of Isla Ometepe. The journey we knew would be long. Eleven hours to be precise. Still we boarded an hour earlier to avoid spending any more time in San Carlos. Twelve hours later we would get off.
The ride was calm and pleasant. There was food on the boat to our biggest bewilderment and even tasty food. There was air conditioning and two clean free benches. What else could you want? There we settled and slept in turns until we docked in Altagrazia, north of Ometepe Island at midnight.
As we got off in the thick darkness of the isolated harbour, locals were waiting to get in, heavily packed and tired looking. Where next? No
taxi in sight, no nothing in sight actually, but the back of the people who were last in the crowd, streaming away from the waterfront towards the exit of the harbour. Our sheep instinct kicked in. We followed. There we were confronted by a truck, a shaky, wood and metal clickety opened-roofed goods vehicle. “Hospadaje Central?” Yes, yes, it was ours. That was the town's improvised taxi service serving the local hotels. Not knowing whether I was being farmed to a slaughter house or taken safely to our accommodation Matthew propelled me energetically up the chassis onto the back of the truck under the arms of other people holding on to the rickety structure.
Bump after banana leaf after bump we finally got unloaded onto the porch of “Hotel Central.” A friendly gentleman welcomed us and presented to a small but comfy room where we had a well deserved shower and rest, finally. It was 1am.
Omotepe proved a little disappointing for us. It is the largest island in the truly massive Lake Nicaragua, home to some 10,000 people. It has two volcanoes; one, the larger, is active, while the second is smaller, greener and dormant. Here, bananas
are the main produce; the island is covered in banana plantations. We had hoped for it to be idyllic, with good swimming and and a pleasant island feel but it proved to be a very rugged, poor island with little tourist infrastructure. We stayed two nights in a basic accommodation, hired bikes and cycled round Altagrazia and its surroundings in search of a good beach. Most roads aren't paved, with rocks, holes and pigs, all of various sizes, among some of the hazards. Indeed, pigs are more common on Omotepe than the ubiquitous semi-stray Central American dog. More than once we passed a dog sniffing around the side of the 'road' and wandering around in packs only to take a second look to discover that half or more of them were bacon.
We never did find that beach. We did find several small clearings that led to the water down some very uneven, rock-strewn paths. Unfortunately, none were suitable for swimming, as submerged tree branches, roots and rocks made it hazardous. We did enjoy some good views of the Conception volcano from the saddle, with the wind in our hair and the sun on our backs, although a careful
eye had to be kept on upcoming perils.
It was on Omotepe that I enjoyed my first gallo pinto breakfast, which is the traditional way to start the day. Gallo pinto is just rice and beans, which is the stable of all Central American dishes, no matter what time of day. Once you get over the fact that you're eating rice and beans for breakfast, sometimes easier said than done, it is quite pleasant. Normally, you would have one or two eggs with it and some tomato salsa, which is fried slices of fresh tomato with onions and a little tobasco. I added tobasco to my gallo pinto as well; when in Rome. As always in Central America, the accompanying coffee was really superb.
Special mention also has to go to our last evening meal on the island. We had found a nearby hotel/hostel that had Wifi. A very rare treat on an island where goats and pigs should pay road tax. We had a few very good beers, Tona, is a good choice, while sorting out our accommodation in Granada, our next destination and then set out at about 8:30pm to find a restaurant. Nothing. Nada. Everyone
on Omotepe had eaten hours before and no one could quite work out why we wanted to have dinner at this late hour. The only place that looked busy or indeed where any people were in significant numbers, was a pharmacy off the main cobbled road that had cheap plastic tables outside in the street and an oil drum, cut lengthways in half, with something black smouldering on a grill over some coals. No one who obviously worked there was outside so we squeezed past some people drinking from some colossal beer bottles and playing cards, to the interior of the shop. There was a TV inside and Predator Two, in Spanish, was showing. No one was about so we turned around and made our way a little hesitantly outside again where we were approached by a smiling large woman. We made some universal signs for food/starving, were understood and shown the only free table and chairs. I had 50 Cordoba on me, about $5. The owner of the shop, the same large, perspiring woman, as black as the grill in the oil drum, who had never uttered a word of English in her life, walked back over to us,
presumably for our order.
“Err, pollo, por favour?”
“Si.”
Great. “Dos pollo, por favour.”
She shrugged her shoulders. OK. If you want chicken she seemed to say. Then she broke into a massive, reassuring smile. We smiled back. Everyone likes chicken.
“Quanto es, por favour?” How much?
“Cuarenta Cordoba.” Forty Cordoba.
“Y una grande botella de cerveza, por favour.”
“Si, dies Cordoba.”
A litre bottle of Tona, once again, the best beer I found in Central America, was 10 Cordoba. A litre of good beer for $1. Nicaragua was proving so much less expensive than Costa Rica.
We nodded and smiled. That's what we wanted and for exactly all the money I had in my wallet.
She went away and came back a few moments later with two glasses and the mammoth brown bottle of beer. Then, she returned and threw, threw, two pieces of chicken onto the oil drum barbecue. They sizzled and spat immediately and two stray dogs across the road looked up.
I tried not to think about all the bacteria that make their home in or on poorly refrigerated meat, inadequately cooked poultry, unwashed
hands, heated and re-heated grease coated grills, the dirt and conveniently discarded oil drums found floating near the island port.
As we enjoyed our first glasses (the night was hot, the dust around us was hot, the building walls were hot and the litre of good beer in front of us was cold) the group of transvestites in glittery pink and purple dresses, sitting a few tables away, finished their drinks and with loud, enthusiastic laughs and giggles piled into the new-looking, black, shiny mini-van that had just pulled up for them. No one there seemed at all surprised by the transvestites or the mini-van. With a litre of beer to drink, this just proved perplexing and amusing in a country and region where local machismo is a recognised traveller's consideration and cars still run on leaded petrol (they don't, they're just all ancient and look domestically abused). The two dogs opposite our 'restaurant' took a few tentative steps towards the oil drum and sat down in the middle of the dust.
As we waited for our food to blacken a cooling wind ran down our alley and the strangeness of the situation and our worries about food
poisoning and medical care, we were on an island in Nicaragua don't forget, receded. The large woman came back to attend to our chicken once or twice, tossing it one way and then the other at five minute intervals. A big, rumbling motorbike pulled up and a big, rumbling Nicaraguan biker in a vest ordered pollo as well from the large woman. He didn't dismount. She gave him a beer like ours, which he worked through quickly with big, hearty movements of his throat. Another chicken piece landed on the grill. The dogs ears behind the bike, pricked.
Our food, when it came, was awesome. The chicken piece was big, on the bone and wonderfully barbecued. The gallo pinto covered most of the plate and the dish was completed with a generous handful (which is what it would have been) of plantain crisps. The two dogs did come over to investigate but finding nothing coming from me they focused their big, soppy eyes on Del, who melted and threw each of them some scraps of chicken, until the large woman approached them meaningfully and they retreated back to the opposite, dusty pavement.
Our heads buzzing softly from the
beer and our stomachs contented, we bade a warm goodbye to the large woman and her wonderful oil drum barbecue, paid and strolled home through the cooling streets.
The next morning, we took a taxi across the island to catch the boat to mainland, much to the bemusement to the hotel staff who keep repeating to us that there is a bus that we can take to get there too. We'd seen the bus. The taxi was worth the extra.
There was no ferry at the port, instead there was a launch, reputed to be far less stable and transported cars, bikes, livestock and people. The one and a half hour crossing to Juan del Sur was blessedly uneventful across the flat lake. As we disembarked the plan was to get a cab to the nearby bus station in Rivas and wait for the intercity service to Granada, a reputedly lovely neo-classical town on the shore of the lake. As it happened, we found a cabbie who was keen to drive us straight to Granada, directly to our hostel. We bargained him down to $25, where both parties were happy. The day was hot, hot and the roads
tarmacked. Obviously, Del fell asleep in the cab, her vehicle narcolepsy as strong as ever, despite the Force 4 gale blowing in from the back windows. Eighty kilometres vanished in an hour or so, during which time we passed innumerable horse-drawn carts. We still found them an odd sight on main, fast roads where super-container trucks roared along the asphalt track like thundering heavy goods trains, but our driver passed them with only the usual two to three pre and post manoeuvre horn pumps.
Hostel Oasis in central Granada, is a self-proclaimed backpackers' paradise and it is difficult to argue against their view. On entering, there is an open-air courtyard garden with some banana plants growing amongst some ferns and some hammocks strung between the columns supporting a sloping, high, classical ceiling. The floor is tiled so no matter how hot the weather was the floor retained that Roman bath coolness, along the sides there was lots of fans and some of the most comfortable rocking chairs known to man. Beyond, there was a row of free computers, beyond this was a breakfast bar and a small, (wonderfully) frigid, open-air swimming pool, shaded by the undulating terracotta tiled roof
surrounding the square. The room was clean, en-suite and right next to the 'indoor' garden by the entrance. $28 a night felt like a steal.
As we were happy in the hostel and later in the city itself, we decided very early on, to base ourselves in Granada and explore and enjoy our last week in Central America from there. About a ten minute walk from the hostel, Del found a Spanish school that could offer her a week's worth of one-on-one Spanish lessons, for two hours a day, for $6 an hour. This really was an opportunity too good to miss and her linguistic brain went into overdrive for the week. For me, near the school, I found a gym that offered weekly membership for $12 and had enough machines and free weights to keep me happy, notwithstanding that they looked and felt like they'd just been transported that day from a long-forgotten Russian Gulag.
So, every morning for a week Del and I would leave the hostel and walk to her school to begin her lessons at 8am. The mornings were always bright and the sun, although hot on our shoulders, had yet to warm the
air, so everything felt fresh and new. As we walked, we saw all types of people, mostly in groups, cycling to work or school, horses/donkeys and carts coming and going amongst the more normal light traffic on the cobbles and people already walking the streets with all manner of objects for sale balanced solidly, magically on their heads. Everyone was talking to each other; commuting was not faster than the speed of a bike, even for the cars, and it really was too early to want to sweat, so talk was in the air. After dropping her off I'd walk over to the gym, do a two-hour workout and then meet her in time for the end of her session. We'd stroll back to the hostel, with the city now fully awake around us. I'd jump in the shower while Del ordered breakfast from the hostel breakfast bar and then I'd join her by the frigid pool where she'd have pancakes and fruit and I'd have a cheese, ham and bacon toasty. Completed with free awesome Nicaraguan coffee. And so, each day of our week started.
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